Speak Up

STILL MORE LIONS-"After reading some comments in NEBRASKAland about sighting mountain lions in the state, I would like to add my two cents' worth. "In the fall of 1968, the day we arrived for a deer-hunting session in western Nebraska, my hunting buddies, Bob Lowther and Earl Powell, and I watched a mountain lion walk through a stubble field and into a small grove of trees about 300 yards from us.

"We reported the incident to a conservation officer the next day." —Harold L. Keller, Clinton, Iowa.

UFO-"I read Nebraska's UFO's in the March issue of NEBRASKAland with interest. I had an experience 12 or 15 years ago when I saw one of these oddities.

"About 9 p.m., I happened to go outdoors and saw what looked like a bunch of large birds, about the size of geese, sailing around our buildings. They looked orange and seemed to just float around, scarcely ever seeming to flap their wings. I watched them for some time before I called my wife. Together we watched them from our steps. They finally flew off to the southwest and disappeared. I didn't count them, but there seemed to be 10 or 12 of them bunched together." — James C. Blundell, Hemingford.

CITADEL SIGNIFICANCE - "This story ("Ageless Citadel", April 1970) is of special significance for my wife and I. From JULY 1970 October 1952 through August 1954, we were stationed on the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation. I was a teacher in the Indian Service under the Department of Interior, and as such, taught in the Oglala Community High School at Pine Ridge, South Dakota.

"During the time we were there, we drove over this scenic landmark on our way to Chadron. We never knew it as 'Beaver Wall', but as The Great Wall of China.'

"Until such time as we return, that issue of the publication will refresh our memories." —L. D. Fairbairn, Hemet, California.

CATTAIL COOKERY-"I have been looking for a recipe for cooking cattails. Could you please send me any recipes that you may have, or information on who would have such a recipe." —Christine Landkamer, Burwell.

Lou Ell, our wilderness expert and chief photographer, came up with the answer to your inquiry about cooking cattails. He claims the roots are excellent substitutes for potatoes.

Pale, yellowish-white cones, jutting from the roots, are buds of new stalks and are good in salads. These sprouts can also be boiled in a cream sauce, similar to asparagus tips, for a vegetable dish. As for the roots themselves, scrape the "hair" from the tubers and cut the large pieces into manageable chunks, washing well. Cover with salted water and boil. When tender, they are ready to serve. -Editor.

A CAT A DAY-"As a boy in Alliance, I was a great lover of animals. My uncle, a rancher at Ekalaka, Montana, was a trapper of gray wolves for the bounty and pelts. I begged him to send me a wolf pup. He shipped me a very young female and I raised her to a full-grown animal. A few of my problems follow:

"We had a fenced-in three-lot yard on Laramie Avenue near the high school. I built a kennel and kept my wolf on a long chain. As she grew, she became attached to me and I could play with her like a dog except when she was eating, then no one could approach her. She grew to a large animal, and when she put her front feet on my father's shoulder her head extended higher than his. He was 5 feet, 10 inches tall. A friend of my father's had a flock of greyhounds with which he hunted coyotes. He thought three of them could handle the wolf. I accepted the challenge and released her, she backed into a corner of the fence, and when the three came in for the kill she slashed each of them so furiously they quickly jumped over the fence. I am sure no dog can overcome a gray wolf.

"She became a very difficult feeding problem and occasionally would wear out the chain and go hunting. I would be called out of high school to retrieve my wolf and usually found her in some farmyard with a number of killed chickens. Even though I collected scraps from restaurants and meat markets I couldn't keep up with her appetite.

"Hungry as a wolf is a true expression. One day a cat ran in front of her and she pounced upon it and in a minute devoured it completely. Since I had no love for cats, I thought my feeding problem was solved, so I started collecting a stray cat a day to feed the wolf. This was successful for a time until some housewives missed their pussy cats and arranged a meeting with Mayor Harris. I was called to the meeting and ordered to get rid of my wolf. After pondering how to dispose of her, I wrote the city park in Denver and offered her for sale. The zoo manager offered me $15, but I held out for $25 and got it. Some months later on a trip to Denver with my father I visited the zoo and the wolf recognized me. She came to the front of the cage and played with me." —A. Elting Bennett, M.D., Berkeley, California.

SIX-MAN FOOTBALL-'This game ("Speak Up", February 1970) was developed by a Mr. Bruce Eppler. As a lad, he lived in Alliance, where his father was a minister. There were three children, two boys and a girl. "The family came out to my parents' place in the country to visit and I became acquainted with the boys. They were older than I. Then, when I went to town to school in the late 1920's, the six-man football was starting in small schools. At that time, there was a lot of comment in our high school regarding this game." —Phil Lawrence, Alliance.

CAPITOL MEMORIES-"The pictures of the Nebraska State Capitol (April 1970) brought back memories of 1920. I was the inspector on the second floor of this 'Wonder of the World.'

"Kingsley Dam at Lake McConaughy also brings back memories. I was one of the surveyors for the U.S. Reclamation Service in 1921 and 1922 for the preliminary investigations for power and irrigation possibilities from Kearney and Hastings west toward Lemoyne." — Jack D. Gavenman, St. Louis, Missouri.

STRAIGHT FACTS-"Last weekend, I returned to my reservation (Santee). My brother, Albert Thomas, proudly showed me your NEBRASKAland Magazine with his picture beside the historical marker of Standing Bear, south of Niobrara. I told Albert what was wrong with it. First, the name Albert Thomas wasn't identified. It was just like another cigarstore Indian. It, also, should be on the cover and not in the back of your magazine. 3   This, to me, shows that you are hiding the real facts or you just didn't know the truth about Indians. If you don't know the real facts don't print it. "Basically the inscription of Standing Bear didn't tell the real truth. Standing Bear said, The U.S. Constitution was never meant for the Indians.' This statement made Gen. Crooke cry like a baby. It was Abraham Lincoln who signed the Homestead Act of 1862, which opened the West for settlement of stolen Indian land. The coverup, blaming the Sioux for taking land from the Poncas, is untrue.

"If you want to know my hobby ask Danny Liska and Emil Leypoldt, both members of the Outdoor Writers Association, also one of the radio announcers in Lincoln, Dominick Costello. They know who I am." —Walter Abraham (Walking Buffalo), Worthington, Minnesota.

Thank you for your letter and comments on NEBRASKAland. We are always happy to hear from those who are concerned with our state magazine and its content.

Your comments on the position of the April historical marker prompted some investigation, both in our department and at the State Historical Society. It is a magazine policy that the historical marker usually be on the inside back cover of issues in which it is used. And, the people in the photograph are never identified. They are used to add emphasis to the picture and are not entities unto themselves. You are correct that the Homestead Act was enacted in 1862 and it was President Lincoln who signed it. However, there is no direct reference to that signing in either the explanatory material concerning the picture, or the marker itself. Concerning the facts in the copy, all were taken from official publications of the State Historical Society. On receipt of your letter, I rechecked these facts with that agency and found them to be accurate. As you know, the Nebraska Historical Society is the most reliable authority on historical happenings in the state. You might also be interested in knowing that all historical items which appear in the magazine are checked and cleared through informed sources on that subject. This means either the Historical Society, or, if possible, contacts who lived through the period in question and were acquainted with the event. — Editor

TOT TEACHER-"NEBRASKAland is more and more finding its way into the classroom as fourth graders study their state. It is a great help. However, it could be of still more help to the children if all of it were not written for adult consumption. "Would it be possible to have a feature each month just for the child in the middle elementary grades and written on the childrens' vocabulary level? I am sure this added feature would make the magazine even more popular at school as well as at home."—Henrietta Kruger, Norfolk.

TRUE STORY-"This is the way it happened to a guy that did not lie."—Donald Plambeck, Lincoln.

For the Record... MAYBE TOMORROW

Water is summer fun and recreation. There are more "recreationable" water areas now open to the general public than there ever have been. So, there it is. Let's enjoy it and continue to enjoy it through recreation areas made available to us.

If, in this Age of Aquarius, you are to use your water areas wisely, listen to some thoughts we have.

First, learn to swim this summer. It is not hard to find instruction. If you live in cities, there are recreation pools, school pools (which should be open in summertime, too), YMCA's, boys' clubs, girls' clubs, and other swim clubs. The Red Cross teaches swimming almost anyplace where there is water. If you are in a rural community, Red Cross instructors will teach you in a portable pool which they may bring to the little red schoolhouse. Civic organizations and 4-H clubs sometimes purchase such pools for as low as $100.

Now, you do not have to be a certified instructor to teach your own family, although it helps to take a course. The newest of these instruction methods is a do-it-yourself sort of technique called "Drownproofing", developed by Fred Lanoue of Georgia Tech. Parts of this technique have been adopted by the Navy, Marines, Scouts, YMCA, Red Cross, Coast Guard, and Peace Corps.

In Drownproofing, you learn to hold your breath while floating face down, relaxed, then using any kind of simple kick or armstroke to come up for air. You can float like this for an hour or a day, or until you wish to stop. You also learn to modify the technique slightly so that you can swim long distances easily, handle cramps and injuries, and enjoy water fun safely.

Still, there are plans to be made. Foremost, do not do these things alone. A Drownproofing course may make you feel like a water master, but we humans are not natural water animals. We can be caught in the water very easily.

Such things as diving injuries, fainting, cramps, collisions, or being grabbed by a person in panic can, and do happen. To avoid these, use a few simple rules:

Have your water fun, now that you have made it to the Aquarian Age. Have it reasonably. Be considerate of others, and you will continue to enjoy water sport —the world's foremost recreational activity.

Once Bitten, Twice Shy

I WAS HURRYING up the path from Medicine Creek Reservoir to our cabin after setting out my catfishing jugs. My husband Harley was behind me on the path, herding the family dog who puttered along on his short legs.

About halfway up the 50-yard path to the cabin, something scratched my foot. "Probably a thistle or wire," I thought to myself. Then, after taking several steps, I thought the dog would probably also get tangled in whatever it was, so I went back to pick up the offending snag.

It was nearly dusk that July 19 afternoon back in 1964 when I saw the snake. It was coiled and hissing like a demon. I knew immediately what had scratched my foot. A rattlesnake!

My husband was still below on the path, but he came running when I yelled, "A rattlesnake! It bit me!"

The neighbor in the next cabin, Art Herrman, also heard and came running. The snake was mad, but never shook his rattles. He just kept hissing. It's lucky he did or I may have been struck a second time when I returned to the spot.

While Mr. Herrman rounded up weapons to kill the snake, I rushed to the cabin for my snakebite kit. I cut across the fang marks and applied the rubber suction cup while Harley called the community hospital at Cambridge. Mr. Herrman, a McCook mortician, had his ambulance at the lake so he used it to take me into town. We got to the hospital only 17 minutes after I was bitten, but the venom was already doing its work.

Dr. R. R. Morgan was an old hand at snakebite treatment. He had done considerable research in Arizona and had treated hundreds of victims. My case looked like a lost one, he told me later, but a test for serum compatability was quickly made and antivenin quickly administered. Pain came quickly, though. Despite the suction cup, which is not effective unless the wound is cut deeper than the puncture marks, a large dose of venom was coursing through my blood stream. The puncture marks were on my right instep, just above the edge of my canvas shoe. Shortly after our arrival at the hospital I went into severe shock.

I was told later that it was touch and go there for a while. One minute my pulse and blood pressure were there, and the next moment they were gone. For several minutes the NEBRASKAland

After the severe pain, nausea, and shock had passed, recovery began. This took several weeks. Following two weeks of treatment at the hospital I was allowed to go home, but only on the condition that I remain in bed. It was another four weeks before I recovered sufficiently to get around and it was much longer before I was completely over the ordeal.

Since my snakebite episode, dozens of people have told me their stories. I become frightened all over again each time I listen to one of them, but also more thankful. I always recall the event as I was going up to my cabin that fateful day. I met four girls in swim suits going down to the lake at the time. They JULY 1970 could just as easily have been bitten as I.

Snakes seem to be on the increase in some areas, and I wish people could be made aware of the dangers without being too alarmed. In the United States, nearly 7,000 persons are bitten by poisonous snakes each year, and while only about 15 die, many others suffer tissue damage, disfigurement, pain, and sometimes amputation. I read about research at the University of Utah to perfect a vaccine to protect against snakebite. I hope it comes soon.

My experience has made me more cautious. I now carry a stick which I "rattle" in the brush as I walk. This is normally enough to cause the snakes to scurry away.

Perhaps the old adage about "once bitten, twice shy" really does pertain to me, because I try to give the snakes every opportunity to clear out of the area before I go walking now. THE END

NOTES ON NEBRASKA FAUNA. . . STRIPED SKUNK

Often thought of as "stinkers in the wild", these creatures are harmless and mostly unharmed. Man and autos are the only efficient predators

THE SAD THING about skunks is that they have never mastered a defense against the automobile. Their slow, flatfooted, waddling gait and reluctance to give ground to anything accounts for the numerous carcasses seen along highways. These road kills and the obnoxious scent familiar to almost everyone are the most common signs of skunk presence.

The skunk is basically a black animal with a blaze of white on its forehead and a white mantle across its nape and shoulder, which separates into two broad stripes running back along its sides. The long, bushy tail is black and white. There is much variation in the color pattern with some individuals completely black, except for a patch of white on the top and back of the head. All color variations can be found in a single litter.

Skunks have short legs and small eyes and these, combined with a stout body, give them the appearance of tiny bears except for the prominent, long-haired tail. Weights range from 3 1/2 to 10 pounds with males being heaviest.

The saying "speak softly but carry a big stick" can well be applied to Mephitis mephitis (which, by the way, means "a noxious or pestilential exhalation from the ground"). The source of this power is two small glands about half an inch in diameter, located at the base of the tail on either side of the anus. The glands contain about one tablespoon of thick, volatile, oily fluid which is sufficient for five or six rounds. The 12 fluid, containing an organic sulphur dioxide compound called butyl mercaptan, is produced at a rate of about a third of an ounce per week.

For the uninitiated, the scent will not cause permanent harm to the skin or eyes, although it will sting unmercifully for a short time. It has phenomenal lasting qualities but in dilute form does not smell too bad. A good many upland game hunters who use dogs have ended a hunt with the dog riding in the trunk or waiting for a pickup to haul him home. For many weeks after, moisture or just damp air will bring back the odor.

Remedies to help remove the scent from people and clothing probably number a million or so. For clothing, washing in gasoline, ammonia, chloride of lime, benzine, or common laundry bleaches will help. On a person or animal, the application of equal parts of oil of citronella and oil of bergamot or a dilute solution of sodium hypochlorite is helpful in neutralizing the scent. You will probably find the smell very difficult to erase, no matter what you use.

The striped skunk, one of four species of skunk, is prolific and adaptive. It is found in every one of the "Contiguous 48". The only other Nebraska skunk is the spotted, a much smaller, slimmer, and more agile animal. Connoisseurs of such things claim the spotted skunk's scent is "keener" with more of a "bite" to it, not as mellow as that of the striped skunk. Numbers of striped skunks vary from year to year, with populations building to peaks which are then drastically reduced by disease. While rabies may reach epidemic proportions in skunks, other diseases are believed to be more important.

Striped skunks are essentially nocturnal animals, ordinarily leaving their burrows about dusk. Any skunk observed abroad in daylight should be considered to be acting abnormally and should be treated very carefully due to the possibility of rabies.

They prefer habitat such as forest borders, brushy field corners, fencerows, and open grassy fields broken by wooded gullies. They normally live in ground dens, dug and discarded by badgers and woodchucks, but will also dig their own on occasion. Abandoned farmsteads are prime den sites. The living quarters are usually furnished with leaves and dry grass. Their "world" is normally about 1 to V/i miles in diameter, although males during the breeding season may cover 4 or 5 miles in a night. Maximum ground speed is about seven or eight miles an hour, or slow enough for inquisitive kids to get in trouble. They are poor tree climbers and swim only when absolutely necessary.

Skunks are omnivorous, eating almost anything, with preference shown for insects and small rodents. Fruits and berries are taken, as are eggs, frogs, nesting birds, and carrion. They will occasionally raid a beehive or a hen house, but generally cause very little trouble to anyone.

By winter, the skunk is well padded with fat, sleek with a prime pelt, and ready for hibernation. It is not the deathlike hibernation of the woodchuck, but more like that of the bear.

The breeding season starts in February and the gestation period averages about 63 days. Only 1 litter a year is produced, but it may contain up to 16 young. Four to six is the common number. Larger, older females tend to have the biggest litters. The young, born in May, are wrinkled, about as hairy as a peach, and weigh around half an ounce each.

Many predators will kill and eat skunks, but only when pressed by starvation. The great horned owl is one predator that seems to take skunks most frequently. Man is, thus, the only efficient predator. In past years pelt prices were good and skunks were taken. But by the early 1950's, trapping declined. THE END

CAMPING CAMARADERIE

A century ago, fires burned low along the Platte River Valley. Now a new breed renews those flames

SINCE EARLY DAYS, more than 100 years ago, campfires glowed along the great Platte River road across Nebraska. Wagon trains were moving west and people found a sense of safety in numbers. Those campfires have now been replaced by the glow of electric lights from another kind of camper.

Today trail blazers ride in speedy vehicles and take their victuals and survival equipment along in a tent trailer, camper trailer, or pickup camper. But despite technology they still find safety in numbers —camping clubs. Nebraska offers an almost unlimited assortment of clubs for out-door-lovers from commercial groups to national clubs to local, unchartered 14 organizations. Each of these offers one advantage — outdoor companionship.

The largest of the Nebraska groups is the state branch of the National Campers and Hikers Association (NCHA). Started by 3 families about 15 years ago, NCHA has expanded to about 47,000 in the United States and Canada. There are about 500 families affiliated with the 17 chapters of NCHA in Nebraska.

There are no requirements for membership. Any kind of camping rig is welcome, from tents to mobile homes. Despite its tremendous growth, the camping organization has retained its original traditions. All NCHA clubs meet one camping weekend a month during the summer season. In winter they meet one evening a month.

Camp-out programming is traditional. The Saturday night dinner is a potluck affair followed by a campfire get-together. In the Omaha Explorer chapter, the men sometimes cook for the whole camp. Sunday begins with some kind of open-air church service, and the remainder of the camp-out is devoted to individual outdoor - appreciation and social activities.

All NCHA chapters aren't American melting pots. Some are chartered for a specific purpose such as a senior citizens' group or a rock collectors' club. Whatever their foundation, they base their good times on courtesy and public service. Each spring all chapters have a special litter pick-up camp-out when members concentrate on clearing a state park or other camping area of its accumulation of garbage. Club leadership always stresses clean-up and members are urged to leave their camping areas spotless.

A portion of NCHA membership dues is devoted to a national scholarship fund. Each year two scholarships are awarded to the children of NCHA members who will study a conservation-related field. NCHA lobbyists support the Golden Eagle passport, which is before Congress for renewal. The Golden Eagle permits its holder to enter all national parks without paying entrance charges. Like a season swimming pass, the passport may be purchased at the beginning of the season for continuous admission.

Among its many other activities, NCHA holds a national camp-out each year. A teen queen is chosen at this camp-out and in 1967 she was a Nebraska girl, Molly Mendon of Omaha. To win her title, Molly won chapter and state contests before going on to the national. She competed in both swimsuit and talent contests. A gown and full wardrobe were donated as prizes by Sears Roebuck and Co.

The Omaha Family Campers group is similar in most aspects to NCHA chapters. It is not affiliated with any national or state group, however. Like NCHA, Family Campers has potluck suppers and Sunday church services. They hold weekend camp-outs from April to October like the other groups.

In May and September the potluck is a chicken barbecue. Individual members bring complimentary dishes. When action begins to wane, things like horseshoe pitching contests and dog shows take over. Such competition is a delight, too, for those (Continued on page 53)

WEEKEND IN A CANOE

Bridges become guideposts as a family floats along, free from cares of busy home life

LIKE A FLOOD, spring flowed through the Platte Valley. Cascading green of new grasses tumbled through ravines and gulches. Songbirds, resounding with the chatter and babble of skipping brooks, coursed along the budding shore. Nature was fluid and all life came alive with the excitement of the season.

The fever of spring had spread in my family and now we, too, joined the flow of the season as we glided along the Platte River. Our weekend of canoeing began well.

A few minutes earlier we had completed our preparations and shoved off. Our "put-in" spot was up the river from Fremont at the Fremont Lakes State Recreation Area. We loaded our gear, including everything that we would need for an overnight camp. My wife, Annette, was in the bow. I manned the stern. Our two children, Charles, eight, and Jennifer, three, were side by side in the middle.

With the stealth of the Indians who used to ply this section of the river, we eased along the shore, enjoying the sights and sounds of the woods coming alive. While our predecessors used bark, hide, and dugout crafts, ours was a sleek, molded-plastic canoe.

Indians used to rely on natural features such as large or unusual trees, a prominent bluff, or a bend in the channel to keep their bearings. We relied on man-made objects, especially bridges. When traveling on a river, these spans are often the most obvious landmarks. They can be a welcome sight if they mark the end of a hard day's canoeing.

Our trip was planned for leisurely travel. I had done this part of the Platte River before with our canoeing club, the JULY 1970

Many of the trees along the bank had been felled and stumps of all sizes stood around in every direction.

"What happened to these trees, dad?" Chuck asked. "Beavers cut them down," I replied. "You can see the toothmarks if you look closely."

There were signs of beaver activity all along the river. They gnaw down the cottonwoods and willows for the leaves, young shoots, and bark, all part of their regular diet. We could also see the paths these large rodents make through the grass on their way down the slopes of the riverbanks to the water. Beaver must occasionally have eyes bigger than their stomachs because often there is a large trunk cut only half-way through. They probably become impatient for dinner and wait until another day to complete the job.

Our tasks were also being put off to another day now. As we drifted farther down the river we heard and then spotted an airboat. These shallow-draft boats, driven by airplane propellers from the rear, are a more familiar sight in the Everglades than in Nebraska, but there are many of them along the Platte. Except for canoes, airboats are about the only type of boat that can maneuver in this shallow river.

The shallowness of the Platte makes it necessary to keep a sharp eye on the flow of the current. If you miss a change in the channel as it crosses from one side of the river to the other, you might wind up dragging the canoe across a sandbar. While much of the river did offer us the eight inches of water we needed, we were able to travel a lot easier by staying in the main channel.

When we did venture into the slower backwaters, we saw a variety of wildlife. A solitary great, blue heron made short flights downstream, and ducks took off in pairs as we approached them. Carp were spawning in the shallows, while muskrats ferried to and fro.

Jennifer brought us back to the reality of our trip.

"I'm hungry," piped up my daughter. Tm with you, Jen," I smiled. "We'll stop for lunch at the next good spot."

It didn't take long to find one. A high sandy area near a gravel pit was our luncheon setting. Annette had prepared sandwiches and other goodies before we left. Besides satisfying our appetites, the break gave us all a chance to stretch our legs and relax.

This restful mood continued even as we went on our way downriver again. The peacefulness of the warm spring day quickly caught up with the kids and they soon fell asleep. What more perfect spot could be found for an afternoon nap than in a gently rocking canoe with a perfect combination of the sun's warmth and the river's cool breezes.

"Look back through those trees," I 18 whispered to Annette so as not to wake the kids.

As I spoke, the deer I was pointing out caught her eye.

"I see him," she replied, "and look, there's another on the other side of the river."

Not all life along the river was animal life, of course. Lots of folks have cottages and camps on the Platte and many were in the process of getting them ready for the coming summer. Some of them were base camps for the hunting season since blinds decorated their front lawns, attesting to the Platte's waterfowl-hunting reputation. Unfortunately, man's presence along this beautiful stream can be seen in other ways. Trash and junk litter several areas along the Platte. Old automobiles, while they do apparently help prevent erosion of the banks, often ruin the scenic features of what could be one of the state's really attractive rivers.

Of course, the real beauty of a canoe trip such as ours lies in the freedom and solitude that almost every stream offers. Often oblivious to our surroundings, we drifted along like a chip with the tide. Occasionally the spell would be broken and we would have to rely on our canoeing skills to keep out of trouble. A sunken log, a fallen tree, or a hidden piece of debris would require quick paddling or a precise turn from the stern to swing us around. Also, if the wind turned against us it would take hard, steady strokes to keep us headed in the right direction.

It was a change in the wind that made us notice the darkening skies toward the south. A brisk breeze had come up and before we realized it, the beginning of a storm was overhead. In the distance, lightning etched the billowing clouds in brightness. We hastened now to reach our planned stopping point. The highway 92 bridge appeared in the distance. Just beyond it was our destination, Two Rivers State Recreation Area.

As we pulled the canoe up the bank, the first drops of rain started to fall. Our pop-up tent was quickly erected and our gear placed under cover. Hot dogs were on the supper menu, so we started a fire. But just as it got going, as if on cue, the storm began in earnest. Intermittent showers throughout the evening kept us scurrying back and forth to the safety of our tent. Despite the rain, we had a good night's rest.

By morning the spring storm had passed and we were soon up, with the prospect of another pleasant day for canoeing. Breakfast was topped with hot chocolate.

Once again we turned our attention to the river.

"It looks like it came up a little during the night," Annette noted. "I think you're right," I agreed. "Last night's rain must be responsible."

But the Platte, even when high, is still a shallow river. Not long after we had shoved off, (Continued on page 59)

RASCAL RANCHER

H. D. Watson's zany career spanned parts of two centuries to create an empire destined to fall

YOU PROBABLY couldn't call H. D. Watson a shyster. But when he wandered into Kearney in 1886, he was about as adept at pettifoggery as anyone around. It is said that he was an extremely generous manias long as his generosity didn't cost him anything. In fact, there was little chance it would, since he seldom had any money. But he did have enough cash to become what was later called the 'last of Nebraska's great land barons".

The year Watson arrived in his adopted city, Kearney was booming. Business was in high gear and expected to remain there. That same year, Chicago was writhing under the bloody Haymarket Riots, Geronimo surrendered, fled, and was recaptured, and Dr. Arthur Conan Doyle created supersleuth Sherlock Holmes. So, the neatly (Continued on page 55)

Willa Cather's Nebraska

Her images were drawn from the earth she loved. They encompass the sweep of the land and the wind's restless freedom

MOVING TO NEBRASKA from the gentle climate of Virginia, a young Willa Cather, exposed to this raw, new earth, discovered in herself a desire to capture the elusive force this land of strong contrast exerted on its pioneers.

Her Nebraska works, especially My Antonia and O Pioneers are, as a result, biographies not only of the characters they contain, but the land itself. The introduction of My Antonia, for example, which has two old childhood friends meeting on a train, establishes this theme of the dominant landscape: "We were talking about what it is like to spend one's childhood in little towns like these, buried in wheat and corn, under stimulating extremes of climate: burning summers when the world lies green and billowly beneath a brilliant sky, when one is fairly stifled in vegetation, in the color and smell of strong weeds and heavy harvests; blustery winters with little snow, when the whole country is stripped bare and grey as sheet-iron."

These descriptions of the Nebraska landscape helped establish the West in American literature. Her imagery encompasses the sweep of the land and duplicates the restless freedom of the wind itself. "When spring came, after that hard winter," she writes in My Antonia, "one could not get enough of the nimble air. Every morning I wakened with a fresh consciousness that winter was over. There were none of the signs of spring for which I used to watch in Virginia, no budding woods or blooming gardens. There was only spring itself; the throb of it, the light restlessness, the vital essence of it everywhere; in the sky, in the swift clouds, in the pale sunshine, and in the warm, high wind. . . "

The following pages represent a photographic reading of Miss Cather's Nebraska prose, interpretations of the images she drew from the earth she loved.

TEACHERS ON THE TRAIL

A century of history unfolds during journey as educators get new slant on Nebraska's past

THIRTY-SIX NEBRASKA teachers have come face to face with the Sand Hills. And, like the pioneers before them, they found the "hills" a formidable challenge as the sandy tracks sucked the wheels of their mighty bus ever deeper.

Modern transportation has not yet completely conquered the "highways" of the Sand Hills. Residents know that and gingerly drive their vehicles to the side of regularly traveled trails or throw hay in the tracks. But, our group on the Fourth Annual University of Nebraska Summer Session Tour of Nebraska was like any other band of tourists. Consequently, we were introduced to one of man's earliest means of transportation -WALKING.

Our guide had recommended a shortcut from the Haumont sod house, north of Broken Bow, to Sargent, thus providing an opportunity to test sand against machine. Needless to say, the machine NEBRASKAland lost to what appeared to be a level, harmless half-mile stretch of well-traveled sand. The only solution was to unload and apply "teacher power" to the back of the bus.

Suddenly free from the grasping sand, the driver, either in a sudden and insidious impulse to escape his passengers or to get to more hospitable terrain, expressed his appreciation to the pushers by blasting forward full throttle leaving behind a cloud of brown sand and black diesel exhaust.

This was but one of the more colorful episodes that dotted our tour, which is part of a three-week workshop at the University that is designed to give students experiences which will prepare them to teach history more effectively. At the same time, the face-to-face confrontation with "where it happened" subtly changes attitudes about the state and its heritage.

The workshop and tour were both based on four major points: (1) history is all around us and can be found in every community, especially by talking to people who have lived through it, (2) students learn history best when they can identify with it, (3) there are blueprints to understanding history, particularly first-hand observations and the proper tools and resources, and (4) students learn history best when they can discover it for themselves.

The first phases of the workshop are devoted to studying local history and to research. Recommended reading included Faulkner's Roundup, Neihardt's Black Elk Speaks, Fitzpatrick's Nebraska Place Names, Olson's History of Nebraska, and Mari Sandoz' Old Jules, Crazy Horse, and Cheyenne Autumn.

To prepare for the trip, the class divided into small groups, each of which researched the history of counties along the route and reported back both before and during the tour. Thus, we were oriented to the topography, utilization of the land, settlement of the people, development, and historic sites and incidents. Handouts were distributed by each group on the bus and oral reports provided still more information.

One diligent researcher came up with the rules for riding on a stagecoach, which seemed appropriate to our trip.

(1). Abstinence from liquor is requested, but if you must drink, share the bottle. To do otherwise makes you appear selfish and unneighborly.

(2). If Ladies are present, Gentlemen are urged to forego smoking cigars and pipes as the odor of same is repugnant to the Gentle Sex. Chewing tobacco is permitted, but spit WITH the wind, not against it.

(3). Gentlemen must refrain from the use of rough language in the pres- ence of Ladies and Children.

(4). Buffalo robes are provided for your comfort during cold weather. Hogging robes will not be tolerated and the offender will be made to ride with the driver.

(5). Don't snore loudly while sleeping or use your fellow passenger's JULY 1970

(6). Firearms may be kept on your person for use in emergencies. Do not fire them for pleasure or shoot at wild animals as the sound riles the horses.

(7). In the event of runaway horses, remain calm. Leaping from the coach in panic will leave you injured, at the mercy of the elements, hostile Indians, and hungry coyotes.

(8). Forbidden topics of discussion are Stagecoach robberies and Indian uprisings.

(9). Gents guilty of unchivalrous behavior toward lady passengers will be put off the stage. It's a long walk back. A word to the wise is sufficient.

Phillip * Dowse boarded the bus to act as guide for our excursion to Comstock, the first major stop. Nearly a century of history unfolded before our eyes as he pointed out such sites as the abandoned town of Wescott, one of nearly half of the Custer County settlements that no longer exist.

As teachers, we were particularly interested in the site of the first school in Custer County, which had been dug into the side of a bank and completed with sod. At Fort Garber, we learned the post was built in 1876 to protect 12 families from the (Continued on page 52)

Zoo's Who

Animals of every description jam the grounds of these hubs of Nebraska fun. Be you 6 or 60, there is a treat in store

RUMBLING ROARS of an African lion echo through the streets of Scottsbluff almost daily, while in Lincoln a chimpanzee comically roller skates through Antelope Park. And in Omaha, a huge gorilla loudly thumps his chest. Meanwhile, scores of children cuddle honest-to-goodness "billy" goats in Crystal Springs Park at Fairbury. All of this seemingly off-beat activity is merely routine in NEBRASKAland's many zoos and wildlife parks.

Zoo is a small word, actually a shortening of the phrase zoological garden which is a garden or park where wild animals are kept for exhibition. Although it is small in size, the word zoo has plenty of meaning. Most importantly, of course, it means animals. But its implications and responsibilities extend much further. A zoo means people — those who visit, those who study there, and those who work there. It also means organization, buildings, land, exhibit areas, education, and great dedication by individuals and communities. These meanings and responsibilities are extended to Nebraska's many wildlife parks.

To say that Nebraskans and their visitors show interest in animal exhibition facilities could easily be construed as the understatement of the year. Conservative estimates show that some 1 1/2-million people scurried to Nebraska's zoos and wildlife parks last year seeking education and amusement.

Omaha's Henry Doorly Zoo led the field of attendance in 1969 with over 350,000 visitors passing through its gates during the regular season from April 1 to November 1. Visitors there witnessed a vast array of animals, birds, and reptiles amidst a planned total zoo investment of nearly $8 million. To date, the Henry Doorly Zoo complex is nearing the midway mark of completion.

Encompassing some 108 acres, displays at Henry Doorly run the gamut from bantam roosters to rare orangutans. Spokesmen for the zoo explain that their primary specialization is rare and endangered hoof stock and great apes. However, a general visitor might find that hard to believe in observing the overall thoroughness of the zoo. Over 500 specimens are now on exhibit and, of course, there's more to come.

One of the most talked about displays at the zoo is Casey, a huge gorilla, and his mate Bridgette. The pair was blessed with a little one called Miss Vicki earlier this year. Unfortunately, the baby gorilla died June 3, a sad loss for administrators and an even bigger loss for the millions who visit here each year.

Officials at Henry Doorly consider the number two favorite the zoo's "live steam" model train. The train is a slightly larger than half-scale model of the Union Pacific No. 119 which pulled the ceremonial cars to Promontory, Utah, for the golden-spike ceremony. Over 2 1/2 miles of track laces the grounds and provides an excellent vantage point for viewing the zoo. A ride on the train costs 75 cents for adults and 35 cents for children.

At the opposite end of Nebraska is Riverside Park Zoo in Scottsbluff. At Riverside, Leo, a male African lion, is one of the main drawing cards. The zoo attracted over 100,000 visitors last year. Nearly every morning Leo announces his wake-up time not only to the head zoo keeper, but also to most of Scottsbluff as he sends a rumbling roar over the countryside.

Riverside Park Zoo was established in 1950, although some native animals were kept on the premises before. The zoo encompasses 15 acres and is operated 30

A "pet and touch" area is another strong point at Riverside. Children are able to pet braying donkeys, shaggy goats, guinea pigs, and woolly lambs.

It features exhibits native to Nebraska and also exotic species—leopards, mountain lions, Bengal tigers, black bears, mountain sheep, wolves, and a variety of monkeys. Hooved animals can also be seen there throughout the year without charge.

Situated in Lincoln is Children's Zoo, hailed as the largest "contact" zoo in the world. Last year some 155,000 visitors clicked the turnstiles at the zoo but, strangely, figures show that 60 percent of the visitors to Children's Zoo were adults and only 40 percent children.

Compactly laid out on 4 1/2 acres, Children's Zoo maintains an annual season spanning from Memorial Day to Labor Day. The facility opened its doors in 1966 and met with instant success. "Contact" with the animals is the zoo's best selling point. The entire philosophy of the facility is based on this people-to-animal contact.

Probably the biggest and most ferocious of the animals that visitors come in contact with at Children's Zoo is Leo the lion. Although Leo is constantly eating out of children's hands, he eats nothing but paper for he is not a real lion at all, just an electronic waste basket.

A new feature at the zoo this season will be a display called "Pick-Up-A-Chick". The exhibit focuses on the incubation and hatching of chicken eggs. Eggs will be placed in an incubator, which is equipped with a transparent glass side, through which the actual hatching of a chicken can be observed. After the baby birds emerge from the eggs, they will be placed in brooders, and after they are four days old, children will be allowed to "pick-up-a-chick."

Another new display at Children's Zoo this season is a number of exotic birds for Bird Island, including penguins and sandhill cranes. Goats, llamas, gibbons, otters, and wallabies are all favorites at the zoo. Charlie the talking crow, Bandit the raccoon, and Cappie and Brenda, two capybaras, the largest rodents in the world, are names that stay in the memories of visitors.

Railroad track surrounds Children's Zoo and those who ride the train have their appetites whetted before going inside. The train ride costs 15 cents. Included in future plans for Children's Zoo is a sea lion pool. If everything goes right, the pool will be under construction next fall.

Elsewhere in the capital city, only a short distance from Children's Zoo, is Antelope Park Zoo. There's little question that Skipper II is one of the main attractions there. A real showman, Skipper II is a chimpanzee who loves attention. His most famous act is roller skating about the park dressed in proper showman's attire. Following his roller skating act, Skipper II captains both a tricycle and pedal car.

A swan pond, aviary, and fountain garden are in the future for Antelope Park Zoo, which has just recently undergone extensive remodeling. It was established in 1935 and encompasses three acres. Exhibits at the zoo include chimpanzees, monkeys, a mountain lion, an ocelot, a ring-tailed cat, a kinkajou, reptiles, and numerous birds and fish. The zoo is open throughout the year and admission* is free.

Wildlife parks scattered throughout Nebraska play an important role in nature education and recreation.

While they are, for the most part, devoid of exotic species, wildlife parks afford the opportunity for visitors to observe native wildlife closely and gain a stronger understanding ofwildlife. Cody Park at North Platte is just such an area. Alongside a general recreation park, the wildlife segment of Cody Park houses animals exclusively native to Nebraska. These include badgers, foxes, coyotes, pheasants, pigeons, eagles, raccoons, geese, ducks, a porcupine, and both mule and white-tailed deer.

Cody Park is more or less a "community thing" with North Platte. The park dates back to 1927. It stretches over 93 acres of land and includes 4 acres of lake. The park is open all year, free. During the JULY 1970 last year, estimated attendance was well over 50,000. Also incorporated into the park is a free campground.

Waterfowl seems to be one of the major attractions at Cody Park, according to a park official. Ducks, pre-dominately mallards, and geese, both greater and lesser Canadas, occupy the park's lake in large numbers, creating a waterfowl spectacle. On the drawing board for the park is a "pet and touch" facility which is tentatively laid out on 18 acres. No estimates can be made at this time about the projected completion date of this addition.

Pioneers Park in Lincoln devotes over 100 acres to a wildlife display. Visitors can see huge, shaggy buffalo roaming over the hillsides, a variety of deer, llamas, and much more. In total, 50 different types of animals roam Pioneers Park. Ducks and geese are plentiful in the lakes. Special feeding areas allow visitors to draw the waterfowl close to shore for a snack and close observation.

Another Nebraska area featuring observation of wildlife is the Fontenelle Forest Nature Center at Bellevue. A truly natural forest, Fontenelle is composed of 1,200 acres stretching along the Missouri River. Wildlife exhibits at Fontenelle include only those animals, birds, and reptiles that are native to the habitats at Fontenelle. The exhibits are unique in the field of animal keeping, in that the displays are "revolving". Some of the animals kept in captivity have been orphaned, wounded, or have met with other misfortunes. The specimens are kept until they are ready to go out into the forest again by themselves. Before the first customer is ready to leave, another of his kind has usually arrived to take his place.

Administrators of the nature center do not consider it to be a zoo, rather a natural environment for wildlife of the area. Many zoos pride themselves on the monetary value of their collections, but Fontenelle prides itself more on the educational value to visitors. Typical animals on display at Fontenelle are coyotes, foxes, raccoons, squirrels and opposums, along with birds of all types native to the region.

Forty-eight varieties of wild mammals live in the Fontenelle Forest, which in 1964 was designated one of the top seven Natural History Landmarks in the United States by the U.S. Department of the Interior. The beginnings of Fontenelle Forest date back to 1913.

Crystal Springs Park in Fairbury has been coined as a mini-zoo. The area is home for goats, turkeys, peacocks, bantams, ducks, and geese. Although Fairbury's mini-zoo is considerably smaller than other areas, all the meanings of zoo and wildlife park are still applicable. Crystal Springs is open all year without charge. Camping and picnicking are also popular there.

Tucked away in Norfolk's beautiful Ta-Ha-Zouka Park is a small zoo that features deer and bears. The zoo is open all year and admission is free.

Stolley Park in Grand Island was visited by some 130,000 people last year. The park sprawls over 43 acres and is administered by the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission. At the present time mule and white-tailed deer are the only animals there, but facilities for waterfowl are available.

All in all, big or small, NEBRASKAland's many zoos and wildlife parks offer the visitor a wide variety of education and entertainment. They promise a fun-filled approach to wildlife education that can only improve notes of discord between man and nature. THE END

MOMENT OF TRUTH

Now he's out of the water. Victory is only seconds away. I crouch down to reach for the walleye's gills

IT WAS A day that makes a man happy with the whole world. The sun was warm, the sky and water were blending their blues in mutual agreement, and I was at my favorite fishing spot, the rocky shore-line of Lake McConaughy. I didn't know it, but far below me a long and powerful fish was closing his jaws over my dancing doll fly. My greatest fishing thrill was about to begin.

The soft strike did not hint at the fish's size, and my first thought was that the lure had snagged on a rocky ledge. Suddenly, the "rock" moved. There was a strong, steady pull and then I knew that this was not just another fish. This was it —a dream coming true. This was the moment when an angler's rod bends downward with the nerve-shattering excitement and mystery of a possible record fish.

That morning had started like any other fishing morning. I tossed my fishing gear in the back of the station wagon scarcely dreaming that this July day would be unforgettable. True, I had often thought of someday catching that one fish which would long stand in the Nebraska records as the largest of its kind, but I wasn't expecting it to happen on that bright and golden morning.

My white doll fly provided a satisfying weight at the end of my line, but the action at my favorite fishing spot started slowly. I sat on a ledge and flipped the lure at various depths before beginning my retrieves. It was during one of these that I got the strike.

The line knifed slowly through the water from side to side, but its powerful pull told me to release the tension on the reel and let this fish run. My eight-pound-test line couldn't stand this pressure, so I had to let this fish wear himself out, for I didn't have the gear to stop his power. Helpless desperation crept over me, for I knew that if he kept going at his present speed he would soon reach the end of my hundred-yard line. Then the show would be over.

He stopped. The long retrieve began. Again, he turned to run and again I had to let him go, for this was the way the game had to be played. After 20 minutes my arms and shoulders began to ache with fatigue. Surely, he must be wearing out.

Thirty minutes passed and still I couldn't bring him in close and force him to the surface. The sweat ran off my forehead and into my eyes. My heart was pounding. I began to wonder if I had more fish than I could deal with.

Tension on the line eased and cautiously I began what was to be my final retrieve. I knew he was nearing the surface. The water began to boil and suddenly, 34 there he was. My doll fly was jutting from the jaw of the largest walleye I have seen in 20 years of fishing McConaughy. A new state record would be in the books if I could land him. I knew the record was a 16-pound, 1-ounce fish, but this walleye was over 36 inches long and would surely weigh more than that.

Now he was at my feet with victory only a few seconds away. I crouched and reached for his gills. At that instant he whipped his jaw to one side. Instead of grasping his gills my thumb was firmly clamped between his teeth. The fish had caught the fisherman! My blood was now mixed with his and the battle had taken on new dimensions. I couldn't get my thumb out unless I pried those jaws apart, so I put my rod down to use my other hand.

Grasping his upper jaw I began to pry the vise apart. With my hands on his jaws there was no way to lift him from the water except with the grip I had. My opponent had the advantage now, but there was no choice. A try for a new grip on his gills would be disastrous. Slowly, I started easing him from the water. He was now halfway out and I could feel his weight increase as he lost his buoyancy. Our battle was nearly over.

Then this beautiful, record-breaking specimen whipped violently upward and brought me upright out of my crouch. My hold was lost, and for a moment that seemed like an eternity, my fish was suspended in the air. The picture he made would return again and again in the sleepless nights that followed. I whirled and frantically grabbed my rod, hoping the lure was still attached. As soon as I picked it up I knew it was too late. The line had snapped.

Slowly, ever so slowly, the giant walleye returned to the depths. I could see the white lure sparkling in his jaw as he vanished.

I sat and dumbly stared at the sparkling water for a long time after that. Everything was just the same. The sun was still beating down on the rocks and the gulls still wheeled and dipped. Gradually, my perspective returned. The loss of the great walleye was not the end of the world. But I knew it would be a long, long time before I could forget the drama that had been acted on its stage. THE END

PHOTOGRAPHER'S CHOICE

A decade of memories lives again in the following collection of old pictures

EVERYONE LIKES TO look at old pictures. It's a pastime which brings back pleasant memories. This month NEBRASKAland presents a selection of previously published photographs which have appeared throughout the past decade. All choices were made by Lou Ell, photographic section chief, to represent what the magazine portrays in color each year, following the seasonal cycle from the birth of new life in spring, through summer and autumn, to the silence of death in winter. Included are pictures of activities related to each season, like fishing in spring or hunting in fall.

NEBRASKAland photographs have been consistent winners in annual photo competitions sponsored by the American Association for Conservation Information since 1964. Last year, when the competition became international, a series of black-and-white photos called Winter Song, published in February 1968, won first place. It was the fourth time an entry from this magazine came out on top.

A photographer's professional life is as interesting as life itself because this is the essence of what he tries to reproduce on film.

"One of the most difficult things is to make attractive what is usually considered to be commonplace," says Lou, a 57-year-old bachelor. 'You have to know about the little things in life to be able to capture the right mood in a photograph. You ask kids to play on a sandy beach, then you fade into the background and begin shooting after they have forgotten that you are there.

"As far as wildlife is concerned, you know it won't behave the way you'd like, so you sit patiently and wait for the right moment."

But professional photography is not all artistry. Sometimes there is real danger or humor involved. Take, for example, one winter when Lou was photographing a herd of elk at the Fort Niobrara Wildlife Refuge. He tells it this way:

"I was following the herd on foot as it kept moving away. None of the elk in the herd paid much attention to me, except one cow. Irritated by my presence, she pawed the ground and charged. I was too far from my car, so I dropped my gear, picked up a handful of snow, packed it into a snowball as quickly as possible, and let her have it right between the eyes.

"I let out a warwhoop and counter-charged, wondering if I'd be in the happy hunting grounds soon. My strategy worked. The cow stopped short, turned, and fled with the rest of the herd."

Other times he has fallen from trees while photographing birds' nests.

On one occasion he was walking through a rocky cliff area when he suddenly found himself in the middle of a rattlesnake den. They all started buzzing. "Needless to say, I beat a hasty retreat," he says.

Yet another time he was scouting locations for a panoramic shot of the Niobrara River. He was walking along the sandy, sloping rim of a 65-foot precipice when the sand gave way. He saved himself from sliding over the edge by grabbing a yucca plant which, he grins and says, "just happened to be growing there."

These are some of the more unusual incidents Lou likes to relate when he looks at his old NEBRASKAland pictures. He has been on staff nine years and took over as chief of the photo section in 1966.

Here then, are his choices, showing the colorful story of life in Nebraska. THE END

ME, THE VILLAIN

Our environment is smothering under a growing layer of trash. Everyone is to blame and only through a total drive to clean things up can we survive the plague

LITTERING IS A FORM of vandalism. Few ever think of it as such, but it is the careless or willful i destruction or defacement of property—just like vandalism. Littering is an expensive crime. For tax-payers the cost of clean-up is astronomical.

How astronomical? In 1966, national, state, and local government agencies spent somewhere in the neighborhood of $419 million on refuse disposal. This included disposal of legitimate garbage, but litter was a substantial portion of the total. In Nebraska the roads department uses $166,000 for litter collection before accounting for the hidden costs. And hidden costs can add up too fast.

For the individual litterer the punch in the pocketbook can be tough. The minimum fine for littering is $25 plus cost. The maximum is $100-or $1000 for water pollution. In 1969 Safety Patrol and Game Commission officers made 271 arrests for littering. Fines totaled about $5,500 —not even 3 percent of the clean-up costs.

Not all convicted litterers are fined. Some are sent out for a grueling few hours picking up litter along a specified length of roadway. But that's not enough. Litter arrests have got to stop—stop after there's no more littering.

Summertime is litter time and Nebraska is no exception. The old adage, "little things hurt a lot," is all too true. Most frequent items found along the road-ways are disposable diapers, plastic rectangles that won't dissolve into the turf but lie on vegetation, eventually killing it. They are eyesores that clutter up the view.

Bottles and cans, an occasional broken table, a damaged canoe, lost cartop carriers, and stripped-down trailers, all get into the state's clean-up trucks. Studies show that motorists drop over 16,000 pieces of litter per mile each year on Nebraska highways.

A Lincoln fraternity used a roadside area to dump garbage —until the members were caught. Some persons take their household trash to a park area near town and dump it there.

Not everyone is a litterbug, of course. One state park manager congratulated Nebraskans, saying his worst offenders are raccoons that sneak onto the areas at night, pry the lids from trash cans, and rifle them for goodies. The people, he said, make every effort to be neat. If the trash cans fill up, they find bags and boxes to hold their trash and set them beside the park cans. Another manager said if the area is clean when people arrive, and if there are trash cans nearby, visitors usually leave the park as clean as they found it.

The only way to keep public or private areas clean is to make people stop littering. There are various suggestions to make them stop. One is education to let people know how much litter costs and how ugly it is. That's what we're trying to do here in NEBRASKAland Magazine. Another way is to raise fines and make controls more strict.

Another means of making people aware is through protest marching. But this can present a litter problem in itself. Take, for example, one anti-litter group which left 18 tons of extra trash on the streets of New York City at the end of its campaign.

Whatever the solution, the problem won't disappear until everyone realizes that he is the villain in the tragedy and decides to do something about it.

Of course you're not the bad guy. You know better than to throw a disposable diaper out of your car window. But last Saturday, weren't you driving along highway 281? You had been at a party and were finishing JULY 1970 that last beer. Well, of course, that's not littering. It's not even drunk driving. It's drinking and driving. It wouldn't be too good to have that beer can in the car though, would it? The "law" might not understand. But you didn't chuck that can out the window, did you?

The innocent green gum wrapper that blended so well with the grass has bleached in the weather now. It's just as white and ugly as everyone else's wrappers.

Some people—not you, of course —were picnicking at Two Rivers last Sunday. It was a busy day out there and all the trash barrels were full. Those people left all their picnic wastes from half-consumed hot dogs to blowing papers on the table.

The average family picnicker on a federal area leaves about a pound of garbage behind. Hopefully, he gets all or part of it into a trash can, and hopefully, a Nebraska outdoor-lover will be more careful of his local area. But if no one paid any attention to neatness, garbage would soon be knee-deep.

Only 500 families of 4 would pile up a ton of paper, bottles, cans, and left-over potato salad. Like a ton of feathers, the debris would spread across the recreation area. On a heavily used area like Two Rivers State Recreation Area, with 7,500 visitors on one warm Sunday, several tons of refuse could pile up.

The federal forest service estimates the cost of refuse collection and disposal at between $28 and $302 per ton. Assuming the low estimate, if every one of Nebraska's Wi million people had one picnic a season the resulting accumulation this year would cost about $13,500 precious tax dollars. But that's provided each person only went on one outing. Now, for a moment, think about the larger figure. One picnic per person would cost a total of $226,500 at $302 a ton.

Nebraska's costs probably range somewhere between the two estimates, but let's not forget that these estimated costs are only for picnicking. How much waste do we leave behind when we camp, or boat, or swim, or take a drive in the country, or see the sights, or ride our bicycles?

We go about our daily activities, now and then taking time out to gripe about taxes and high government spending. In the coming election we'll be looking for the man who'll spend the least the most wisely. But how about you? Are you making the effort to keep spending down?

Remember, you are the villain. THE END

MEMORIES IN WALNUT

With inspired imaginations, fires of adventure, Ecuadorians Reascos and Rodriguez begin their love affair with Nebraska

EDGAR AND CARLOS are wood-carvers. Although they are both in their 20's, neither was ever far from home until recently when they came to Nebraska. Their home is a small village nestled between the volcanic mountains of Ecuador. It is the sort of town that inspires the imagination and kindles the fires of adventure. Edgar Reascos and Carlos Rodriguez are bursting with both, but most of all they love to carve into wood what they feel and see.

Wood carving is neither their profession nor their hobby. It is their passion. When working on a walnut log they are able to release all the creativity, all the love or all the hate they feel inside. When Carlos is depressed he carves skeletons or suffering people. When Edgar is happy he carves beautiful women and laughing babies. Their talents are exceptional.

I have known Edgar and Carlos for years, having visited Ecuador on numerous trips. Last summer when I was in their town they came and asked me if I would help them.

"Take us along when you go back to the United States and Nebraska," Edgar said. "We want to know new lands and meet different people. We want new 48 feelings and new impressions so that we can continue to grow."

Carlos said, "We want to stay in Nebraska and carve what we feel. After some time has passed we want to display our work at an art exhibit. When we have realized that dream, we will return to our families."

Three weeks later the three of us were at the bus station in Grand Island and I called my wife to come and pick us up. Our ranch near Niobrara is about 160 miles north of Grand Island.

"I'll be right there," Arlene sighed when I told her that I had guests. "It'll probably take me two hours to get there."

I hung up the receiver and went to look for Carlos and Edgar. Neither speaks English. I found Edgar at a news rack looking at a magazine while Carlos, nearby, was trying to get a candy bar out of a vending machine. I explained that the penny he was repeatedly feeding into the slot wasn't big enough and told him to try a dime. He did and the candy bar tumbled out.

"That's strange," Carlos mused. "You say the red coin isn't enough, but when we try a smaller one NEBRASKAland

Carlos and Edgar are used to more mountainous countryside and serpentine highways than we encountered during our bus ride from Miami to Nebraska. At first they were pleased with the difference and long before we reached Grand Island they were bored. But they perked up considerably now as we drove in the family car along Nebraska's highway 14 as it began to roller coaster down toward the village of Verdigre, snuggled cozily in Knox County. Hillside and valley were parading their gaudiest colors and the seasonal changing of the guards was taking place.

Now each turn in the road triggered a pleasant outflow of Spanish. By the time we reached the windmill on top of a hill overlooking the Niobrara, Verdigre, and Missouri rivers, both men were completely intoxicated with the festival of fall. I parked the car at the crest of the hill. Both Edgar and Carlos tumbled out to feel the scarlet sumac leaves, finger the sharpness of yucca spears, and draw in deep lungfuls of air. Edgar has an unusually sensitive eye, and to him, balance JULY 1970 plays an essential role in determining whether something is visually pleasing or displeasing. A large towering mountain disturbs him; huge bodies of water and large rivers make him nervous.

In his opinion, The Creator did a lousy job of throwing our planet together. "Scenery seldom pleases me," he says, "because nature has allowed the land to dominate the water as she does in the mountains, or she has allowed the water to dominate the land as she does with oceans, large lakes, and rivers."

But I could see now, as Edgar ran his eyes over the hills, valleys, and rivers, that he was pleased with what he saw.

"This is indeed a very rare beauty that you have in Nebraska," he said. "Here the land and water compliment one another and neither battles the other for superiority. The water does not detract from the beauty of the land, nor does the land detract from the beauty of the rivers."

Edgar and Carlos had brought their wood chisels and as soon as they became familiar with their new home on our 1,200-acre ranch, they asked me to help 49  

At the Bill Mayberry ranch we found two large logs that had been cut and cured for five years. Bill fired up his steam-powered sawmill and ripped the logs into three-inch planks.

Later we obtained several huge walnut trees from the John Prouty ranch near Spencer. John wouldn't take any money for the trees and his generosity baffled the two South Americans, as did many other things they saw in Nebraska.

They had never heard of highway speed limits and wondered why I stopped at intersections when there wasn't another car in sight. "In Ecuador," Carlos beamed, "the faster you drive, the better a man you are." Laughingly, he says American drivers are a bunch of sissies.

Carlos was thrilled when he saw the Niobrara Lions on the football field. He sees American football as more brutal but still more masculine than the soccer he plays in Ecuador. Carlos decided that his first Nebraskan 50 sculpture would be a tribute to this great American sport. He spent his first month carving a tangle of helmets, cleats, and shoulder pads on a six-foot walnut plank. But Carlos is also a gentle man. His next two sculptures were dedicated to the theme of love —the love one has for his fellow man, and the love it takes to help a newborn infant draw its first breath of life.

Edgar is more obsessed with finding the differences in things, and accentuates them in a satirical way that makes you even more aware of the universal similarities that motivate men.

When he saw Nebraska hunters prowling the cornfields for pheasant and wading the swamps for waterfowl, he decided to carve "The Hunter" in walnut. Within a week his sculpture was complete. He showed it to me and I thought it was good.

"The Hunter" is a huge man cloaked in a thick, sleeveless parka. He stands amid a pile of dead birds. With muscles bulging on his massive arms, his three-fingered NEBRASKAland

I recognized the face immediately. It was of Frank Sherman, a friendly hermit with a heavy-set jaw who lives along the Missouri River in a tar-paper shack not far from Niobrara. Frank has a lot of hard winters etched into his face and Edgar considered it to be "the most beautiful face I have seen" after he met him the first time.

It shocked me when Edgar carved the figure of a pregnant nun. At first I thought it to be vulgar. But then I realized that this was just Edgar's way of saying that the rules which society imposes upon the individual cannot extinguish the feelings one suppresses.

Edgar's working hours had no pattern. A particularly stimulating sculpture could keep him chained to his work for days and nights without meals or rest. Other times he sat wordless staring into space. When he dressed up and walked to Niobrara we never knew if he would be gone for an hour or a week.

Edgar is the first to admit that his self-discipline is virtually nil. "I don't want to think with my mind, I just want to think with my heart," he said to me one evening. "If I think with my mind a computer can replace me, but if I think with my heart nothing can replace me."

Sometimes Edgar carved and sometimes he painted, or molded clay. After eating a melon, he Edgar Reascos has a very sensitive eye. To him, balance is essential to beauty sometimes rearranged the seeds in his plate to spell out "thank you".

His impulsiveness was enough to drive a host wacky. Neither warning nor pleading stopped him from answering the telephone when we weren't home and his Spanish jabbering frustrated the long-distance operators time and again. Arlene and I still get complaints from persons who called us long distance, station-to-station during their visit, and had to pay for the call even though they couldn't give a message.

Although Edgar and Carlos have good minds, the English language continued to baffle them week after week and the value of money —peso, sucre, or dollar — remained to them the greatest mystery of all. Edgar says money means nothing to him but he was forever asking for more.

To Edgar, money is the ugly stuff that makes beautiful music pour out of a juke box; that brings a broad smile to the face of a friend who asks for a loan. It is the stupid stuff that Americans like to hoard. It shocked Edgar when one day he saw my wife writing checks to pay some bills. I explained that most American wives have joint bank accounts with their husbands.

He mulled this thought over in his mind, then replied, "American men and women don't get married; they just sign a bunch of papers and form a company!"

Edgar is married to a lovely raven-tressed woman he left in Ecuador. At Christmas time Edgar's thoughts dwelt heavily on her and their little daughter. He confided in me that his (Continued on page 59)

TEACHERS ON THE TRAIL

Indians. It was constructed of sod and reinforced at the corners with logs. Guns and ammunition were issued by the government and hauled by wagon from Fort Hartsuff. When serious Indian troubles failed to materialize, it was renamed Fort Disappointment. Captain Comstock, commander of the post, was never officially relieved of his command, since many of the settlers failed to return their rifles.

In the same vicinity, we saw one ofthe original timber claims as well as an old soddie that was barely discernible from the road. The open door revealed a cool, charming interior, despite 15 years of vacancy and considerable vandalism. We examined how the sod was cut and laid and how the buffalo grass and bluestem roots held the sod together. Surprisingly, the soddie was much larger on the inside than it appeared from outside.

It is easy to understand why Custer County became known as the sod house capital of the world, for the soil is apparently just the right texture and buffalo grass and bluestem grew profusely. Mr. Dowse recalled his father riding horse-back up the valley and the bluestem reached to his shoulders.

"Three large pine trees used to stand over there in that clump of trees," Mr. Dowse noted as we were once more under way. "One had Bill Cody's initials carved deep in the trunk. They were landmarks around here for years until they were cut down for lumber."

After a picnic lunch, prepared by Mrs. Dowse and her daughter-in-law, Karen, we visited a marker designating the first homestead in Custer County. Mr. Dowse's grandfather had driven his ox team to the site in August, 1873, and filed his claim on it in February, 1874.

Later, we took in the Haumont sod house, one of the few remaining two-story sod houses in the nation. It was on this foray 12 miles north of Broken Bow that we learned the hard lesson taught by the Sand Hills.

After a reluctant farewell to Mr. Dowse at Sargent, the entourage headed for the Bessey Division ofthe Nebraska National Forest. The devastation wrought by the fire had a disquieting effect on the touring teachers. It, combined with heat, prompted one ofthe shortest stops on the trip. Still, our trip to Valentine, where we would spend the night, was a most pleasant one as we watched the changing colors and the shadows created by the late-afternoon sun in the Sand Hills. And, after nearly 11 hours in the saddle, we were ready for the feedbag and a bunk.

Back on the bus Tuesday morning, there was audible excitement over the day's agenda. After reading and hearing so much about Old Jules Country, the teachers were pulling at the traces to reach the rendezvous with Flora Sandoz. The road from Valentine to Gordon to Ellsworth is especially historic, and we recalled how Old Jules, as a Swiss immigrant, had filed his first claim on Mirage Flats. The last 15 miles on Nebraska Highway 27 was almost like a countdown as all eyes searched for the turnoff to the Sandoz fruit farm.

Late Monday afternoon, the teachers had each put a penny in a pool or more properly, since teachers don't gamble, contributed to a fund for the welfare of the first one to spot a deer. As we tooled down the road, Mrs. Dorothy Schick of Curtis suddenly yelled, "DEER!"

All eyes turned right to see several does bound gracefully into the hills. Quite naturally, while this was going on, we sped right by Flora Sandoz and her sister, Mrs. Caroline Pifer. And, there they stood with arms half-raised in greeting. Nonetheless, they greeted us warmly when we finally got the bus turned around and got back to the ranch entrance.

Caroline boarded the bus to describe the history of the land that once had been part of the mighty Spade Ranch, while Flora led the way in her car. When the Spade went broke, parcels were sold off and the Sandozes bought some of the land. We visited Mari Sandoz' final resting place overlooking an orchard and then drove down to Flora's home to see family pictures, books, and artifacts. And, the teachers had to be prodded like youngsters to get back on the bus to head for Crawford and a date with Howard Dodd.

A student of geology, Mr. Dodd explained the (Continued on page 54)

NEBRASKAland CAMPING CAMARADERIE

who like to put their feet up and watch someone else.

Children may compete in three-legged races or eating contests to take the edge from their energies. Teenage members plan their own activities. During the warm months, Family Campers chooses sites with swimming areas. Special camp-outs JULY 1970 take advantage of the Memorial Day, July Fourth, and Labor Day weekends.

Family Campers offers tours, too. Each year the club plans a week-long trip into some midwestern area for interested members. This year an additional two-week tour will swing up through Minnesota and into Canada.

Of the 125 member families, an average of 40 attend any given camp-out. As many as 90 to 100 appear for the special meetings. From November through March, Family Campers holds afternoon meetings. These sessions are devoted to films and slide shows of interest to campers. Members review their slides from the previous summer.

Besides the independent camping clubs, Nebraska boasts chapters of several commercial clubs including Airstream, Avion, and Winnebago. These clubs, too, have weekend meetings once a month, potluck suppers, and church services. Ownership of the appropriate camping gear is the only requirement for membership. Club members wear some kind of insignia or distinctive dress.

The trailers are often numbered and each member is provided with a list of numbers and their owners. As they meet on the highway, fellow club members signal a salute, then thumb through their number listings to see who that was.

The Winnebago groups plan educational tours for their camp-outs including tours of historical sites or local industries. Evenings are spiced with local entertainment or travel slides.

Commercial clubs also organize vacation tours for members. These include jaunts into the Rockies and the Black Hills. Another kind of camping club is Motor Home Owners' Association. This is a club for owners of self-propelled, self-contained units. Their membership embraces converted buses and even some camper trailers. Like other camping clubs, they have monthly meetings, potluck suppers, and Sunday services. Bingo is one of the favorite adult games, and each family brings some kind of prize for the winners.

Motor Home Owners started a new tradition last year with a Thanksgiving camp-out. Saturday supper was outdoor-roasted turkey with potluck goodies. An old-fashioned atmosphere of hospitality drew the campers into the fire's warm glow.

That atmosphere of hospitality and camaraderie is perhaps the prevalent characteristic of camping clubs. From a friendly high sign on the highway to the sharing of evening meals, camping clubs are kindling fires of outdoor friendship across NEBRASKAland. THE END

TEACHERS ON THE TRAIL

many formations in the unusual area of northwest Nebraska along the South Dakota border. As we turned back south, the roads again became trails or paths. Unfortunately, we came to a number of small plank bridges that looked a bit too precarious to cross with a bus, let alone one full of teachers. Here again, we had to "get out and walk".

I've taken enough field trips with grade school students to know that if you turn them loose, they immediately head for food and drink. With the teachers, it was rocks —round, flat, large, small, shiny, dull, it mattered little. So, whenever we left the bus to cross another bridge, it looked as though a group of tidy teachers were unlittering the badlands. Some got a bit overenthusiastic and strayed into creek beds, ditches, and beyond the road. That is they did until Mr. Dodd announced, "I'd be careful where I step. There are lots of rattlers in this country." He never raised his voice, but everyone heard him and hastily heeded his warning.

At Montrose, we met John Mader, Mrs. Dodd, and Ray Semraska, all of Crawford, who came equipped with pickups with bales of hay in the back for seats. With everyone aboard, they proceeded over some rather unwieldy terrain to the site near Hat Creek where Buffalo Bill Cody supposedly killed Chief Yellow Hand. There, Mr. Dodd told us about several incidents, including different versions of Yellow Hand's death.

In turn, Mr. Mader related the history of Montrose, where his grandfather had a little store. In doing so, he gave us a taste of "frontier justice", recalling how a lady whose integrity was somewhat questionable had brought butter to sell at the store. In the middle, she had placed a large rock. The storekeeper, who recognized the ruse immediately, replaced the rock in the sack of sugar she bought.

Back on the bus, we continued our journey to Toadstool Park, where we saw the eerie formations created by erosion, wind, heat, and cold. At Fort Robinson, where we spent the night, Mr. Dodd left us.

Vance Nelson, curator for the Nebraska State Historical Society at the fort, conducted our tour of the post the next morning, including trips to the site of the,Red Cloud Agency, where Mr. Nelson pointed out the buttes around the fort and told us the history of the agency.

We spent the entire day at Fort Robinson, drinking in its rich history and touring the post and the museum. The afternoon was "free" and was spent mostly in horseback riding, hiking, and Jeep riding into the pine-covered hills. That night, we saw Mr. Nelson's slides and a film of the commemoration of the Crazy Horse Monument in 1934, which was the last great gathering of the Sioux nation. Mr. Nelson told us that at one time the road from Chadron to Fort Robinson (28 miles) was solid with Indians walking to the dedication.

Thursday, we left for Fort Laramie, Wyoming, which also played a part in NEBRASKAland the history of western Nebraska. That night, we gathered at the ranch of Dr. Robert Manley near Scottsbluff for dinner and a campfire sing-along.

Nearing the end of our tour, we visited Scotts Bluff National Monument on Friday and headed back east along the historic Oregon Trail with Dr. Manley as our guide. Our trek took us to Chimney Rock and Courthouse and Jail rocks. The more agile in our party climbed almost to the top of Courthouse Rock. Pushing on, we visited Mud Springs, once a Pony Express Station, Overland Stage stop, and telegraph station.

Mud Springs had been attacked by Indians in February, 1865, but before the telegraph wires could be cut a message was sent. Soldiers from Fort Mitchell arrived in a day. The following day, two more companies arrived from Fort Laramie. In the thick-walled house, some 170 men were under siege by a band of Indians estimated at near 1,000 strong. The red men were gaining the upper hand when a squad of soldiers volunteered to charge the top of a knoll held by the Indians. The charge was successful and changed the course of the battle. The Indians were driven back into the hills. Mud Springs later became known as Simla, but like many other towns has disappeared from the Nebraska scene.

The day we visited there, Mud Springs was quiet and peaceful. The spring-fed pond looked clear and inviting, and only the noise of boys swimming broke the silence.

Back on the trail, we drove about eight miles north to Lewellen and the site of the Battle of Ash Hollow. In this picturesque setting, Dr. Manley described the events leading up to the battle and the battle itself. On the way back, we came to Ash Hollow itself, where the troops camped before the conflict and which is the site of another famous landmark—Windlass Hill. Here, pioneers suddenly faced the problem of how to get their wagons and animals down the steep sides of the cliff-like slope to the valley below.

Dr. Manley bid us adieu at Ash Hollow, and we proceeded to Ogallala. There we took a quick look at Lake McConaughy and headed for the floor show at Front Street. After all, all work and no play... it's a family show, but the teachers did take a good-natured ribbing from the college students who entertained there.

Saturday, we visited Buffalo Bill Ranch State Historical Park at North Platte and Fort McPherson National Cemetery at Maxwell, before heading home.

There were many other places we wanted to visit, like the Lower "96" Ranch, Gothenburg's Pony Express Station, and Grand Island's Stuhr Museum of the Prairie Pioneer, to name a few. But...oh well, there's always next year! THE END

RASCAL RANCHER

dressed gentleman who ambled into Kearney caused little stir among the townspeople. They were to take notice, JULY 1970 however, for H. D. Watson was a man that warranted watching.

No one was ever sure why Watson picked Kearney as his new home. Since he hailed from Greenfield, Mass., some theorized the move was a health matter. But his health was never questioned by those who really knew him. And his wheeling and dealing in business circles led many to believe he was some sort of financial superman. Seemingly, Nebraska presented a path to quick profit — and Watson was never a man to pass up a deal like that.

It didn't take long for him to become half-owner in the holdings of one George W. Frank, one of the more prominent boom-days capitalists. His share of the holdings, including the Kearney Canal, power plant, and around 2,000 acres of farmland, made Watson a very influential member of the citizenry. Riding the crest of his wave of success, he headed back east to interest other speculators in Kearney real estate. The result was the building of a textile mill, enlarging the canal, and other industrial enterprises — with money raised through Watson's influence.

By 1895, the entrepreneur's name was synonymous with big business in the central-Nebraska community. His success prompted the January 2, 1895, edition of the Kearney Hub to note: "...The properties of the Frank Improvement Company, Canal and Water Supply Company, Electric Company and Electric Street Railway Company, all under the Frank management, constitute one of the finest possessions in the country.

"Barring the water power, Mr. Watson's interests are about equal to those of Mr. Frank. Since identifying himself with Kearney six years ago, when he acquired heavy holdings of city property, he also acquired control of the West Improvement Company, the Kearney Land and Investment Company, The Captain Anderson and Keck Ranches and various tracts of farming lands, the whole stretching in a solid body from the city limits west to Stevenson Station."

The partnership of Frank and Watson had fallen on hard times, however. Differences of opinion led to Mr. Frank's suggestion that the matter be turned over to arbitrators. That remedy failed to thwart the malady, however, and a break-up ensued. By now, Watson was on his way to becoming the big man in the Kearney area. He turned more and more of his time to ranching and farming on his spread some five miles west of the city. But the making of his operation came several years earlier, during the drought of 1890.

It was dry that year, so dry that crops shriveled in the field. Cattle grew gaunt and worthless on what dried grass was available. Ponds became dry washes. But H. D. Watson stumbled onto something incredible in the midst of a virtual desert. Canvassing the countryside for anything that would improve conditions as far as food for cattle, he happened onto some 20 acres of green, sweet alfalfa. The plant, which was to become the mainstay of that section of the Platte Valley, was foreign to farmers as feed. Watson soon found the reason the plants survived was that their root systems ran into the deep soil water under the surface. Enamored by alfalfa and the hopes for the future it represented, he said in an interview with the Kearney Hub: "I immediately leased that land for a nominal sum and proceeded to find out why the plant was so thriving under the blighting conditions which then prevailed all over this section.

"I found that these plants had gone to water. I saw immediately the salvation of this semi-arid country and went to work to prove it. I immediately put in twelve acres of alfalfa and got great results. I then borrowed money, leased 1,000 acres of land with the privilege of purchase and put in alfalfa. It took one year to break up the sod and subdue the land. The next year, I sowed it to alfalfa, mowed the weeds and took care of it. The third year I cut a splendid crop of about 3,000 tons, three cuttings, all of which rotted in the stack because nobody believed that it was a wise hay to feed, its value not being at all understood."

Things just weren't working for Watson's innovation. The fourth year, he managed to sell his alfalfa hay to sheep men for $3 a ton. After that, farmers in the area realized what they were missing and alfalfa took off like wildfire throughout the central Platte River Valley. From then on, it was all up to H. D. Watson and his ranch.

With the split in the Frank-Watson enterprises came a huge expansion project at the Watson Ranch. Always a man that leaned toward the grandiose, H. D. set out to (Continued on page 64)

Where to go Newman's Ranch, Sioux Lookout

WITH HORSEBACK TRAILS in summer and snowmobile tracks in winter, the wide open spaces of the Newman's Guest Ranch are ideal for year-round sports. City dude or amateur cowpoke, visitors to this ranch near Stuart are warmly welcomed.

To reach this vacation center, drive 13 1/2 miles north on the Stuart-Naper road from Highway 20. At Cleveland Church, turn west and follow the main road four miles.

Rustic pleasures of country life are revived at Newman's where lowing cows awaken early-morning senses to the sounds of a meadowlark or quail calling across the rolling Sand Hills. There's the rattle of a milk pail and the eager mewing of cats begging for their breakfast. To those who like to lay abed, hens proudly cackle their, "I laid an egg" call.

Early risers spring from beds at the cock's first crow and rush to help with morning chores. Stepping from their cabins or bunkhouses they are confronted with the pink of early morning against the lush green of distant hills. Breathing deeply of damp morning air, fresh with dew, they find their way to the barn where cows are already waiting to be milked. Unskilled hands squeeze streams of warm, rich milk from patient "bosses".

The delight of youngsters is measured in bucket calves' appetites as excited children feed them at mealtime. Hogs and chickens need feeding, too. And there's a 56 technique to be learned in gathering eggs. A fast reach and a bit of practice protect hands from the beaks of jealous hens.

When the hens are cared for, the rabbits, dogs, and horses require attention. Then it's breakfast time. A stay at Newman's means home-cooked meals in the ranch dining hall where food is served and passed, family style.

As the day progresses, you may see hay being cured and stacked as it is done only in this part of the country. You will be within a few miles of some of the world's largest livestock auctions where the famous Sand Hills cattle go to market.

The scent of newly mown prairie hay permeates the field as afternoon wears on into evening. Some guests like to help with haying. Tractors toil across broad expanses, stripping them of their deep carpet. Machines growl as they pile acres of hay into neat stacks ready for winter. In season, visitors may help round up cattle, brand, and vaccinate them. The smooth motion of horses and cattle, the bite of trail dust, the bawling of calves, all combine to bring back a day when modern equipment and methods were a thing of the future. Eager amateur cowboys lend their assistance in handling sleek beeves.

With evening comes a good kind of tiredness that follows a hard day's work, filled with concrete accomplishments — so often invisible in a more "civilized" setting. Another hearty family-style meal prepares everyone for a cool evening contentedly watching a magnificent Sand Hills sunset slip away. And after dark, sleep comes like a quiet stranger, sweeping away all frustrations.

But all vacations at Newman's are not hard work. For anyone who wants a rest, there is plenty of less strenuous entertainment. There is a fine stable and many acres of open country for trail riding. There are riding lessons for beginners.

Amateur naturalists may roam the hills in search of Sand Hills wildlife. From curlews to killdeer, grouse to meadowlark, native birds flit through the grass, sounding their unique calls. In season there are wild yucca, waxy white flowers with petals that seem to flutter and fall, petals that are really small, white pronuba moths. Rose mallow forms brilliant pinpoints in the grass. Rockhounds may search out the cool blue of Nebraska's gemstone, blue agate, and the pale patterns of jasper, the state rock. Vertebrate fossils and petrified woods record the past for those who search it out.

Even an occasional artifact, such as an arrowhead or a grinding stone, could find its way into a collector's pouch.

Three fine private ponds offer good bass fishing.

Evening might bring an open-fire cook-out featuring freshly caught bass or barbecued beef. Hayrack rides extend hospitality and comradeship into later hours. And a western sing-along around an open fire sparks a never-to-be-forgotten glow of friendship and unity with the out-of-doors.

Newman's also welcomes hunters on the land. The area yields quail, prairie chicken, sharptail grouse, and deer, all in season.

Winter finds Newman's humming with still another sport —snowmobiling. Plenty of open areas are ideal for the flashing snow-time vehicles. Snow sprays from beneath racing runners to sprinkle beside the tracks like glistening powdered sugar.

The ranch has accommodations for t/hree families and several children. Youngsters are boarded in a bunk-house and given excellent care during their visit.

Newman's is almost exclusively a family operation. Their children, ranging from grade-school to college age, help with the ranch work and entertain visiting children. It speaks well for ranch hospitality that many of Newman's guests are repeat visitors, returning year after year to enjoy the retreat's rustic atmosphere. Ranch hands have been hosts to persons from 25 states and 3 foreign countries.

An added feature to ranch hospitality is pick-up service. Guests who come in by bus or by plane can count on one of the Newmans to be waiting at the terminal, ready to provide transportation.

Here is a place where a family can ride horses, put up hay, tend farm pets, milk cows, and fish in a private pond, all in a single day on the same spread.

Another form of Nebraska excitement can be found at Sioux Lookout where Old West history lives in the historical marker and Indian statue erected at the site. Located 2.8 miles west of Fort McPherson National Cemetery on a gravel road, the marker tells the fort's history.

The Indian statue, placed on top of a hill, divides the high tableland between the post and the former Morrow Ranch. From there, the Sioux Indian commands a view of all surrounding country. From there, the Indians observed the movements of immigrants and troops in the area.

From their hilltop vantage point the Indians watched the progress of their Evening hayride recalls a day when life was simpler, friendship deeper own doom. First there was just a trickle of white men, then a deluge. The whole East was going West, sweeping the Indian under carpets like so much unwanted dust.

There was little contact between races, only watchful Indians examining the immigrants. From Sioux Lookout the red men "counted" military detachments and white settlers. Occasionally an immigrant sighted an Indian, peering over the brow of the hill.

Indian activities caused settlers to dub the hill Sioux Lookout. That name has

WEEKEND IN A CANOE

we all had to get out and pull the canoe across a sandbar.

We hadn't been back on the water for long until we got off again. But this time we stopped for a purpose. I knew about a good spot for artifact hunting and on earlier trips had found some interesting items. We walked the recently plowed field, looking for anything unusual. We turned up a scraper and a nice piece of copper that was used for ornamentation, but mostly we had fun thinking about the people who used to live here and how they too must have enjoyed the beauty of the Platte Valley.

Back on the river, we continued downstream, heading almost directly south now, since the Platte makes a hard turn to the right in eastern Nebraska, a detour on its way to the Missouri. It headed east once again when we reached the Interstate 80 bridge. Above us trucks and cars hurried to their destinations but we casually canoed on our way. We had left the hustle and bustle of the highway behind for different transportation.

By late evening our goal was in sight. We had made arrangements to "takeout" at Louisville Lakes State Recreation Area. The bridge ahead meant we were almost there.

Whenever we need a change of pace from ordinary routines, we often rely on a canoe to whisk us away. Our two-day trip covered about 50 miles, but we were transported far beyond to a world of relaxation. We had seen people, yet we had found solitude. We were refreshed by the cleansing spirit of spring.

It won't be long until we cruise down the river again. THE END

MEMORIES IN WALNUT

wife would soon be delivering their second child and that he wished to be at her side.

Edgar, Carlos, and I sat down and after some discussion decided that it would be best if they both returned to their families. December had been a hard month for Carlos because he too had been very homesick. I got their tickets and on New Year's Day they boarded a jet at Omaha. The next day they were back with their families in Ecuador.

We received a letter from Edgar and Carlos in the mail soon after. They feel that they owe a great debt to the people they met in Nebraska.

Meanwhile they're busily sculpturing their impressions of Nebraska in South American walnut. When they return they will bring these carvings with them to add to the ones they left at our ranch.

We are remodeling our barn into an art gallery. When it's finished we will find a suitable place for "The Hunter" first, and then all the other sculptures that are important to us for the pleasant memories they bring back about our South American friends. THE END

WAY-OUT WAYSIDES

Peace and quiet dominate remote camping sites

POCKETS OF ISOLATION, for much of the season, lie empty under the summer sun, waiting for the camper who wants to get away from the crowd. Some snuggle against the gently lapping water of a Sand Hills lake, surrounded by a sea of emerald grass. Some are tucked against the shoulder of a towering bluff beneath canopies of oak and cedar. Others bask in open country under the friendly shade of cottonwoods, with a gurgling river only yards away. Their only visitors are the occasional fisherman who parks his car for a few hours while he wets a line, or a local family which enjoys a picnic supper.

Officially, these little-used areas are among the nearly 70 wayside and recreation areas listed in the NEBRASKAland Camper's Guide. They are bypassed by most campers 60 because they are off the beaten trails that lead to more sophisticated spots like Two Rivers, Lewis and Clark, or Lake Ogallala. Yet, they offer the camping buff bonus benefits which he could never enjoy at grounds used more extensively. His tent or trailer may be alone along a mile of shoreline. There's room for the kids and the family dog to race around, with-out annoying the neighbor who pulled out of the city to avoid family dogs and racing kids.

At spots like Rat and Beaver lakes, southwest of Valentine, myriad shore and water birds scurry back and forth throughout the daylight hours. Muskrats chew tender shoots among the beds of cattails, and at dusk a coyote may run the rim of a Sand Hill. This and other wildlife can be observed at relatively close range by anyone with the patience to NEBRASKAland choose a comfortable position and stand motionless for a while.

Typical Sand Hills lake campgrounds lack wood for fuel, so the camper must furnish his own camp stove, or carry charcoal briquettes. Water pumps and sanitary facilities are present at some, although electricity is not. They are miles from a store of any kind, and it may be five miles or more to the nearest telephone, which will likely be in the home of a friendly rancher. Those who use pickups with camper bodies, or regular camper vehicles, will fare best in negotiating the trails through the hills. Towed campers can be taken, providing the car has plenty of power and the trailer is small. Take along a good shovel, for a car can bog down in loose sand.

Check the north-central portion of the NEBRASKAland road map to find other recreation areas of the open-country type. Goose Lake, in southern Holt County, boasts a campground protected by a beautiful stand of giant cottonwoods, and at Long Lake, you are camping near the headwaters of the Calamus river.

For those who prefer more rugged scenery, the Gilbert Baker Recreation JULY 1970 Area, north of Harrison, offers a campground deep in a wooded glen. Plenty of fuel and water are available. A little stream babbles musically by the tent sites, and if you are quiet you may see wild turkey or deer slipping through the shadows. Hikers can take off along the many game trails in the feeder canyons, and visit such places as the Devil's Den, the old Sidney-Deadwood stage road, or climb the many buttes that tower above the ponderosa. A growing number of people are discovering this beautiful spot. But even so, weekdays find it nearly empty.

To the south of Gering, where Nebraska Highway 71 slashes through the heart of the Wildcat Range, there is a similar area. Traffic on the nearby highways makes this area one of the least isolated. However, the campground is divided into a number of segments and the illusion of isolation is effectively maintained. It is ideal for those who feel more comfortable close to civilization.

South and east of the Wildcats, mighty Lake McConaughy gleams like a blue jewel. Well over a hundred miles of shoreline, soft sand beaches, and rolling hills surround it. The two state-operated camping areas on the north side of the lake are not for those who dislike company, but the self-sufficient camper in search of solitude can lose himself in the countless coves along the north shore. In a few cases, he can lay sole claim to a cotton wood or willow grove beside one of the access roads that penetrate the area. He will be undisturbed except for an occasional passing car, if he avoids the spots where fishermen put in their boats. If a few neighbors can be tolerated for a night or two, the Otter Creek area is seldom overcrowded.

Dropping down to Dundy County in the extreme southwestern part of the state, the Rock Creek grounds are just north of the hamlet called Parks. It is possible to pitch your tent, stand in its doorway, and catch enough bass for supper. The Rock Creek Fish Hatchery is a point of interest.

Off Nebraska Highway 21, south of Cozad, Gallagher Canyon shelters another pocket of isolation. Facilities here are limited, but the air is clean and fresh, and it isn't far to Johnson Reservoir and its wayside area.

Nebraska's greenest gem of isolation is probably the spot just south of Broken Bow. The Pressey Recreation Area sprawls along the shore of the South Loup River. Deer trails crisscross the almost lawnlike grass beneath the willows, and bold, multicolored cock pheasants flash in the fencerows. The rat-tat-tatting of red-headed woodpeckers, who seem to have some kind of monopoly on this particular area, is a common sound. Situated in the heart of the farming country, the area has the charm and fascination of an old-fashioned woodlot. One almost expects to hear the ring of an axe against a tree, or see a barefoot boy with fishing rod and dog go trudging by.

These pockets of isolation, and many more, are waiting, ready to provide quiet and solitude, lazy relaxation, and a renewal of the spirit. Discovery is up to the individual. They are waiting to be discovered by the adventurous camper who is not afraid to leave the blacktop and concrete to seek them out. THE END

Roundup and What to do

This independence month erupts in a vari-color burst of fun in the sun from rodeos to races

WITH SUNTAN lotion, sandals, watermelons, and picnics, a new month streaks into NEBRASKAland like a Fourth of July rocket. No matter what part of the state you're in, there's always a picnic, fireworks display, watermelon feed, parade, or barbecue to attend. But sandwiched between action events like rodeos and powwows are quiet hours of plain relaxation.

On hand to enjoy these summer activities is Becky Knipe of Auburn, NEBRASKAland's July hostess. Daughter of Mr. and Mrs. William J. Knipe, Becky attended Auburn High School. .

She is now a junior studying speech pathology and audiology at the University of Nebraska in Lincoln. Upon graduation she plans to teach in a public school as a speech therapist.

Besides her school work, Becky is an active Pi Beta Phi. She is on the executive council of Malone Center and a member of Gamma Alpha Chi honorary. Among her honors she lists her present title, Miss University of Nebraska. She is the Sweetheart of Sigma Chi and a candidate for Cornhusker Queen.

In her spare time Becky writes nonfiction magazine articles, rides horseback, and reads. And there's no more comfortable place to read than a hammock 62 in cool, Nebraska shade. Add a little water and the scene is complete.

Fishing tackle, boats, and water skis will earn their keep when outdoor-recreation seekers by the hundreds converge on the state's lakes and rivers. A cold stream and a grassy, shaded spot provide respite from the dozens of rollicking celebrations from rodeos to racing.

July is Nebraska's rodeo month, with nine major competitions slated. Among these are high school and Fourth of July rodeos. The National Champion Steer Roping Contest in Ogallala on July 19 will draw the top 25 to 35 ropers in the country. Between contestants, girls' barrel racing will take up the slack. Both events depend upon well-trained, intelligent animals, and skilled, rapidly reacting individuals.

Starting July 8, horse racing will reign in Lincoln and continue through August 8.

The Yutan frog-jumping rodeo will wind up two days of celebration on July 19. There, for two days, contestants from surrounding counties and all over the country will display their immortalized skill, that of jumping. Nebraska's own Admiral Knobby, the official state jumping frog, will be there to uphold his reputation. Last year the Strategic Air Command imported a frog and it is hoped that the command will again have an entry. On the main street of Yutan, the spirit of Mark Twain will again walk as the famous contest is revived.

To relieve the tension of competition, the expected 5,000 or more spectators may visit the traveling carnival scheduled to be in Yutan the same day. This metropolis welcomes all comers.

Metal clangs on metal. No, it's not an old-time blacksmith shop. It's a four-state horseshoe tournament at Falls City on July 5. Horseshoe champions from Missouri, Iowa, Nebraska, and Kansas will compete for top honors in another old-fashioned kind of sport. Horseshoe pitching begins at 8 a.m. and continues on Falls City's 16 courts until a winner is chosen from 100 or so contestants.

The color and costumes of the old days will come to life at Winnebago this month with the annual powwow. Traditional music and dances will combine with a flash of feathers to revive old rituals.

An intricate system of cultural values, religious aspirations, and moral codes is hidden in the days of spirited dancing and chanting. Each maneuver in the ceremonial pantomime and each bead in the ceremonial dress has significance in the involved civilization of the early Indian.

Nebraska hosts more up-to-date activities. The Jaycees in Valentine will sponsor a demolition derby along with their other Fourth of July activities. In York on July 12, boys between the ages of 11 and 15 will race their entries in the soap box derby. The contest is preliminary to the national meet, so young men entered in the Gravity Grand Prix of York will be giving their all.

In other parts of the state, family get-togethers and community fun fests will be resurrected in July. There will be innumberable Fourth of July celebrations, including the Stuart extravaganza. Starting with a parade, the day will feature old-fashioned fun all day long. There will be three-legged races, horseshoe pitching, an old-time fiddlers' contest, fireworks, and picnic dinners. Lyons will host a fireworks display and fish fry.

In July as in all other months, Nebraskans show their independence with a riot of activities both cool and sizzling.

RASCAL RANCHER

build one of the largest ranches around. Sheep from ranches in Idaho, Montana, Utah, Wyoming, and Oregon were shipped to the central-Nebraska spread to be fattened and readied for market during the winter. What had been the Anderson house was expanded to bunk about 45 employees besides serving as the nerve center for the Watson holdings. In a pinch, the house could put up as many as 75 people without too much trouble. A gigantic dairy barn, billed as the world's largest, was erected atop a ridge near the house. Estimates of size vary, but some said the barn was 500 feet long, 100 feet wide, and 56 feet high at the peak of the roof. More than 400 dairy cows could be housed at one time, with stanchions to limit animal movement during milking. Almost from the start, the ranch became a point of interest along U.S. Highway 30, five miles west of Kearney. One hand was kept busy full time just conducting tours through the premises.

About the same time, Watson discovered that his ranch lay exactly half way between Boston and San Francisco. Partly as a drawing card, the name was changed from "Watson Ranch" to "1733 Ranch" because a drive of 1,733 miles in either direction would put the traveler in one of the two cities. The new name was to become a watchword among both travelers and agriculturists around the world.

Perhaps because of his eastern heritage, Watson was enthralled with trees. His affinity ran to such an extent that he was reported to have planted some 35,000 seedlings on his land. Of these, 5,000 were cherry trees, 4,000 bore plums, 3,000 were apple trees, and other products ranged from peaches to currants to raspberries and blackberries. Besides fruit trees, Watson brought in

All in all, it looked like H. D. Watson was on his way to becoming one of the biggest men in Nebraska. He owned one of the state's largest and most prominent ranches. His holdings were a showplace of agriculture. And, visitors from around the world beat a path to the Watson door. Along with his success came vanity. As the years wore on, they took their toll. Watson lost his teeth. But replacing them with dentures was out of the question. Instead, he cultivated his side beards, letting them grow into flowing brush along the sides of his face. Besides covering his sunken cheeks, the whiskers became a trademark —as did his attire. If he ever wore anything other than a black Stetson, black suit, black string lie, and white shirt, no one ever seemed to notice. His appearance was a mark of his success. And only that was to survive the downward spiral of the 1733 Ranch.

By the early years of the 20th Century, Watson was walking the slender thread of achievement, but within a few short years, that thread snapped, plummeting H. D. onto the rocks of hard times. The ranch slipped away bit by bit, other investors taking over its management. And, though no one seemed to know why, its image became more obscure in circles where it had once been at the top of the list. But, if the ranch were dying, H. D. Watson was not.

An eastern magazine, Country Life In America with offices in Chicago and New York, found out about Watson and his "empire." He meant a good story for them and they had no idea that he was financially embarrassed and out of business. The editors assigned reporter Gene Stratton Porter, authoress, to cover the Watson spread. If they made a mistake at all, however, it was telling H. D. that she was on her way ahead of time.

Accustomed to playing the role of a big promoter, the Kearneyite wasn't about to let such an opportunity pass him by. Renting an elaborate rig and a pair of prancing black horses, he arrived at the Kearney railroad depot to meet his guest. Immaculate in his usual black uniform, even though there may have been no back to the shirt under his coat, he cut quite a handsome figure. Mrs. Porter was visibly impressed by the man with the flowing side whiskers and smooth talk as they set out to tour his "holdings". H. D. was about as cooperative as anyone could be. He showed the reporter his best field —it belonged to the State Industrial School. She photographed it avidly.* He pointed out his celery farm —it belonged to the Black family and was on an island in the Platte River, miles from H. D.'s former holdings. She took picture after picture. He took her to the ranch home — it belonged to George W. Frank. She took notes with a vengeance. He even stopped at his ranch manager's house —it belonged to another farmer named Juan Boyle. She continued with her notes and pictures.

The glowing report that followed in the January 1907 issue of Country Life in America was like touching off a powder keg in the middle of an ammunition dump. Watson's "tenants" and "hired help" just wouldn't hold still for his hoax. Letters poured into the magazine, explaining what had taken place. A lawsuit for defamation of the lady journalist's character was filed. Whatever happened never came to light. Some say H. D. paid for the damages to Mrs. Porter's reputation, but that is pretty unlikely since he had no money. Still, the salty old promoter probably got quite a kick out of what he had pulled. And, if the incident had any effect on him, it was probably only to re-enforce his lifestyle.

For several years, H. D. Watson stayed alive, spiritually if not physically, by spouting the Bible, which he knew by heart, and preying on acquaintances for repayment of favors he had bestowed over the years. Some said he mellowed in his later years, but those who knew him never accepted the fact. It was hard to imagine a man like H. D. Watson mellowing. But, believe it or not, when his death came in 1927, it was unbefitting for a man of his temperament —it came quietly and without much notice.

Watson land became a focal point for registered cattle, while he was still alive, though it was under new management. And in 1925 it was converted to the 1733 Amusement Park. The park featured a dance pavilion in the huge ranch house with a swimming pool on the grounds. Games for children and relaxation for adults kept the ranch that Watson built alive. But, with his death the ranch died.

Land was subdivided and sold. In 1935 the barn was razed and many of the trees destroyed. The legacy of a man subsided. Yet, there will always be a memory of H. D. Watson. With each planting of alfalfa in the fertile valley, he is born again, and so the man who dreamed of giving his fellow men a gift beyond their wildest dreams succeeds beyond his wildest dreams. THE END

OUTDOOR NEBRASKAland of the Air

Outdoor Elsewhere

Diversionary Tactics. A Maine angler was reeling in his third nice rainbow trout of the day when he spotted a raccoon swimming near shore. Suddenly, the fisherman remembered that he left his lunch on a rock around the bend, and raced to rescue it. He soon returned with his lunch all safe and sound, but the ringtail had meanwhile absconded with all three of his fish—Maine

Never Again. An Oklahoma truck driver was on a routine trip when a gray squirrel darted across the road and under his truck. The driver didn't feel any bump nor did he see the squirrel come out. He drove on about three miles before halting for a stop sign. Overcome by curiosity, the driver got out to see what had happened to the squirrel. He finally noticed the little animal wedged between the dual rear wheels. After considerable wriggling and struggling, the squirrel freed himself, obviously convinced he should never do that again —Oklahoma

Caught Short. While returning home from a fruitless day of elk hunting last fall, a disappointed Colorado hunter happened to spot a rabbit scramble over a small hill. The hunter decided that since he didn't score on elk, he might as well try to cash in on any shooting available. So, he parked on the roadside and went in pursuit of the rabbit with a .22 caliber pistol, leaving his elk rifle, a .300 magnum, in the jeep. After venturing about 200 yards from the road, the fellow didn't see hide-nor-hair of the rabbit. Then, suddenly, he came upon about a dozen elk, including a hefty bull. What more can be said? — Colorado.

Unusual Hunting Excursion. Ten minutes before legal shooting time, a California pheasant hunter happened to notice a cock pheasant fly directly into a bridge abutment and drop dead. The fellow couldn't see the bird going to waste so he dutifully waited until legal shooting time, then retrieved the bird. About an hour later, while hunting, the sportsman spotted a wounded ringneck and chased it down on foot to fill out his two bird limit. Shouldering his new shotgun, the hunter went home with a full bag having never fired a shot. — California

Not so Foxy. The wily fox is not infallible. A Wisconsin duck hunter was keeping an eye on his flock of decoys, when he spotted a fox creeping up on a papiermache mallard. The fox got within 10 feet and was still coming. Finally, the hunter and his shotgun put an end to the not-so-clever fox. — Wisconsin

They Flew Away. When a Pennsylvania game warden checked a trio of hunters last fall, they complained that they hadn't shot a single pheasant. The warden expressed his surprise, since the men were in an excellent ringneck area. "Oh sure, we saw a lot of birds in the grass, but every time we tried to take a bead on one he would fly away."—Pennsylvania

A Real Drag. A California hunter bagged a 150-pound, 4-point buck on opening day of the season, but the day turned out to be a real drag. A 6Vfe-hour drag, to be exact. The successful nimrod connected with the trophy at 3 p.m., and after field dressing, started to drag the deer back to camp. He worked long after dark on a tortuous trip through unusually thick brush caused by heavy summer rains. Now that's working for your game.— California

A Double Agent. A Florida sportsman bagged a hefty eight-point buck last season that brought him both smiles and disappointment. It's difficult to understand why the disappointment, until the fellow explained that he was trying to call a turkey . and instead he called the deer. And, the very same thing had happened a few years back to his father who manufactures the turkey call. A little research by the father and son, who hold 10 world-championship turkey-calling titles between them, revealed that at least 4 other turkey-callers have had similar experiences with their product. How's that for a double agent?-Florida

Setting A Fine Example. A well-known New York furrier recently pledged that "because extinction threatens, we pledge no later than December 31, 1970, to no longer buy or sell articles made from these animals: leopard, cheetah, jaguar, ocelot, tiger, polar bear, red wolf, vicuna, Spanish lynx, and sea otter." The company has called for all colleagues in the fur industry to join in observing the pledge.— New York.