For the Record...THE POACHER

Imagine the poor college student living hand to mouth as he scrapes for an education. Scrimp as he may, food bills constantly cut into his available money. So, he thinks, Nebraska has a reputable deer population. For a 25-cent rifle cartridge, he can put meat on the table for the winter. Without further ado, he shoulders his weapon, stomps into the back country and downs the first deer he sees. Said student is fed, Nebraska is one deer short, and everything is status quo. Unless the youth shoots the deer in a zoo or someone's back yard, chances are no one will ever notice the loss. Yet the killing contributes to one of the longest-standing game law violations — poaching.

Before the college students of Nebraska rise to march on the Capitol in protest against the above illustration, let me point out that it is purely hypothetical. Such incidents can, and do become realities amongst members of the younger generation, since they constitute the highest number of violators. In 1969, there were 441 arrests for game law violations in the 16- to 19-year-old category. Yet these youthful offenders are only part of the over-all problem. Their elders often get into the act in a big way too, and with our population growing ever faster, the problem is sure to get worse.

As the population increases, hunting pressure on our wildlife becomes greater. As a result, if one hunter feels he can take more than his legal limit, the species feels the impact. Two hunters of the same frame of mind make a sizable dent in available animals. Several more hunters shooting away at illegal targets may mean that a species is headed for extinction. This applies not only to hunting, but to fishing, where the highest numbers of arrests are recorded. Reverse the trend, allowing a species to increase, and poaching becomes worse than ever.

According to studies conducted by our division of the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission, the amount of poaching encountered is in direct proportion to animal availability.

Basically, there are two kinds of poachers. Let's call one of them the True Poacher and the other the Opportunist. The True Poacher is usually a good hunter and is quite selective about the species he takes, and when and how he takes it. He practically makes a profession of illegal hunting and/or fishing — he is that good. He is usually the type of hunter who has a license, but uses it more as a cover than as a regard for the law.

The Opportunist, on the other hand, is one who may commit an unlawful act on the spur of the moment. He is younger than the True Poacher, for the most part, and he is lazy in his technique. He will take game illegally only if it is available and does not require too much effort. This is the type of poacher who sees nothing wrong with taking more than his legal limit or hunting or fishing without a permit. As the number of Opportunists increases, game populations will probably drop.

The professional poacher is a dying breed since the markets of yesteryear no longer exist. But his modern kin are still among us. We already have adequate regulations to deal with these violators, but what Nebraska needs now is the cooperation of alert citizens and sportsmen. Only with this co-operation can we bring our poaching problem under control.

Speak Up

THANKS-"Each year I look forward to November in Nebraska, during pheasant season.

"So, I would like to thank the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission and the fine farmer friends I have made in south-central and south-eastern Nebraska for some fine pheasant hunting. And, thanks to NEBRASKAland, which I enjoy so much." —Frank C. Farley, Albuquerque, New Mexico.

MUSTANGS - "Toward the end of the last century, my parents moved to Platte Center near Columbus. About the same time, a couple of carloads of mustangs arrived, fresh from the Nevada range. They were in charge of one Jess McKenzie, who guaranteed to break and ride any horse you bought. And break them he did. Jess was a kindly man and very patient with us kids. I shall never forget him.

"Of course, a stockade filled with as ornery a bunch of kicking, biting, snorting horseflesh as was ever penned together was a sensation, especially to us kids. My father took a liking to a bay stallion and bought him. Jess took him to a plowed field, saddled and mounted him. I give Fred, the name we gave the stallion, credit for a valiant try, but in the end he was conquered, trembling like a leaf. Jess had taken all the fight out of him.

"After a number of rides like this my older brother, who was a pretty good horseman, got permission to ride him. With the aid of a very severe bit, he kept 4 Fred pretty well under control. Gradually he tamed down and we younger boys began riding him.

"After all the good horses were sold, there remained a little black mare, so emaciated she could scarcely stand. No one had bid on her for she didn't look as though she would live long. Jess gave her to me and my kid brother. We named her Minnie and lavished all the affectionate care it was possible to give on her. Presently, she began to gain weight, her body sores healed, her coat became glossy and she became a real black beauty. She never showed the slightest sign of meanness and she was our special pet until her accidental death some years later." — Arthur P. Wilson, Millard.

ANTIQUE LOVER-"Let'sthinkcreatively. I would like to accelerate some enthusiasm on antique autos. I know they didn't enter the Nebraska picture until around 1900, but they did play a vital role in fishing and hunting. We visit fairs and parades, and what draws the most interest? It's not boats, trailers, sporting goods, horses, other livestock, or bands, it's antique cars. What do you think of the idea?"-Ellis R. Williams, Grand Island.

TOO GLAMOROUS —"You present some fantastic color in your magazine. But you do miss some beautiful natural color scenes in Nebraska. To me, some of your color is exaggerated. While it is appealing to the eye, it over-exemplifies nature.

"The picture I am enclosing I took on the north hill overlooking Long Pine Creek, about 12 miles north of Long Pine. It is scenic, inviting, and artistic. I say inviting because it is a spot ideal for a camper's retreat.

"Why travel miles to enjoy nature's beauty when it can be found just around the bend in Nebraska?" - Mrs. Helen Anderson, Atkinson.

NOT IN ALASKA —"Just a note concerning When the Wind is Right (February 1970). I trust 'Arctic Circle City, Alaska' and 'Alcan Highway' are author Snow's words, and not Mr. Liska's.

"There is no such city, village, or community as Arctic Circle City in Alaska. The farthest point north to which one can drive a car or cycle in Alaska is Circle City. Those who founded it in the early Gold Rush Days thought they were in the Arctic Circle. It is neither on or above the circle. There is an Arctic Village, but it has no roads.

"The Alcan Highway is a term not found in material written by those who live in or know the north country. Even the Canadians call the road to Alaska The Alaska Highway'." - Lois M. Morey, Riverside, California.

Early accounts of the highway in question refer to it as the Alcan Highway. Circle City, Alaska, is correct. The town can he reached by road and consists of only one building. — Editor.

SPOTLIGHT ON COONS-'There are quite a few hunters throughout Nebraska who own dogs (for coon hunting). We don't have much fun at this sport anymore because of the spotlight hunters. They are out every night to get all the coons with the use of their lights. Then, when a man wants to hunt with his dogs, he has a heck of a time trying to find game.

"I thought that spotlighting was against the law, but around here, if violators get caught, the fine is only $14. The next night they are out doing the same thing again.

"I think it is pretty ridiculous that the State of Nebraska can make a law without enforcing it. There are quite a few hunters who feel the same way I do. The sport of coon hunting is done with dogs, not a spotlight.

"Therefore, I think they should stiffen the fine." —Mike Mack, Grand Island.

The laws of the State of Nebraska are being enforced. The amount of the fine is set by the court, subject to penalty sections of the state statutes. — Editor.

UP WITH ALDRICH-"Being a native of Nebraska until my marriage in 1913, I really enjoy NEBRASKAland Magazine, especially the pictures and stories of pioneers. Stories and experiences of the early days are running out as the older citizens pass on.

"I was quite taken with the picture of the historical marker and accompanying writeup honoring Bess Streeter Aldrich (February 1970). I would like very much to read A Lantern in Her Hand.-Mrs. Willis Rupert, New Waterford, Ohio.

LOVES NEBRASKAland - "My family and I enjoy NEBRASKAland very much. In 1969, we particularly liked the article on William F. Cody, his home, and the wallpaper from his circus days (A Close Look At Buffalo Bill's Showplace, October 1969.)

"We also enjoyed the article and wonderful pictures of the herons (The Regal Heron, September 1969). My 13-year-old twin (Continued on page 14)

HOMEMADE ICE CREAM

What better way to pass a warm summer afternoon?

TAKE A LITTLE cream, a couple of eggs, a few other basic ingredients, and an eager kid. Add an old-fashioned ice cream freezer and mix thoroughly.

What better way to spend a warm summer afternoon? Just prepare your batter and take it outside under a shady tree. Then watch Junior's enthusiasm as he tests his cranking speed.

Mix the sugar and flour; beat the egg yolks until smooth and add them to the dry ingredients. Beat vigorously until all the ingredients are moist, then add the milk and stir thoroughly. Pour this into the top of a double boiler in which water is just bubbling. Cook it, stirring until the mixture has a slightly glazed appearance —about five minutes. Then let it cool. Add the chilled cream and vanilla, then pour the mixture into the chilled can of an ice cream freezer. Fill it only two-thirds to allow room for expansion. This recipe makes three pints.

Although some dairies and supermarkets supply heavy whipping cream, it is sometimes hard to get. There are several substitutes, including evaporated milk.

Many Nebraska families own ice cream freezers, passed down from grandma's day. Those who do, can dig it out to try a new, old-fashioned pastime. Those who don't, may check at local hardware stores where more modern fiberglass varieties are available.

There is a method for using crank-type freezers, and proper use makes the ice cream that much better. First, scald the paddle and cover of the can. Set the chilled, filled can in place, then replace the paddle and cover. Now surround the can with crushed ice and rock salt —one part salt to two parts ice. Place the ice and salt in alternate layers until the freezer tub is three-quarters full. Churn until the mixture thickens and it becomes hard to continue turning the handle.

Drain the melted ice and wipe the cover so that no salt gets into the ice cream. Remove the cover and place waxed paper over the top of the can. Replace the cover and plug the opening in the lid. Fill the tub with ice and salt layers again.

Cover the freezer with canvas and let it ripen three or four hours, replacing the ice and salt mixture when necessary.

In grandma's day, ice was scarce, and time for frivolities even more so. Family reunions and July Fourth celebrations were about the only AUGUST 1970

After the picnic lunch, the kids would take turns cranking the mixture. When it was finished, the youngsters spent the curing period playing while the adults relaxed and discussed the past year's events.

When at last the ice cream was ready, everyone gathered 'round to enjoy the sweet treat —especially Junior, whose muscle-power helped produce it. THE END

BEYOND THE ROPE

SHE WAS a very good swimmer. I remember commenting about the power and grace of her stroke to my 13-year-old son, David, as I lay sunning myself on the swimming beach at Cottonwood Lake near Gavins Point Dam.

The beach was peaceful, not a bit crowded. I recall seeing the teenage girl swimming near the rope that marks the boundary of the swimming area before I drifted off into the reverie that often overcomes sunbathers. As I gave way to my daydreams, I had no idea that this powerful swimmer's life would soon hang in the balance, with only my flailing strokes as a barely average swimmer on her side of the scales.

It was August 20, 1969, and I was on vacation from my job as a member of the Omaha Police Department. I had spent the morning fishing with my wife, Delores, our sons, David, John, Mike, and Bart, and my parents, Ed and Lois Kofoed. My wife and my parents wanted to spend the afternoon the same way, but the boys and I voted for swimming, so we were now at the beach.

As I glanced up, I noticed the girl beyond the roped swimming area, drifting toward the center of the lake. She appeared to be floating with just her head out of the water. She wasn't floundering, so I didn't worry.

But the girl's mother did. The swimmer was Lynda Longacre, then 17, of Alliance. I learned later that she had had open heart surgery two years before. Lynda's mother began shouting to her daughter but got no response. She asked me if I could swim. I said yes, but not very well. She asked me to check on her daughter and, since I was the only one there who could swim, I agreed.

I swam out past the roped area and got to about 20 feet from Lynda. I could see that she was floating on her back with her head in the water, either resting or unconscious. I called to her to ask if she was all right.

With that, her head came up. She started floundering, and shouted: "I've got cramps... can't make it... going down."

She started sinking a few moments before I reached her, and I grabbed her three or four feet under the surface. When I pulled her head out of the water she was unconscious. Now I was faced with the task of swimming the 150 or 200 yards back to shore with the girl in tow.

I made it back into the roped area and suddenly realized I was not as NEBRASKAland

Meanwhile, the people on the beach were taking action. My son John flagged down passing cars in search of another person who could swim. Lynda's mother ran to the girl's father and an uncle who were fishing some distance away.

As I got closer to the beach, a swimmer John had recruited, came out and pulled Lynda to shore, while John and her mother helped me. I was so exhausted I couldn't even stand up in five feet of water.

I collapsed in a heap on the sand. Lynda's father began artificial respiration on the victim. They continued for 20 minutes until a rescue unit, which someone had called, arrived and took her to a hospital. In the AUGUST 1970 emergency room the unspoken fears of the girl's parents were finally relieved. The girl had not suffered from a heart attack, but had been the victim of a severe case of cramps.

After she regained consciousness I talked with her. She remembered nothing. She didn't even recall going beyond the roped area in the water.

Following the incident, Lynda returned to the normal, healthy life she had led since her heart surgery. She graduated from high school this summer. Our families have since become friends, and we keep in touch as much as possible, even though we live at opposite ends of Nebraska. Our family looks forward to seeing the Longacres again, perhaps at our favorite vacation spot at Gavins Point Dam. THE END

NOTES ON NEBRASKA FAUNA. . .

BOBWHITE QUAIL

Entire state boasts these speedsters, though primary range is in southeastern counties

THE BOBWHITE QUAIL is a welcome guest throughout its range in Nebraska. A member of the family Gallinae, Colinus virginianus is a small bird favored by the farmer for its food habits and clear, cheerful call frequently heard in late spring or summer. Sportsmen find this quick-flying, elusive bird a real challenge for the gun, and as a table bird the bobwhite ranks at the top of the list.

Named after the male mating call during the breeding season, the two syllable "bobwhite" echoes across the countryside from late April to early August. A small bird in size, the bobwhite adult measures 9 to 10 inches in length and weighs from 6 1/2 to 8 ounces. Lacking bright coloration, the reddish brown of the bird, mottled with black and white, gives excellent camouflage from its natural enemies. Head coloration separates the sexes, with the male having a white throat and white line over the eye, bordered by black. On the female, the throat and eye-line are buff-colored, bordered with reddish brown.

Early records show the bobwhite present in Nebraska prior to early settlement. They were confined to the drainage systems in the south-eastern part of the state. Scattered populations were also reported along the Elkhorn and Missouri River drainages in northeast Nebraska as well as the Platte and Republican rivers in the south-central part of the state. Some market hunting of quail did occur prior to 1900.

The quail population increased during early settlement years due to the breaking up of the prairie and the planting of grain crops and trees. Around 1900 there was a sharp decline in the quail population, and it was not until the 1940's that a major increase in the population was reported.

Currently, bobwhite quail are found along all the major drainage systems in the state. However, in the western and northern regions they are limited in numbers and are confined specifically to the woody stream banks along the Platte and Niobrara rivers. The major quail range is found in the 10 most southeastern counties.

Bobwhite quail are monogamous. Mate selection takes place early in the spring, and each pair selects a mating territory. Once quail are mated they remain together for the nesting season.

Nesting begins in early May. The average nest contains 14 eggs which hatch after 23 days of incubation. The nest is generally located in undisturbed grass remaining from the previous year's growth. The canopy 12 protects the nest from predators and light rain.

Should the nest be destroyed prior to hatching, the hen will generally nest again in a new site. Quail hatched after the middle of July are products of a renesting attempt. Some quail hatch as late as the first of October.

Quail chicks are the size of bumble bees when hatched, but grow rapidly. They leave the nest as soon as the natal down is dry. Within 10 to 14 days they are capable of short flight, and by the time they are 6 to 7 weeks old they are independent of their parents.

Although they no longer require protection from their parents, quail remain in a group called coveys. As summer progresses into fall, broods will come together in suitable habitat areas and by the time winter arrives some coveys will contain young birds from several different nests.

Preferred winter quarters for a covey of quail in Nebraska is a woody creek bottom, hedgerow, or shelterbelt, in close proximity to a grain field of corn or milo. Grass areas should also be available for night roosting. The evening roost of the bobwhite is unique in that the covey forms a circle, sitting side by side with heads facing outward. The roosting behavior provides warmth on cold winter nights, as well as a fast, scattered escape for the birds should a predator locate the roost site. The explosion of a covey of quail from a roost has a startling effect on the intruder, and by the time the shock wears off the quail are well out of reach and on their way to safety.

Being on the northwest corner of the bobwhite range, Nebraska's quail populations tend to fluctuate considerably. The extreme south-eastern counties maintain the best quail population. Fluctuations are not as extreme in this area although a severe winter will reduce the population as much as 50 percent.

Quail populations throughout the remainder of the state will grow rapidly with several consecutive years of mild winters. During these years, quail will spread out from the major river systems and occupy areas where they are not able to survive even normal winter storms. Should a severe winter occur when the population has spread into this marginal habitat, losses will be great.

Quail are short-lived birds. Even in areas where hunting is prohibited, there is an 80 percent annual mortality rate. The reproductive capacity is so great that quail continually produce more young than there is room for. It is possible therefore to harvest a portion of this surplus with a hunting season. Hunting simply removes quail from the population that would normally be lost to other natural factors.

The food of the bobwhite makes him a friend of the farmer. His summer diet consists of many harmful insects and unwanted weed seeds. Fall and winter foods are comprised of mainly weed seeds and small grains. A high-protein diet is required to maintain quail through Nebraska's winters.

The bobwhite quail has been an important part of NEBRASKAland fauna for many years, and as long as woody cover, grass, and grain fields remain in proper balance, he will continue to thrive. THE END

SPEAK UP

STUHR MUSEUM

TWO-LAKE WEEKEND

by Fred Kudym as told to NEBRASKAland

MY NINE-YEAR-OLD SON Gary screamed: "I got one!"

We all stopped fishing and watched as he worked the fish in and lifted it into the boat.

"A crappie," Gary announced, as he unhooked the seven-inch scrapper.

"How deep were you fishing?" Linda asked, as she watched Gary slip another worm on his hook. My daughter Linda is 17 and has discovered boys, but she still enjoys a weekend outing with the family once in awhile.

Moments later, Linda and my wife Ruth hooked fish almost simultaneously. As the ladies eased their fish into the boat Gary recorded his second strike, another panfish the same size as his first.

"What's wrong with you Dad?" Gary chided as he played the crappie.

I answered with a grin, "Must not be holding my mouth right."

The date was May 23, 1970, and the place was Pawnee Lake, 3 1/2 miles northwest of Emerald.

I sell insurance in Omaha when I'm not able to get away hunting, fishing, or camping. We had driven to Pawnee from our home in Omaha Saturday afternoon. A week of summer-like weather had whetted our camping appetite. Despite a Friday night thunderstorm, we decided to make a weekend of it. Apparently we weren't the only ones affected by the weather, for the Pawnee camping areas were filled to capacity.

Gary is the "fishing fool" in our family. As soon as we arrived at the campground he was ready to wet a line. I had to do some quick talking to get him to help set up camp and relax for a couple of hours. By late afternoon there was no holding Gary back, so we all loaded the boat for a little fishing before dinner. Within minutes we were into the crappie, a hundred yards off the shore in a deep-water weedbed. Gary had been watching the lake during the afternoon and had noticed a cluster of boats around the weeds, which made it a natural starting point.

We all rigged with worms and I was somewhat surprised when the crappie started hitting, knowing their natural preference for minnows. After receiving a little kidding from Gary, I too began scoring on the pan-size scrappers. Each cast was exciting, for we all knew that Pawnee holds some big northern pike, walleye, and largemouth bass as well as panfish, catfish, and bullhead. The big ones weren't biting but the crappie kept us all busy until our stomachs told us it was time to head in for supper.

Waiting for the charcoal to start was a real test of patience, but soon Ruth was dropping the steaks onto the grill. It's a good thing Linda, Ruth, and I all like AUGUST 1970

After the meal we all settled back to relax and enjoy the view. The evening star shone brilliantly in the east and a cool breeze blew off the 740-acre lake. Pawnee is the second largest and one of the most highly developed of the 12 Salt Valley lakes. In addition to fine fishing, the 1,924-acre recreation area offers boating, water skiing, picnicking, two camping areas, swimming beaches, and hunting in season. Somewhat unique to a public recreation area are Pawnee's trap-shooting range, 300-acre dog training area and "green thumb" area where anybody can try his hand at growing things. Over the years, these plantings of trees, shrubs, and what-have-you will be very beneficial to the wildlife populations using the area.

It wasn't long after dark when the big meal and day's activities took their toll. Ruth and the kids decided to call it a day. I decided to try a little night fishing for bullhead and catfish before turning in. The dam area seemed like a likely place to try, so I drove to the south end of the lake.

"At least I'm not alone out here," I thought to myself as I pulled into the parking lot. A dozen or more 18

"Doing any good?" I asked the first fisherman I encountered as I hiked down the narrow trail along the dam. He said not yet, "but I got a six-pounder a couple of nights ago, and there are bigger ones in here."

Encouraged, I hiked a hundred yards down the dam before stopping. Moments later my white-gas lantern was emitting a circle of white light. I rigged my line with two hooks, baiting one with a minnow and the other with a nightcrawler. The rig made a resounding plunk as it settled into the darkness of the lake and I sat down to wait. Only the waves lapping the rocks broke the silence and the stars shown brilliantly overhead. A storm was building far to the west and the occasional flashes of lightning seemed to illuminate the entire lake. It was hard to believe that Lincoln was less than 10 miles away. The bustle of Omaha seemed not 60, but a million miles away.

The vibrating rod tip suddenly brought me back to reality. Easing the rod into position, I set the hook. Seconds later the glow of the lantern revealed a 10-inch bullhead. Unhooking him carefully, I slipped him back into the water.

"The next one will be a big cat," I thought as I put another nightcrawler on the hook.

Easing into my waiting position, I thought how lucky the people of eastern Nebraska were to have the Salt Valley system of lakes. Several hundred persons were in the camping area and many more had enjoyed the area during the day for boating, swimming and fishing. It had been only a few years previous when the Salt Valley streams had poured out of their banks each spring, causing serious flood damage. Now they were providing recreation for hundreds of people. The recreational value of the Salt Valley lakes made me consider the potential of the Papio Creek Watershed near Omaha. Papio Creek floods nearly every year, much as Salt Creek used to. However, the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers is planning a series of 21 flood-control empoundments similar to the Salt Creek reservoirs. The result could be a real boon to Omaha area sportsmen.

Two more bullhead and an hour later I decided to head for camp. We were planning to fish at Branched Oak, another of the Salt Valley reservoirs, in the morning and I knew that 6 a.m. would come all too soon.

The coffee pot was bubbling vigorously when I returned to camp the next morning after loading the boat. - "Let's get going," Linda said as she and Gary loaded the fishing gear into the car.

After a quick breakfast we headed north to Malcolm and Branched Oak Lake. As president of the Omaha Fish and Wildlife Club, I heard great reports about the fishing at Branched Oak from other members of the club. The sun was already high in the eastern sky when we topped the rise north of Malcolm and looked out over the lake. Rafts of ducks dotted the calm water.

"Wow, it's big!" Gary exclaimed as I started down the hill and around the lake to the boat ramp on the north side. Branched Oak was the last of the Salt Valley empoundments to be constructed and is still under development. It is also the largest of the recreation areas, covering 4,772 acres, including the 1,800-acre lake. Camping is not yet allowed, which is why we had set up at Pawnee.

"Is this the place where they were catching all the bass a few weeks ago?" Gary asked as we loaded our AUGUST 1970 variety of gear for several kinds of game fish into the boat. "This is it," I answered. Motorboats aren't allowed on Branched Oak at present, so I pulled hard on the oars, heading for a cove west of the boat ramp. "What are you going to try?" Ruth asked Linda as we rounded the point. "I think I'll stick with worms," Linda said. "Me, too," Gary chimed in. "They worked well yesterday so maybe they'll be just as good today." "Guess maybe you're right," Ruth answered, also slipping a nightcrawler on her hook.

The kids had their lines in before the anchor touched bottom. We were about 60 yards out, so I

Sure enough, weaving in and out of the rushes just a few feet from shore were a big drake and hen mallard. Linda was the first to score. Her line was suddenly taut as the fish made a fast run away from the boat, ending her scrutiny of the ducks. "It feels like a good one," she said, taking up the slack line quickly (Continued on page 57)

MEANT TO RACE

Speed becomes a way of life for young Kearney man on the move

HENRY FORD WOULD probably flop over in his grave at the thought, but it's a safe bet that as soon as two of his products hit the road, the new owners squared off in a test of speed. So was born a distinct class in the American society— the drag racer. Until just a decade or so ago, the popular conception was that these straightaway speedsters were long-haired, sub-standard Neanderthals with transmissions for minds and gear grease coarsing through their veins. Those in the sport, however, found such a property-value-lowering image uncomfortable and launched an all-out campaign to change their status. Generally, their drive has been a fantastic success.

To talk to Lorin Downing of Kearney, he seems just as normal as the boy next door. In fact, he is the boy next door, and the husband of Kay, and the father of Robbie, 3 1/2. He is soft-spoken, polite, intelligent, and, together with his father, runs a laundry. The only thing he might have going against him is that he loves speed and cars. At 28, he is a drag racer — a very good one.

For Downing, the whole thing started in 1959. The well-known epidemic of motor madness felled him much earlier, as it had hit nearly every American youth from age 12 on. But Lorin was more fortunate than many. There was a drag strip nearby. In Grand Island, he could watch the cars of his dreams. Watching soon proved not enough, however, and he was ready to try his hand at the sport. As Lorin put it, "It's something you watch for a while and then decide you just have to try." And try he did. His 1950 Oldsmobile may not have been the fastest thing on the track to many, but to Downing, it was a ticket to drag racing history. Majority opinion won.

"I didn't win a thing," he said. And, since drag racing costs money and requires a car that can at least start to keep up with the pack, Lorin headed back to Kearney and two years of watching instead of doing. His second assault on speed came in 1961. Decked out in a 1960 Corvette, probably the hottest piece of machinery on the (Continued on page 55)

CEDAR CANYON

Mother Nature's handiwork thorugh the ages created this colorful slash of beauty, a tribute to tranquility

DESIGNED BY THE Supreme Architect and engineered by nature's whim, Cedar Canyon slashes Pine Ridge as a tribute to beauty and tranquility. Towering walls create a cathedral-like atmosphere as they fall away to merge with the tabletop flatness of Oglala National Grasslands northwest of Crawford. Yet the heart of Cedar Canyon, the vital organs of aboriginal solemnity, evokes from man a wonderment he might otherwise never have known.

In terms of bulk and time, man is but an infant here. Dwarfed by sheer cliffs rising above him, his lifespan is only a moment in the eons of Cedar Canyon's creation and development. It is infinity personified in the midst of man's fatality. Yet there is the seed and the spawn of life nestled between boulders, splayed on shifting sand, and perched atop spiralling pinnacles.

A tiny cedar, from whose kin the canyon takes its name, ekes out its meager existence on a rock-encrusted ridge. An elder of its species casts gnarled, weathered branches toward a life-giving sun. Exposed roots snake over the canyon rim like tentacles of a landlocked octopus, searching for a hold on its precarious perch. Inanimate yet alive, cedars of such persuasion seemingly crawl the pinnacles and depressions of the canyon, denizens of some forgotten age.

Locked in the grip of a changing land, Cedar Canyon is at the mercy of that change. Azure skies and brilliant sun cast fleeting shadows across its barren upper reaches. Gentle breezes play along the cradled floor, rustling through a forest of cedars near the canyon mouth. But in what seems an instant, nature changes her mood. Clouds shroud the skies, threatening in their density. Intermittent raindrops become a torrent as clay dust becomes a slippery coating for rock and sand. But the downpour is short-lived. Clouds part and the shower moves on. But its impact will be felt forever, for each shower and each gust of wind tears away a part of the land. The complexion of Cedar Canyon is changed once more, though the change simply adds to the mystery and beauty.

Though man is becoming more and more common here, his technology is still a stranger. Automobiles are useless in an assault on the canyon, though a road approaches its base. From there, travel is a challenge to one's stamina or an invigorating stroll. The choice lies with the visitor. Indian trails lace the canyon walls, allowing relatively easy access to the dizzying heights above. Or, for the strong in spirit and body, precipitous walls offer a rock climber's delight. Rope and piton are as necessary to the ascent as desire and ability. But the end justifies the means as climber or stroller gains the majestic heights of the canyon rim.

Sprawled below are the twisting, turning fingers of the many facets of Cedar Canyon. At first, the terrain is barren, rising sharply to break away into miniature canyons and trailing into the tree-studded lower reaches. As the canyon drops, trees become more and more dense, then thin out near the mouth. From 24

Cedar Canyon is seen from neither the top nor the bottom. One must walk the floor and walls, examining unique shades and formations that line the canyon. To reach the top and to say the canyon has been seen is to deny the pleasure of adventure. One must become a part of the canyon to appreciate its majesty. One must taste the delights of color and scale before passing judgment on a changing land. It is something that must be experienced to be enjoyed. And in striking harmony with Cedar Canyon, one finds an understanding and love of the beauty of NEBRASKAland that might otherwise go unnoticed. THE END

. . . AND THEN THERE WERE SIX

There were seven wild boars hiding somewhere in the brush

ALTHOUGH A LITTLE warm, it was a great day for a wild boar hunt. The sky was about half full of large, white, puffy clouds. The sun was shining brightly when it wasn't behind the clouds, and there was just enough breeze to make the 70-degree temperature comfortable.

Our boar hunt was not in some far-off place like the Fiji Islands, although that is where the boars originally came from. We were going to stalk the big, grunting beasts on a Nebraska farm just a few miles from Niobrara. Wild boars are not regular fare on the hunting bill for NEBRASKAland, but those of us taking part certainly looked forward to the event with great anticipation — partly because we had no idea of what to expect from the critters.

Alex Liska, formerly of Niobrara and now of Wayne, was the host for the "wild" affair. He had acquired several Fiji Island wild boars several years ago after a couple of universities gave up experimenting on the animals. Eight of the boars had reached full size, but rather than round them up to butcher them like other hogs, he decided to turn some hunters loose on them. Now, wild boars are considered to be pretty tough and dangerous foes wherever they are hunted, and the old spear method has mostly been given up in favor of modern firearms or at least a powerful longbow. Distance is something you like to keep between you and the boar, it seems.

When I got the nod to do the boar hunt for NEBRASKAland, I expected only to tag along to watch the proceedings. But, I didn't know how gentlemanly and good-humored a group would be participating. We met in the morning at Ervin Jerman's place in Niobrara. There were 13 of us. Only four or five of the men were equipped with weapons, which included one (Continued on page 54)

POPCORN HERITAGE

Counted among Nebraska's oldest celebrations, North Loup festival is one of contented munching

THE YEAR WAS 1901. Citizens of North Loup, in central Nebraska, were staging one of the most unusual festivals in the nation — free popcorn was distributed to the hungry throngs gathered to enjoy two days of contests, games, and other merry goings-on.

So well received was the affair that it became an annual event in the town, so that now it is three days long and is one of the oldest celebrations in the state, if not the oldest, and also one of the most enjoyable. North Loup's annual Popcorn Days is the occasion when many people take their vacations from work so they can attend. Former residents of the community return each year, often bringing friends with them. And, each year the local population of about 500 is swelled ever greater as word reaches farther afield.

During the three days of the 1969 festival, 25,000 bags of hot, buttered popcorn were crunched up by residents and visitors. This represented 1,500 pounds of corn, over 40 gallons of coconut oil, 32 pounds of butter, and many pounds of seasoned salt. All of these ingredients are donated, which enables the celebration to still be put on free of charge, despite the many economic changes that have taken place in the past 70 years.

Formerly known as the popcorn capital of the United States, North Loup is still a major area of production. An estimated 7,000,000 pounds of popcorn were grown on about 2,500 acres in the immediate area in 1969. That's a sizable amount, but was down from 1966 when roughly 12 1/2 million bushels were harvested.

Possibly the first popcorn grown in Nebraska was on a farm near North Loup. Regardless of where that distinction lies, North Loup has certainly made a tremendous effort to make people popcorn conscious. After chewing up several bags of the tasty free corn, many people make a point of stocking up on the stuff. That is easy to do because the donor of the corn, the Blevins Popcorn Company, operates an elevator in North Loup and has packages from five pounds up available. The Milk Haulers' Association provided free butter, and even the gas to make the corn go "pop" was furnished free by the Kansas-Nebraska Natural Gas Company.

This co-operation by the various firms involved, as well as the many hours of devoted work by local citizens, is what makes Popcorn Days the tremendous success that it is. Free entertainment is also a big part of the affair, with money to bring in talent raised by the sale of 30

Any one of the three days of the traditional event is worthy of a long drive. There are horse shows, parades, games, music, dances, exhibits, carnivals, and much more. One of the biggest events is the horse-shoe-pitching contest, which attracts top throwers from the state. Competition is keen and facilities excellent, yet there is a relaxed atmosphere on AUGUST 1970 the grounds because the players are usually carrying popcorn sacks.

A queen contest has been an integral part of the celebration since 1925, and the 1969 queen, Debbie Edwards, carried on the tradition beautifully. She and her seven princesses rode a parade float and graced other activities by their attendance.

Popcorn Days is as interesting historically as it is fun. Several people who witnessed the first event still attend, and others have missed only one or two years in the 70-odd

MYSTERIOUS MESSENGER

Ancient soddy fires imagination as 14-year-old boy is introduced to the things that go bump in the night

WHILE THE LAST rays of a cold February sun were rapidly vanishing in the western sky, I was sitting near a large cottonwood, which was part of the shelterbelt around four house on the farm where my parents homesteaded in 1904. It was near Ravenna.

By this time tomorrow I would be on my way To our new home in Grand Island. My folks were moving to the city after a goodly number of years on the farm. Being a 14-year-old boy at the time, I was naturally harboring thoughts of regret at having to leave my familiar surroundings, for I had spent many happy days here.

I stayed close to my faithful pal Dandy, a huge Great Dane, as darkness slowly overtook the sunset. While I stood there, dreading the next day, my gaze wandered up a hill to an old soddy, silhouetted faintly against the evening sky. It stood about a mile up the slope. To my left, up another hrll, was an old deserted graveyard with its fence in ruins. The whole place always looked to me like a sentinel of gloom, looking out over the soddy on the other side of this lonely dip on the Nebraska plains (Continued on page 65)

THE GREAT RIVER ROAD

This seeing, doing highway is a springboard to wonderful world of adventure and excitement

THE DRIVER presses the accelerator. A sleek, up-to-date automobile glides forward and hurtles down the dual ribbon of concrete, pressing onward at a 75-mile-per-hour clip. The wide Missouri River looms ahead. Slower now. Across the bridge and into a bustling, modern city —Omaha, the "Gateway to the West".

So this is Nebraska. Skillfully, the man at the wheel guides his car through the traffic. Inquisitive noses press against the rear windows. Drivers of heavily loaded cattle trucks, headed for the world's largest stockyards, return the eager waves of the tousle-headed youngsters. A sign points the way to Boy's Town, the famed City of Little Men. Pleas of "Let's go there!" prompt dad to turn the vehicle onto the Gateway trail for a closer look at Nebraska's largest city and its attractions.

Wherever you look, there are things to see and do —people enjoying the bounty that is NEBRASKAland. Perhaps it's picnickers at one of the attractive rest areas, or fishermen spanking the waters of the Platte, or boaters unfurling the sails at one of the enticing little water meccas in the "Chain of Lakes". All along this fantastic

Coast-to-coast freeway penetrates prairie "where the WEST begins

. . . A Guide for travel on Nebraska's I-80

AN EYE-CATCHING double concrete ribbon across Nebraska, Interstate 80 is but the show window for a state rich in 1 outdoor recreation, the lore of the West, and warm hospitality. While it is a magnificent see-and-do route, NEBRASKAland's 77,227 square miles have still more to offer. To really see and savor all of Nebraska, get off the superhighway and cruise the off-the-beaten-track byways. To find out about Nebraska's other attractions, campgrounds, parks, recreation areas, vacation ranges, and events, write for free tourist packet to NEBRASKAland, State Capitol, Lincoln, Nebraska, 68509. This complete kit includes the colorful brochure "NEBRASKAland, Take A Spin Where the WEST Begins", NEBRASKAland Events, Camping Guide, Road Map and Travel Guide, and more. Many wonders await each traveler beyond every exit ramp.

thoroughfare, happy people are doing delightful things.

Almost imperceptibly, the West seems to unfold. No longer is the landscape cluttered by mammoth buildings that seem to push and shove for the right to a few square feet of ground. Campers love NEBRASKAland's wide-open spaces. Here, they can peg a tent to the prairie sod, where just 100 years ago courageous pioneers rested in the shade of their Conestogas. Here, too, they can roll their luxury rigs into highly developed camping areas that offer the latest in equipment and services.

All along the way, little oases span the long distance of Interstate 80, offering refreshing 40 breaks in the driving route. Some 19 rest areas and 5 state wayside areas offer cool respite from a cramped auto. Other rest areas are under construction.

Built and maintained by the Department of Roads, Nebraska's rest areas continue to gather acclaim. Last year six million visitors paused at these popular facilities. They offer weary travelers a chance to stretch their legs, walk the dog, or picnic at a sheltered table. There are telephones, restrooms, drinking water, litter cans, and grills. Large bulletin boards proclaim the many attractions in Nebraska and in the immediate area, beckoning travelers to leave the high-speed route and explore NEBRASKAland's wonders at NEBRASKAland

Adding to the scenic beauty and facilities of Interstate 80 are the "road ranches" in the Chain of Lakes paralleling the highway. These, along with some 50 public lakes, line some 160 miles of the big road, spanning the state from Grand Island to Hershey.

Created when fill material for the roadway was removed from specially designed borrow pits, the Chain of Lakes is a recreation boon for both Nebraskans and their guests. As planned, the high groundwater table of the Platte Valley formed the lakes soon after excavations were made. Ranging from 6 to 46 acres in size, they are open to fishing as posted and offer a tempting array of gamesters to tempt the angler —from bluegill to smallmouth bass and channel cat to walleye. Some of these areas will be developed,

Constructed and operated by the Game and Parks Commission, the intensely developed road ranches will offer camping, fireplaces, picnic tables, restrooms, drinking water, as well as refreshing lakes for nonpowered boating and swimming. One, located at the Grand Island Interchange, is already open for public use, and another is under construction.

A gleaming, well-manicured roadway, Interstate 80 leads thousands of visitors into the mysteries of this "where the West begins" state each and every year. Easterners are traveling west, and westerners are traveling east. Many of them are discovering NEBRASKAland in the process, thanks to 1-80.

Traffic volume on the superhighway is climbing at a rate of 11 to 12 percent a year. Nebraska's highly praised roadway takes travelers to and through the heartland of Nebraska, encouraging them all the while to discover and enjoy the many wonders waiting beyond each exit ramp. To help the visitor in his quest, the Game and Parks Commission operates tourist welcome stations at the Melia Hill Rest Area near the Gretna Interchange year-round and at the Sutherland Rest Area from Memorial Day through Labor Day.

As the car leaves the city of Omaha behind, the bluff country of the Missouri fades into the

 

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In bright glare of noon or mysterious mist of morning, the journey goes on

48 background. The landscape graduates into rolling farmlands. The sweet aroma of newly mown hay permeates the air.

The spire of the State Capitol in Lincoln probes the azure sky, and cotton clouds play tag on the horizon. The boxy shafts of the grain elevators spark searching questions from city-reared youngsters.

A contented feeling creeps over the visitors as they come face to face with the wide-open spaces and unhurried pace of Nebraska. They are lulled by the singing of the tires as rubber tugs pavement. Unconsciously, the foot eases off the gas. It is time to absorb the surrounding beauty.

No obstructions block the view. No smog pollutes the air. The heavens seem closer, and the stars at night have an added sparkle. Man is suddenly very close to nature and free to let his imagination roam.

Crossing the historic Platte River near Grand Island, the magic highway penetrates ever deeper into the heart of NEBRASKAland. Today's road stands in vivid contrast to the old route of the Oregon Trail it parallels. Reminders of days gone by lure travelers into the romantic, yet rugged frontier yesterdays. Here, too, the beckoning call of the unique Chain of Lakes compels the motorist to pause.

The fertile Platte Valley has many attractions. Bird watchers flock to the region each

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Tourists see windmills beckon cattle to refreshing water in field wells

NEBRASKAland

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Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Many an evening offers crimson sunset

AUGUST 1970 49  

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Exits lead to historical sites like Fort Cody, Front Street, Stuhr Museum

spring to observe the annual courtships of the nation's largest concentration of sandhill cranes. At the same time, countless thousands of other waterfowl fill the sky, fields, and waters.

This is the land of the big farm — endless expanses of amber wheat and crimson milo. The unique smell of dehydrating alfalfa marks the haying country. Gradually the countryside evolves into the domain of the cattleman, and to the north stretch the verdant, undulating Sand Hills.

Like the pioneer of a century ago, the new-comer explores as he goes, wandering from the well-traveled pathway to take in sites like Pioneer Village, House of Yesterday, Stuhr Museum of the Prairie Pioneer, Harlan County Reservoir, Fort Kearny, Fort McPherson National Cemetery, Buffalo Bill Ranch, Front Street, Lake McConaughy, and the lake country of the south-west.

As it spans NEBRASKAland, 1-80 takes on a special character. The visitor realizes that this is 50 the West. This is where it happened — where blue-coated horse soldiers battled painted braves, where Buffalo Bill started rodeo, and where daring riders of the Pony Express carried the "lightning mail".

All along the way, folks follow the traditions of the West. Genuine hospitality is there behind every smile. And so it goes. Some of these visitors leave Nebraska at Big Springs, continuing south on 1-80 into Colorado. Others stay longer, pursuing their course into the Panhandle along U S Highway 30. Suddenly, there are additions to the geography-sugar beets and oil wells. To the north, the rugged but picturesque Wildcat Hills prompt still another side trip.

The magic carpet to and through NEBRASKAland is not yet quite complete, but the day will soon be here. With it will come still more inquisitive visitors. Many will return again. All will discover a state rich in the things that count and populated with the friendly folks with the hearty handshake. THE END

NEBRASKAland

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NEBRASKAland iscamping landwitha place to relax just around the bend

51

BUTCHERING DAY

Despite a grueling before-dawn-to-dark schedule, the task is one of hearty companionship, the kind that's kindled by the hours' effort

AND THEN THERE WERE SIX

bow. Others were either going to trade off rifles or were just going along to watch. Leon McCoy, Neligh real estate man, was among the last to arrive. As he climbed out of his car he pulled out a camouflage coat.

"Maybe one of you older fellows ought to wear this so you have a better chance with a charging boar," he suggested. "It's better to blend in with the trees than having to climb one of them."

It was about 11:30 a.m. when the "safari" reached the 220-acre grass and timber area where the boars roamed. Dividing into two groups, each with a pickup truck, we began searching the numerous gullies, ravines, and creek bottoms. After an hour of driving and walking through brushy draws, we still had not seen a single bristle or snout. It was as if the boars had been rustled. In fact, a few accusations were tossed out that Alex was going to run us around until late that night, then sneak the boars back for a contest in the dark.

But, sometime in the second hour, as we retraced our steps, two of the beasts were spotted in the bottom of a draw. They were either sound asleep and oblivious to us, or playing 'possum. Alex and Jim Marshall, a real estate man from Arlington, got out of the pickup and gave out with some loud grunts. The rascals came alive in a hurry. They leaped to their feet and dashed through the brush as sprightly as any cottontail.

Shots rang out as two .30/30's were levered at the retreating behinds of the two boars. At the first sound, four or five other boars farther down the draw sprang up and bolted away. The nearest boar, one of the pair which had jumped up first, was hit. Al Cramer, Wayne newspaperman, had scored. The boar's getaway, however, didn't appear to be any slower, but suddenly he stopped and turned. At this point all the stories about wild boars charging and ripping the hunter to shreds came to mind. But, instead of charging, the boar rambled back into the ravine. His delay was long enough for us to converge on him for a few finishing shots. The first "porker" was ours. He later scaled out at about 275 pounds, live weight.

Most of us thought this was going to be a lot tougher than we imagined. Those boars took a lot of punishment. Still, the first one hadn't charged, which eased our misgivings. Alex trimmed off a wad of four-inch bristles from the boar's back with a big pair of scissors. He bundled the hair up, slipped a rubber band around it, then handed it to Al, who immediately stuffed it into his hat-band. Then we all looked at the tusks, which stuck out on each side of the upper and lower jaws. They were not three inches long as they normally would be, Alex explained, because these boars had been "neutered" shortly after birth. That process had stunted the growth of the otherwise dangerous tusks.

Naturally, someone suggested that Wayne Wessel, Wayne dentist, should NEBRASKAland put his talents to work fashioning more formidable fangs for the animals.

No one got an exact count on the number of boars we jumped, but there appeared to be at least six and possibly seven. That's all there were left, as Leon McCoy's son had slipped up on one of them the day before and zonked him with an arrow.

Those that escaped us faded into the woods and separated. Ken Liska, Alex's son, a veterinarian at Wayne, downed the second boar of the day. He was walking along the side of a draw several hundred yards from where the first one was taken, and dropped a big porker with one shot from his 6-mm autoloader when it appeared on the opposite bank.

Roger McClure, superintendent at Chadron State Park and formerly stationed at Niobrara State Park, zeroed in on the third boar. He was hunting with a bow, and he put a shaft into the engine room of a chunky black boar he had pursued for some distance. A second arrow into the same spot, but on the other side, seemed to have little more effect than the first arrow. As the enraged boar tore up the terrain, Leon McCoy captured the episode with his movie camera.

While half the group monkeyed around Roger's critter, the rest of us scouted out a corner of a field where the boars were not supposed to be. This plot lay alongside the draw area but was fenced off with hog-proof wire. As we pondered if the hogs could have broken in, we saw two of them run across the top of the hill between two haystacks. Less than a minute passed before we got on their trail, but that was enough for them to escape. Ken Liska checked out three bushes near the far side of the field and surprised us by chasing out a third boar.

Now, this is where the good part comes. With four guys standing in a group, no one volunteered to shoot. Since I was holding the bow and arrow belonging to Leon McCoy's son, I nocked the arrow.

"Go ahead and poke him," a companion encouraged as the critter paused. I let fly and stuck the boar amidships. He snuffled away, appearing not to be hurt or frightened. But, he took only 15 steps and dropped.

The boar was down for the count, and I, much to my own surprise, became the fourth hunter to receive the ritualistic little bundle of bristles. And, it meant I would have a whole new story to tell the guys back at the office.

About an hour had elapsed since we nailed the first boar, so one pickup headed for the locker in town with the 850 pounds or so of pork, while the rest of the crew sallied forth again to give Henry Ley, Wayne banker, a chance to try his hand. Wayne Wessel was another of those who stood politely by while I plunked away with the bow, but he said he wasn't concerned at getting a shot. "I'm having a good time as it is," he said.

Another extensive scouting expedition followed, and then a lone "sleeper" was located. Henry was called in and set up for a confrontation. The pressure was off now, and everyone gathered around to see what would happen. There was always a chance that the boar would attack. They were far from docile, although AUGUST 1970 they had played an elusive and retreating game thus far.

Henry moved into position so he could see the boar through the brush in a lair about 75 feet away. For a minute or so there was a discussion as to whether to kick him out into the open or let him have it calmly without exciting him. Henry preferred to get him moving, but gave way to arguments that agitation only tended to overheat the animal.

So, he fired his long-barreled lever-action. The hog came out of hiding in a flash. He was hit well, but his toughness brought him nearly half the distance to where Henry stood. There he stopped, a mean-looking character indeed, and very mad. A mercy shot finished the episode, and also ended our hunt. Again, scissors were brought out to clip off a neat packet of bristles.

Spirits never sagged during the day, and they were up even higher on the journey back to the highway. Two of the boars had eluded us, but they and the other five had given us the rare opportunity to hunt wild boars in Nebraska. It had not proven to be as dangerous as we anticipated, but it was an extremely interesting and exciting expedition.

For nearly four hours we had combed the numerous retreats available to the boars, and still we came up two short. Perhaps the boars didn't have all the advantages their native habitat offered, but they were familiar with the area, had good cover, and were crafty enough to use it. The situation may have been much different if they had not been "neutered" when they were young. Jim Marshall still has several boars at his place in Arlington, and he later said he was going to bring more of them up to Alex's place and turn them loose. Most of these are breeding stock, so a real herd of wild boars may soon be rooting around the hills. They call for a different kind of hunting, but they are a memorable and fascinating adversary.

We generally agreed they were more sporting than many kinds of game, and would be even more so if left to their own devices while growing up. I doubt if anyone should hunt them with a switch, such as Davy Crockett used on bears, or even a spear. A quiet stalk for a big, long-tusked boar, even when armed with a rifle, is enough to quicken the old pulse. Boar hunting, believe me, is really something. THE END

MEANT TO RACE

road in those days, he headed back to Grand Island. Hot car or not, it wasn't Lorin's day in the sun that time either. He made about the same impression on the competition as before —none. Someone else came up with a better car and was probably a better driver. Again it was a long trip home.

The urge to succeed dies hard, however. The spirit of racing was deeper ingrained than ever, and in 1964, Downing went into partnership with two friends to buy a new Dodge Hemi, a car that was fast making a name for itself in the nation's racing circles. If there is anything a race car does not have, it is longevity. The trio put their machine on the circuit for one year with what Downing calls "fair success." Then it was time for a new car. Chrysler Corporation products were going great guns, so they decided to put their money on a factory-prepared Plymouth Hemi. With Lorin at the wheel

When the 1966 season rolled around, hopes were high for a continued winning streak. Most of the local and division meets went well, and it was off to the NHRA Winter Nationals in Pomona, Calif., definitely the big time of drag racing. While the weather may have been warm, the Downing racers were cold — stone cold. A blown engine washed them out for the duration of the meet. Without a spare engine — that costs money—on hand, all they could do was wait for the Nationals at Indy. When they did, Lorin leadfooted them into the runner-up slot for their class.

With what could at best be called a slack season behind them, all the Nebraskans could do was wait for 1967 and the promise it held. In drag racing, the turn of a bolt can often mean the difference between winning and losing. Evidently a lot of wrench work went into the car before the '67 season, because Downing pulled off the Pomona track with the class championship for the Winter Nationals firmly stuffed into his pocket. Back at the Nationals, he drove into the runner-up slot for his class as if it belonged to him. It may have, because he had been warming the chair since the year before. But the bonus for the meet came when the Plymouth carried him to a second place in Street Eliminator. With only two point meets behind him for the year, his record looked impressive. That's when Lady Luck began to smile on the team. At a meet in Minneapolis, Downing set a national record for speed with 126.80 miles per hour in the quarter mile. Fast indeed for the mid-1960's.

Spurred by success, Downing and his troops really leaned on racing in 1968. "That's when we really got started in earnest," he said. And by the end of the year, trophies were falling in their laps and the Plymouth was falling apart. They sold the car and bought a new AMX with American Motors sponsorship. A new car, Lorin said, meant "staying relatively close to home and making all the point meets. But we still couldn't build a good record." Something that did come out of the transition, however, was the AMX Racing Club which Lorin helped start and in which he still is a guiding influence.

From the start it was all uphill for the fledgling club. To make it go, the 12 members, ranging in age from 12 to 18, put in a lot of time and hard work to earn extra money. "The guys dug out tree stumps, mowed lawns and raked them, washed and waxed cars, swept out dance halls, and even washed dishes after a local fireman's banquet," Downing remembered. Since then, the club has gained and lost membership, but it has stayed alive. Most of the dropouts were because of military service or families that left town, Lorin said. But it is a success and is recognized as one of the outstanding youth-oriented organizations in Kearney. Most of all it has spirit. To insure public acceptance, members of the club speak to service clubs and other local organizations. They also impose a rigid dress code on members in an effort to escape the stereotype image attached to their predecessors. The result is a club which provides a learning experience for young drivers or potential drivers and a group which serves as a showcase for Kearney around the nation.

Looks and esprit de corps mean a lot, and the AMX Racing Team has plenty of both. But in racing, it is the car and driver record that counts. Last year saw what Lorin calls "a lot of publicity, but a rather unimpressive record on the track." Nonetheless, he ramrodded the car into first place in the World Championship Series of races. The same car became the first of its manufacture to set a world record for elapsed time in Super Stock E class. The record, set at Omaha, went under fast, however, when a California driver shattered Downing's 11.10 E.T. The AMX also became the first American Motors car to win an NHRA division, and it reclaimed the E.T. title with a 10.88 on the clocks. All in all, 1969 brought home the glory for Downing and the AMX Racing Team.

This year, things are starting out with a roar. At the Phoenix American Hot Rod Association Winter Nationals, Lorin blazed to the head of the class, and then established a new class record with an 11.0 E.T. At Pomona, again for the NHRA edition of the same event, though, things went sour when Downing jumped the starting light and was disqualified. But there is a full season ahead for the Kearneyite, and becoming top eliminator is always just a quarter of a mile down the asphalt track.

With something approaching the five-figure category tied up in a machine by either the racer or backer, there's not much room in the records for anything but winning. While Lorin's car is dealer sponsored, coming out on top is equally important to him. The factory puts up a parts subsidy which eases some of the financial pressure, and sub-contracts are arranged with speed equipment manufacturers. Still, it gets expensive to stay at the top of the heap or even try for it. Right now, another engine for the red, white, and blue "Pete's Patriot" is being prepared. Work being done on the mill in Denver will run in the neighborhood of $400 to $500 above the cost of the engine. That's an expensive area when you consider that the engine might never be used. Should Downing run afoul of some always-lurking mechanical failure, however, it will take only four hours to pull the shelled hull and drop in a new powerplant. And, with $7,000 to $10,000 in prize money riding on making it to the starting line, the added expenditure is well worth any crimp it might put in the bankroll. Luck was on Downing's side recently when he returned from Denver with $1,100 tucked in his jeans. And, with the added insurance of an extra engine, there may be much more of the green stuff on tap, regardless of the size of the total purse.

Downing explained why the amount of money on each race varies. "The NHRA or local sponsors may feel that a particular point race is more important than any of the other six held each year. If so, they put up more prize money to attract more name drivers and better cars, thus increasing the size of the gate. That means more take-home pay for everyone involved and a larger number of racers have a crack at points for the season.

Points come under the heading of "who's the fastest with the mostest" in drag racing. "Before each race, there are time trials to weed out slower cars and Provide the best in racing entertainment, iach car that runs the final rounds of racing must qualify. That gives them 100 points. Then, they get 100 for each round they win. The top miles-per-hour earns another 100, and the lowest elapsed time brings in 200," Lorin explained. A low E.T. is like money in the bank for drivers who are in the points race toward the end of the season. But a driver seldom has any idea who he will run up against on the quarter-mile track before he pulls into the pits.

"NHRA's Division V includes Nebraska, Kansas, North Dakota, South Dakota, Colorado, Wyoming, Iowa, Missouri, Minnesota, and Manitoba, Canada," Downing said. "All are big on drag racing and any number of competitors may show up for a particular meet anywhere in the nine-state, one-province area. Drag racers from any of the NHRA's other six divisions may drive one race outside their division each year. This gives them a chance to make up a point AUGUST 1970 meet they may miss in their own area. And, by limiting them to one outside race, people aren't constantly running back and forth across division boundaries," Downing pointed out. Consequently, a driver from another division may put his car on the track and mop up all competition before they know what happened. It's all perfectly legal and it keeps all of the racers on their throttles. But it makes for a certain amount of uncertainty in forecasting division point totals before the end of the season. Maybe that's at least part of the reason Downing said he is nervous before a race.

TWO-LAKE WEEKEND

as the fish eased off. Minutes later I caught a glimpse of the fish as it cut through the water near the boat. It looked like a bass, but turned out to be a rather nice, two-pound walleye.

In the next hour Ruth and the kids landed a few big bluegill, but I was unsuccessful in tempting the bass. Then everything seemed to stop biting. After a fishless half hour I suggested we row back to an area of flooded trees deep in the cove and try for crappie. We all baited up with minnows but after nearly an hour it became apparent that the crappie were also on a hunger strike. Several bank fishermen had heavy stringers which they had taken early in the morning but nobody seemed to be denting the fish population now.

A storm seemed to be brewing in the northwest.

"I've been watching it," Ruth said, "and I think we'd better head for camp now unless we want to eat in the rain."

Gary and I were both pretty hungry so there wasn't any argument.

Lunch was a real banquet with steak, hotdogs, and best of all, fried fish. It was still early afternoon when we finished eating, but the storm was moving in quickly so we decided to break camp.

As we pulled out of the camping area, Gary looked back at the lake. "I want to come back to Pawnee again to catch crappie."

Linda countered that she would rather try for some more walleye at Branched Oak.

Ruth said it might be fun to try another of the Salt Valley lakes. "We're close enough that we can probably give them all a try," I added as I turned onto the Interstate for the short drive back to Omaha. THE END

Where to go Trails of Midwest History, Sioux Prayer Garden

TRAILS HAVE ALWAYS been a part of Nebraska. Since men have lived here, trails have been the connecting threads in the vast fabric of the West. Oregon, Mormon, and other trails of yesterday conjure up visions of pioneers and their struggles. Old West, Lewis and Clark, and similar trails of today evoke a spirit of modern-day adventure.

Trails of yesterday and today cross each other in Jefferson County. Hub of this historical area is the city of Fairbury, crossroads of the Trails of Midwest History.

Jefferson County's highway of the past was the Oregon Trail, later the route of the Pony Express. The history of the area stems from the development of this trail and the subsequent settlement of Fairbury and the surrounding towns.

The Oregon Trail began its trek across Nebraska in the southeastern corner of the county. The traveler of today would also find this a convenient starting point for following the trail and the history that it left behind.

At Steele City, 12 miles southeast of Fairbury, historic buildings are being kept for future generations. A stone blacksmith shop and livery stable stand open to the curious while a brick bank has only recently been restored by the Jefferson County Historical Society, the AUGUST 1970 organization responsible for much of the area's preservation work.

Farther along the trail, the traveler reaches the site of the Rock Creek Pony Express Station. The post office that was established there in 1859 has been restored and once again witnesses the passage of trail-following travelers. At this same spot are original reminders of the Oregon Trail. Ruts left by the wheels of many wagons have not been erased by the conservative hand of time. Like stitches on a quilt, the ruts of the trail bind Nebraskans to colorful patterns of life now known only in memory.

At Fairbury, history is being preserved in the Jefferson County Museum. Artifacts from prehistoric times to the present chronicle the many changes that this area has seen. In the city's park, a log cabin built in the 1860's delights young and old.

As the Oregon Trail angles out of the county, it runs near the Smith Lime Kiln. One of four lime kilns in the county, it was erected about 1871 by W. C. Smith. Twenty years earlier, a similar kiln was used by the government in burning lime for plaster needed in the construction of Fort Kearny, nearly 150 miles away.

Also northwest of Fairbury can be seen the George Winslow grave. A victim of cholera, Winslow died on the trail on June 8, 1849. Rushing west in pursuit of gold, his '49'er companions took the time to carve the marker that can still be seen today. It is the only original gravestone on the trail dated before 1850.

Stone and metal markers indicate the course of the Oregon Trail and the Pony Express route, as it wends its way across the county. Now farm roads checkerboard the countryside, forcing trail followers to take a zig-zag course. Further information about the Trails of Midwest History can be obtained from the Fairbury Chamber of Commerce or the Jefferson County Historical Society.

Trails of a different sort have been blazed by Nebraska's Poet Laureate, John G. Neihardt. Traveling through life, Neihardt has followed a literary path, each step marked with monumental artistic achievements. The Sioux Prayer Garden honors John G. Neihardt and his celebrated poetic accomplishments.

Nestled in a quiet corner of Bancroft, the garden, once weed-choked and neglected, has been transformed by planning, money, and work into a place of beauty. On the same site stands the restored study which Neihardt used during the Bancroft years. Both of these projects are the special tasks of the John G. Neihardt Foundation, a private corporation dedicated, among other things, to preserving memorabilia associated with the poet's very productive life.

The study, a small wood-frame structure, looks now as it did when Neihardt first made it his home nearly 70 years ago. Inside, reproductions of the study's few furnishings recreate the functional setting in which the young writer first transferred his dreams from mind to paper. A kitchen table used as a desk holds the double-deck typewriter, a battle-scarred veteran of Neihardt's many literary skirmishes and battles. Two straight chairs, a small rug, and a favorite rocking chair completed the poet's austere environment. The walls now wear recent memories, copies of handwritten poems, a fresco of the garden, and portraits of Neihardt.

Many of Neihardt's most famous works came out of this unlikely nook. There he wrote all but two of his lyric poems, all of his short stories, two novels, several other volumes, and much of the Cycle of the West, his acclaimed epic poem.

John G. Neihardt made his home in Bancroft from 1900 to 1920. Years later, he had this to say about his stay there: 'Those were among the richest and dearest years of my life, as I view them now; in some respects, perhaps, the very dearest and the richest, for that was the singing springtime and fruitful early summer of my time on earth."

While at Bancroft, Neihardt became acquainted with the ways of the Omaha Indians, giving him an understanding and compassion for their race which became a major influence in his writings. It was Neihardt's interest in all of the Plains Indians, especially the Sioux, which led him to write Black Elk Speaks. He had met Black Elk, an aged medicine man of the Oglala Sioux, and from him gained insights into Indian life, customs, and religion. Black Elk 60 Speaks has within it a description of a Sioux Prayer Garden. This has served as the model for the Prayer Garden at Bancroft, an unusual and interesting study in religious symbolism.

Circular in form, the entire garden represents the Hoop of the World. The hoop is divided into four quadrants, each with its own powers, colors, and symbols. The power of the southern quadrant, for example, is the power to grow. It's color is yellow, because the summer sun is yellow. The symbols of the south are the Hoop of the People which stands for the unity of the race, and the staff of six branches which will become the tree of life. Two roads cross the Hoop of the World. One is the black road of worldly difficulties, while the other is the good red road of spiritual understanding. Where the roads cross is a holy place, and there grows a flowering tree, the tree of life.

The Prayer Garden contains much more symbolism, offering visitors a chance to exercise both their minds and their senses. The grounds are open every day, white the study is open on Sundays from 2 to 5 p.m. until September 1. Bancroft, and all of Nebraska, honors its Poet Laureate each year on the first Sunday in August. This year, Neihardt Day, as proclaimed by the governor, is August 2.

The elderly poet, now 89, on his occasional visits to the garden and study, enjoys the emotional thrills of remembrance. Nostalgia also grips the casual visitor, as the spirit of John G. Neihardt pervades the area. The Sioux Prayer Garden represents the eternal gifts for which Black Elk prayed, values which all men seek. THE END

POPCORN HERITAGE

decorated wagons. Since 1901 there has never been a shutdown of the festival, although a "shortening shortage" during World War II required some rather precious contributions of lard from many people.

Because of Popcorn Days' popularity, there was a time when North Loup was asked to incorporate the county fair to make it an expanded, county-wide event. Though considered for a time, the expense involved in a county fair would have necessitated abandoning the free aspect of Popcorn Days, so the merger was dropped.

After many years of popping corn in small batches for the gigantic giveaway fest, a large-volume machine was designed, built, and housed in a concession stand across from the stage. Since 1954 this big drum has handled the demand. Eight pounds of corn and other ingredients are dumped into the drum, where it all drops to the bottom. The drum turns constantly over a gas burner, agitating the corn. Then, as it pops, the kernels are augured out by a cone-shaped screen. When that load is deposited in a box, another batch is started and the popped corn is dumped into a huge wooden compartment. Then, while one man stirs it with a scoop shovel, a second pours on butter and coconut oil from a garden sprinkler can. From that point, sackers take over. Usually a number of high school lads volunteer for this duty, and they become very adept. It is seldom that a non-eater of popcorn volunteers for sacking service though, as frequent nibbling is part of the reward.

A special battery of drinking fountains is hooked up on main street for Popcorn Days to quench the thirst of munchers and parade goers. These fountains get a real workout, too, as every place in town that serves cold drinks is jammed much of the time. Despite the many people, or perhaps because of them, there is a holiday air hanging over the community. Even when everyone is jockeying for a position to view the parades it is carefree and friendly.

Perhaps the most enjoyable part of the whole celebration, and there are many enjoyable aspects, is the attitude of the people. It is, after all, a small-town project. Good-natured jibes are called out to parade participants from the sidelines while mothers and fathers proudly snap pictures of their offspring adorning the floats. About 40 units, plus bands and miscellaneous entries, make the big parade impressive indeed. Tiny motorcars operated by the Shriners are a special hit. The drivers in fancy dress, stuffed into their little vehicles, whiz around in speedy maneuvers from one side of the street to the other, narrowly avoiding collisions.

Five area bands add spicy music to the caravan, with the North Loup-Scotia aggregation joined by Sargent, Arcadia, Loup City, and Ord musicians. These bands also give concerts before and after the parade. Much of the credit for the festival goes to a Popcorn (Continued on page 64)

Roundup and What to do

August strikes an upbeat tempo to turn of spinning wheels, roaring crowds

WITHOUT A DOUBT, roller skating is the biggest activity in Nebraska during August, with the American Hockey Roller Skating Championships, the American Roller Skating Championships, and the World Roller Skating Championships all scheduled to take place in Lincoln August 2 to 17.

NEBRASKAland Magazine's hostess this month, who invites NEBRASKAlanders to visit the roller skating events, and all other activities taking place in the state during the month, is Roxanne McCune, a sophomore at North Platte Junior College.

Daughter of Mr. and Mrs. W. H. McCune of Sutherland, Roxanne is taking an active part in college life as secretary of the student senate and secretary of the inter-organizational council. She is a member of the drama club, head cheerleader for the college, a member of the volleyball team, and has had her share of honor in beauty contests. She was Miss Spring Formal Princess for the 1969-70 academic year, second runner-up in the 1969 Miss NEBRASKAland pageant, and Miss North Platte Junior College in 1969.

Majoring in speech, Roxanne plans to continue along this line after graduation to become a speech therapist. Her hobbies are water skiing, dancing, tennis, AUGUST 1970 boating, swimming, and horseback riding.

The magazine takes pride in extending her invitation to the state's events this month.

Roller skating activities begin August 2 with hockey championships at the Arena Roller Skating Center in Lincoln. They last until the 5th.

The American championships begin August 5 in Pershing Auditorium, to last until August 12. Five judges choose the nation's best in roller skating hockey, speed skating, dance, figure skating, pair, and foursome categories.

The world championships are the climax, with registration and practice on the 13th and actual competition beginning, still in Pershing Auditorium, on the 14th.

Contestants from 15 countries have been invited to attend the world championships. Responsibility for organizing the entire schedule is in the hands of the Roller Skating Rink Operators Association of America, which, incidentally, has its national headquarters building in Lincoln.

There are seven judges for the world championships to pick the world's best in three categories—roller skating dance, figure skating, and pairs.

During the time of the championships, both American and world, the contestants are able to practice at the Arena Roller Skating Center and the Holiday Roller Skating Center in Lincoln. The practice sessions, however, do not interfere with public skating times. They are scheduled after public skating has ended each day.

Last year the American championships were held at Little Rock, Arkansas, but the world championships have never taken place in the United States, so this is a big first for the state in the world of roller skating, especially for the capital city.

August 1 and 2 the town of Wilber, with a population of just over 1,300, again celebrates its annual Czech Festival. Although the usual things that make up a community celebration, like parades, beauty contests, and bands, are part of the fest at Wilber, this one is different, as it always has been, because of the large Czech population there.

It was funny when we talked with a spokesman for the Chamber of Commerce. We asked him how much of the town's population is actually from Czech background.

Well, it used to be more, he said, but now it's only about 70 or 80 percent. With so many people from a common background, the entire population is caught up in the hoopla. One of the interesting features is the pageant, in which the townspeople participate, telling some kind of way-back-when Czech story. The pageant takes place every year but the story always changes. Another event, which causes a lot of good-natured rivalry among the womenfolk, is the Kolache (little cakes) contest. There are also on-the-spot baking demonstrations.

Two big horseshoe-pitching events take place in Falls City. August 2 is the open tournament, when approximately 75 participants attend, coming from places as far away as Florida. The other is the Nebraska State Horseshoe Tournament with qualification pitching on August 29 and the contest August 30.

Approximately 40 owners of gun collections from throughout the midwest states exhibit their firearms at the Pine Ridge Gun Collectors Show in Crawford August 1 and 2. This show takes place in the city park pavilion.

Nebraska's Big Rodeo takes place in Burwell August 5 to 8. One of the jolliest events at the end of each afternoon is a group of clowns fighting a bunch of Brahma bulls. There are quarter horse shows during (Continued on page 64)

What to do

POPCORN HERITAGE

Association, under chairman Dale Stine, a local banker. This group not only sees that things run smoothly during the three days, but also organizes "booster" trips to nearby communities beforehand to spread the word about the upcoming event. Popped and unpopped corn are distributed on these trips, and the boosters are a welcome diversion wherever they go.

Each year, after the thousands of paper bags are picked up and the town of North Loup settles down from its three days of gaiety, plans are already underway for an even better celebration the next summer. In 1970, this memorable celebration will take place August 31, and September 1 and 2. The streets will again be closed off so children can dash about between the popcorn stand and carnival without fear of colliding with a car, and the sound of contented munching will be heard throughout the colorful community of North Loup, still the popcorn capital of the United States in the hearts of thousands. THE END

ROUND UP

the first two mornings while the county fair and 4-H exhibits are open every morning throughout the week.

In addition to the rodeos in the afternoons, there is quarter horse racing on the track. There are two futurities and one derby with final races the last day. Included in the entertainment is trick riding, trick roping, and performances by the Marvel Family, a group of Roman riders. With a carnival on the midway, the week promises a lot of fun for people of all ages. The Miss Rodeo Nebraska beauty contest is held Wednesday and Thursday of that week.

The Post Players, mostly students from Chadron State College, present "You Can't Take It With You" at the Fort Robinson Post Playhouse August 7 to 10 inclusive, and August 14 to 17 inclusive. August 12, and August 19 to 22 inclusive, they present "Fantasticks".

Horse racing begins on the five-eighth-mile track at the Agricultural Park in Columbus August 11 to continue through September 7, Post times are 3 p.m. Tuesdays and Wednesdays; 4 p.m. Thursdays and Fridays; and 2 p.m. Saturdays. There is no racing Sundays or Mondays, except on Labor Day when post time is 2 p.m.

The American Legion Class A Baseball Tournament is being held in Ralston's Orval Smith Stadium August 14 to 19. Eight teams compete for top baseball honors within the state league. Five of them are from the Lincoln-Omaha area. Last year the tournament was at North Platte.

Lexington's annual sailboat regatta, with boats ranging in size from 13-foot NEBRASKAland sailboards to 28-foot Class E scows, is August 15 and 16 at Johnson Lake. Registration begins Saturday with two races scheduled later the same day. Sunday there are several more races. Awarding of trophies is in the afternoon. A lot depends on the wind in the area for this event. Approximately 40 boats are being entered in the regatta, coming from Colorado, Kansas, and across Nebraska.

MYSTERIOUS MESSENGER

where we lived. The sun's glare was no longer being reflected from the chimney. The soddy, let me explain, was the home of the Mysterious Messenger-a large ball of light at night. It had traveled across from the soddy to the AUGUST 1970 graveyard and back every night since that murder a few years ago. All the members of my family had seen it hundreds of times. Our friends too. Some had tried to waylay it. Others had tried to shoot it, and some had even tried to talk to it.

This mysterious light had completely mystified the neighborhood, although everyone was used to it now, but it had sent many a cold shiver up my spine. In spite of the chilly breeze now, I wanted to take one last, close look at the soddy.

I had gone relatively near with my older brother on numerous occasions, but it had always been during the day.

Shaking with excitement, I walked up the hard, frozen path to the soddy. I had never been inside and it always remained a mystery to me how my legs ever carried me up that slope to the soddy's door. Nervously, I pushed it open a crack. It creaked with a queer noise as if to warn the spirits within. My heart was pounding like a sledge-hammer and Dandy crouched with his eyes fixed on me.

I was ready to run back, but after taking a few deep breaths, I finally found the courage to open the door all the way. There the hideous sight met my eyes. Others who had seen it had talked about it, but I had never imagined it to be like this, and I had never expected all the horrible thoughts which raced through my mind now.

I saw the whole scene immediately — the pool of (Continued on page 68)

THIRD SUMMER ON THE TRAIL

Modern family expedition retraces pioneer trails from mountain peaks to ghosts of yesteryear's troopers

VERLA HAMER BROKE the jinx. She actually fried a chicken out of doors.

The third time is a charm, somebody said. And, this was our third summer "on the trail."

We were camped in the solitude of Victoria Springs in central Nebraska after our first day of "covered wagon" travel. But, our wagon featured balloon tires, ball bearings and a fold-down canvas top. Power was courtesy of our "oxen"...a blue and white station wagon with automatic shift.

Husband Dave was in charge of moving the expedition and selecting campsites where shade and water were plentiful. Nine-year-old Dennis kept a finger on the charts and watched for landmarks. Five-year-old Roger "rode shotgun" and warned of hostiles. And wife Verla presided over the chuck box. Sandy, the cocker spaniel, served as advance scout.

So, we were off on a 15-day outdoor vacation. We didn't know it at the moment, but we would eventually travel

It all began when we tented overnight at the Fremont Lakes. Verla fried a chicken...it rained. Last year we were braver. Outfitted with a camp trailer, we spent a week in central and northeast Nebraska. Verla bought another chicken ...it rained again. But we enjoyed ourselves at Victoria Springs, Niobrara State Park and Lewis and Clark Lake. Before we got home we were planning this year's vacation.

We kept no schedule, but moved on to new country when we felt ready. We were the sole campers at Box Butte, the recreation area north of Hemingford. But we had lots of company during our three-day stay at Fort Robinson. Camp 66

We soon discovered the joys of occasionally leaving camp to make side trips into the rugged country. Back at Victoria, we went swimming below Milburn Dam...explored ancient sod houses in Custer County...discovered a real log cabin... viewed the Nebraska National forest at Thedford.

At Fort Robinson, we made trips into the Pine Ridge and to the desolate, but fascinating, Badlands and Toadstool Park. We climbed "Giants Thumb" south of Crawford and hiked over yucca trails crossed by Indian and trooper decades ago.

A couple of days later, we were scaling rugged Scotts Bluff National Monument. Dave and Dennis went on foot, while Verla and Roger, accompanied by Sandy, drove to the top. Another day and we were traversing part of the breathtaking Wildcat Range south of Gering.

Our "lion encounter" was at Scottsbluff. Camped in Riverside Park in the shadow of the national monument, we were awakened by roars and growls from an African lion at the nearby zoo. Roger and Dennis prepared to embark on a trophy hunt, but cooler heads prevailed and we confined ourselves to speculation of how friends and neighbors would react when told we had spent several nights with an African lion *just outside camp."

Another sunrise saw us hitting the trail eastward, scanning the endless horizon for Chimney Rock, guidepost for trapper, pioneer, Pony Express rider, and now for the traveler and vacationer.

With Pine Ridge, Scotts Bluff, and the Wildcat Range behind him, Dave laid on an assault of Chimney Rock. The expedition failed!

After navigating barbed wire, weeds, irrigation ditches, and waist-high prairie grass, the tiniest enemy of all-thousands of pesky insects - swarmed, stung, and defeated the explorer. After a half-dozen hasty photographs, the expedition was abandoned.

A couple of days of rest at Bridgeport Recreation Area and our "covered wagon" went past Ash Hollow and Windlass NEBRASKAland Hill, then to Lake McConaughy for swimming, and to Lake Ogallala for sunning and loafing. At the nearby Sioux Trading Post, Roger was invited to join a Friendship Dance with real Oglala Sioux ...certainly a high point of the trip.

With time running out, we paused for a few moments at Fort McPhierson National Cemetery near Maxwell to meditate on those who came west —and stayed, and on those who went to later wars in far-off places and found the peace they sought here in quiet western Nebraska.

We rolled along faster now, past Gothenburg's Pony Express Station; past the alfalfa mills and through the lush farm and range land, never more than a stone's throw from the wide Platte River. Cottonmill Lake near Kearney offered

A coffee and cookie break at Blue River Wayside Area found us recounting our experiences for a friendly Game and Parks Commission Conservation Officer who happened by. Minutes later we were approaching the gray tower of the State Capitol at Lincoln. We passed it by... but we'd be back a week later when we could spend more time to explore and climb to its top.

It seemed a shame to return home — we still had a day to go. So, with no dissenters aboard, we swung into the grounds at Memphis Lake for one more night on the trail.

By mid-morning the following day we neared Omaha and home. But already we were talking about next year's expedition. Roger, Dennis, and Dave were wondering aloud about new and exciting places they'd spotted on the map. But Verla was wondering to herself about how to break the new jinx. She'd beat the fried chicken bit.. .but on the fourth night out she'd grilled a steak, bringing on rain, winds and hail! THE END

MYSTERIOUS MESSENGER

dried blood, still a dark stain on the old sunken floor, the pool of blood in which the woman had died when her husband had shot her with a musket through an open window, the husband who had then turned the gun on himself and had blasted his own soul into eternity just outside the soddy.

I held onto Dandy and looked back to see if I could still get out. Yes, the door was ajar. I could feel the chilly air invading this ghostly haunt.

The soddy had two rooms. To satisfy my curiosity, I tip-toed to the crude entrance leading to the second room. In there I saw a rickety staircase leading to an attic. Here and there stray rays of shadowy light fell on broken furniture, ragged bits of clothing, and kitchen utensils hanging from the dusty rafters.

I remembered the stories I had been told. The four children of the dead parents had packed most things into the attic and had left the house forever. The oldest son had stayed in the vicinity for a little while, but soon he too had gone because he had lost his friends. Everyone had thought of him as being too odd and too mysterious after the strange occurrence.

Silence and death lurked in every corner.

Suddenly a gust of wind blew the door shut. Dandy yelped and jumped for the door, scratching it frantically to get out. I bolted, rah to the door, opened it and headed down the hill as fast as I could. It was dark by the time Dandy and I got down to our farmyard. The exercise had allowed me time to collect my thoughts, so I sat down beside the old cottonwood for a bit before going into the house for supper.

While my thoughts drifted and I pondered on my exploit, Dandy gave a start. There, to be sure, it was again. And why not? It had never failed. There was the Mysterious Messenger in the form of a bright ball of fire, emerging slowly from the soddy's chimney. Dandy settled down because he too, like all the people in the neighborhood, had become used to the fireball.

The light dropped to the ground and headed slowly down the slope of the hill toward me. I had no particular fear since this was the course it always followed before turning up the hill on the other side toward the cemetery. It reached the pasture fence several hundred yards away and disappeared down the opposite bank of the creek. It would head along the bed a few hundred feet and come up again farther away.

All of a sudden the light re-appeared, less than a hundred yards from me. Dandy leaped up and ran to the house, but I couldn't move. I sat there, frozen. It came to within a stone's throw from me and stopped. Was this messenger of death bidding me farewell, or was it trying to tell me something I should know after having been in the soddy?

By the time I gathered my wits about me again, the light moved away and headed up to the cemetery. It had come closer this time than ever before. Now it meandered slowly up the hill, wandering around aimlessly like a dog searching food.

The light arrived at the graveyard, then disappeared into the ground, just as it had always done, to pay its secret visit to a corpse below. Did the Mysterious Messenger visit the murdered or the murderer? No one knew because no one had ever dared go close at night.

After a few moments the light reappeared on the surface and went back to the soddy. This time it sped across the countryside one moment, then stopped, as if not knowing where to go, then fast again until it disappeared down the chimney.

I went into the house for supper. The next day we moved to Grand Island. After living in Grand Island for a while I heard a story one day that there was a country peddler who claimed he knew what had happened there in the soddy.

This peddler, apparently, had come upon the homestead one night. Being a stranger in those parts, he had not known about the fireball. He had seen this light in the soddy and had mistaken it for lamplight. But all of a sudden the light had moved from the soddy to the barn, leaving the house in darkness. The peddler had been confused but had headed for the barn anyway. He had followed it inside, and then had come out screaming. He had seen a body hanging from a rafter.

The explanation was that a hired man, who had been working there, had returned from town and had come upon the scene of death in the soddy. Knowing the reason why the husband had killed his wife (because the wife had been too attentive to him) the hired man had gone into the barn and hanged himself. Questions remained now. Why did the light appear night after night to visit the graveyard? What was this fiery messenger of death trying to tell the neighborhood?

I returned to the haunted homestead years later and found only a pile of rubble where the soddy had been. I was told that the light had not appeared in the last few years (this was in the late 30's) and I was bitterly disappointed because I wanted to follow the light to the graveyard in hopes of solving the mystery.

If I would have been able to follow the light, would it have led me to the secret? Who knows? THE END

Outdoor Calendar

BUTCHERING DAY

and hitched old Prince to the stoneboat and drove him as fast as I could to the pen behind the hoghouse. I arrived just as Dad shooed the first hog into a chute. The men got the animal's head braced in the gate. Uncle Israel shoved the barrel of the .22 against its head and pulled the trigger. Butchering day was under way.

The hog was rolled onto the stoneboat and I pulled it to the fire. A chain was draped across the bottom of the trough and the body of the pig was rolled on top of it. As soon as it was firmly established that the animal was dead, scalding water was poured over it. Two men rolled the carcass back and forth while the other two scraped the hair off. It was lifted onto a wooden slab and cleaned thoroughly, then hung. The head was cut off and brought into the washhouse, ready for Uncle Israel to cut up.

While the men were doing all this, I refilled the kettles and built up the fires. Dad's special job was taking the entrails out of the hog and, to my knowledge, he never split a gut.

Uncle Jonathan, Uncle Israel, and I went after another hog while Uncle Joe helped Dad with the actual butchering;. Uncle Joe carried the guts to the washhouse as they fell from the carcass. As they arrived in the washhouse the womenfolk cleaned and prepared them for lard. The heart and liver were set aside to be used for liverwurst.

I could tell if we were on schedule like this. The sun was supposed to be coming up over the horizon when my uncles and I went after the second hog. The school children were supposed to be going by when we went after the third. And the last school bell was supposed to be ringing when we went after the fourth. I knew this because that was the point where I had always been ordered away to school. I had always slipped into my seat a few minutes late, wishing I hadn't arrived at all.

Anyway, this time I could stay, and I was happy.

When all the carcasses were hung it was time for morning lunch. The menu consisted of a sandwich, a cup of coffee, and a piece of pie. It was delicious, but we didn't linger long.

My job at this point was to clean the trough and everything else that had been u^ed for the slaughtering. My mother and Adah were still preparing the cuts while my aunts began boiling the liverwurst for the first time. It didn't take long until my mother placed the first butchered scraps of meat into a kettle and began the cooking in earnest.

My next job was the one I liked the best, and the one I had helped with during the last few years, but the one I was

Again, I could tell if we were on schedule if the first kettle of lard was cooling at dinner time. I used to come home and help with the last kettle after the noon meal.

What a meal we had on butchering day! We were served a piece of fresh tenderloin from one of the butchered animals. There were salads of all kinds, freshly baked buns, and more pie. The company was great because everyone talked and laughed, taking time to relax, especially the men, since the biggest part of their work was done now.

After dinner the women prepared the sausage. Although we used an electric motor to turn the grinder in later years, it still had to be turned by hand before the 1920's. The men took turns at the crank. After the meat was all ground it was placed in two large tubs.

Dad added the seasoning, and this was a regular ritual. He rolled up his sleeves, carefully washed his hands and arms, wiped them off, and dropped the salt and pepper in, mixing it thoroughly by hand. The recipe was 2 handfuls of pepper and 3 handfuls of salt for every 275-pound porker. Mother quickly fried a piece for Dad to taste. It had to be just right.

While this was going on, the womenfolk removed the bones from the cooked mixture, which would be liverwurst soon, and put it through the grinder. I was still working with the lard, pressing it now. Later in the afternoon it would be poured into stone crocks and stored in the basement.

The liverwurst, ground now, was placed in the kettle for a second cooking. We were still on schedule because Mary and Richard, my other sister and my younger brother, were just coming home from school. Since the liverwurst was still warm, it didn't take long to heat again. Later, it too was put into stone jars and stored in the basement.

It was almost dark by the time everything was finished. All the equipment had been cleaned by the womenfolk. My uncles and aunts went home to do their chores. Butchering day was over, but there was still more work to be done. The following morning I awoke to the smell of sizzling fresh sausage for breakfast. The two tubs of sausage had to be moulded into patties and stored.

The hams, shoulders, ribs, and bacons were hung in the smokehouse for three days, then placed in brine in the big wooden meat barrel. They stayed there six weeks until ready to be hung in the smokehouse again.

It was a lot of work, butchering, but thick ham steaks, served by my mother in the big family kitchen later in the winter, always made it worthwhile.

Oh, I have been so busy telling about the procedure of butchering day, that I almost forgot to mention the constant conversation. (No, I won't say gossip.) All the world's problems were discussed and solved that day. THE END

OUTDOOR NEBRASKAland of the Air

Outdoor Elsewhere

The Easy Way. Last winter, a Pennsylvania contractor asked a conservation officer if he knew of a good place to catch some minnows for ice fishing. The officer told him that a small pond near his home was a good place to try, as a youngster who lived nearby had been catching minnows there. The officer then suggested that the fellow get an ax, chop a hole, and drop a minnow trap. The contractor then thanked the officer for the information, but mentioned that he knew an easier way by using some of his equipment. Several hours later the officer happened to be driving by the pond. Just the canopy of a small bulldozer was sticking above the ice. Ten feet away was another one, also in the pond. About 10 feet farther was a large backhoe pulling out the other two!—Pennsylvania

Cash For Cans. We all know that it pays to pick up litter. But now it will pay a little more in 11 western states. Adolph Coors Brewing Company of Colorado is paying a dime a pound for scrap aluminum to its distributors in Colorado, Arizona, Oklahoma, California, Idaho, Kansas, Nevada, New Mexico, Texas, Utah, and Wyoming. Officials of the brewery say that enough aluminum containers are marketed each year in the 11-state area to be worth some $5 million at 10 cents per pound. The "cash for cans" deal pertains to all aluminum containers. — Colorado

A "Frying" Shame. Everyone has heard of a "crying" shame it seems, but how about a "frying" shame. It all happened in Manitoba last year when fisheries personnel learned that the largest northern pike ever caught in their province wound up in the frying pan. It wasn't until the Manitoba Master Angler Contest records were checked that officials discovered that Ray Koecher of Chicago had landed a 41-pound, 2-ounce northern, which would have erased the present record of a 38-pound, 12-ounce northern that was caught in 1963. Unaware that he had a record-breaker, Koecher filleted the trophy with the rest of his catch. Isn't that a "frying" shame? — Manitoba

A Dirty Story. Water pollution is definitely getting to be a nasty problem in many parts of the country, and here is a case in point. A skin diver in New York state was hired by a conservation council to take water samples from a polluted stream. The diver went about his task, but was forced to surface only a few minutes after he submerged. The problem — he dropped his flashlight and the water was so dirty that visibility was less than one foot, even with the light on. — New York

Tub Thumpers. Apparently it is safer to hunt big game in Colorado than it is to take a bath. Anyway, that's the finding of the Colorado Department of Natural Resources. Officials report that six big-game hunters died in hunting accidents in the past year, while seven people died from bathtub falls. — Colorado

Not So Sporty Sportsmen. There are about 18 million active hunters in the United States. Most of them pursue their pastime with true sportsmanlike conduct. However, every once in awhile a couple of bad apples show up in the barrel, and here is a case in point. The Wyoming Game and Fish Commission reports that two Chicagoans recently paid out $500 each in fines for violation of Wyoming game laws. The fine may sound a bit steep, but the violations were even worse. The two hunters illegally pursued a mountain sheep from a helicopter, without a license, and in a closed area. After killing the sheep they abandoned it on the spot. This pair of not-so-sporty sportsmen got what they deserved. — Wyoming

Pain In The Neck. When an upstate New York outdoorsman went out to feed his wing-clipped pheasants that he keeps in an open pen surrounded by chicken wire, he discovered a dead goshawk. The predator had apparently spotted the pheasants and decided to grab an easy meal. But, the hawk evidently failed to see the chicken wire fence which interrupted his power-dive. The sudden interruption broke the goshawk's neck upon impact. -New York

Economic Loss, Louisville and Kentucky suffered a huge economic setback last January when a 200-employee Michigan electronics firm rejected Louisville as a possible plant site because there was no large public hunting area in the nearby vicinity. Officials consider the payroll loss upwards of a million dollars.- Kentucky