NEBRASKAland
WHERE THE WEST BEGINS
OCTOBER 1970 50 Cents
DEVILS NEST
home was never like this!
Speak Up
NEBRASKAland invites all readers to submit their comments, suggestions, and gripes to SPEAK UP. Each month the magazine will publish as many letters as space permits. Pictures are welcome. NEBRASKAland reserves the right to edit and condense letters.— Editor.STILL HOME —"I was born in Omaha and went to school in Bellevue before leaving Nebraska. Your magazine, and especially Speak Up makes me think about the old times in Nebraska. I fished the Platte and Elkhorn rivers as well as the Missouri River with its catfish. Looking back, a person can sure see the changing times. I guess there is no more difference than in California.
"NEBRASKAland has touched home. Maybe I'll see a familiar place in the magazine one day." —A. M. Mikos, Lake wood, California.
SURPRISE, SURPRISE-"In the June issue of NEBRASKAland, I noticed a Speak Up letter entitled Small Town Stories. I think it is a very interesting suggestion, and I think you should try it.
"To start you out, here are some facts, and the location of a small Nebraska town called Surprise. Though Surprise is not one of Nebraska's historical places, it symbolizes the typical Nebraska farming community.
"To make a long story short, Surprise was founded about 100 years ago when a thirsty pioneer crossing the prairie saw the Big Blue River and yelled 'Surprise'. Today the town, located 6 miles south of U.S. Highway 30 on State Spur 292, is considered part of the healthiest region of the United States.
"I sincerely hope you will consider making small town stories a monthly issue because I believe they will be entertaining, interesting, and profitable OCTOBER 1970 for all your readers." —David Hejl, Lincoln.
CANNIBALISM —"I was in northwestern Nebraska a year ago when I purchased the June, 1969, issue of NEBRASKAland. In the Speak Up column, I read Cannibals.
"Enclosed is part of a local newspaper containing a statement made by Ernest Hunt, a Kiowa Indian. His brief paragraph will verify your statement." —E. B. Johnson, Meers, Oklahoma.
Mr. Johnsons enclosure is from The Anadarko, Okla., Daily News. It reads: 'The Tonkawas were known as cannibals—not for physical needs —but they ate flesh as part of their rituals." — Editor
CORRECTION - "I must correct Mr. Lawrence of Alliance who wrote in this column in July about six-man football. First of all, it was Stephen Epler, not Bruce, who originated the game. And, at the time, he was teaching in my home town, Chester. Around 1950, he was honored for this accomplishment, the football field was named for him, and an annual game is played on Stephen Epler Day." —Marcia Duey Weary, Lincoln.
SUPER FISHY-"While fishing in the Merritt Reservoir near Valentine this Memorial Day weekend, my wife and I caught some of our best rainbow trout. We caught 9 or 10 weighing from 2 1/2 to 4% pounds. Then, some of the people of Valentine gave us the rest to fill our limit." —John Ver Steeg, Des Moines, Iowa.
INDIAN CULTURE-"The American Indian portraits in your May and June issues (Portraits of the Past) are wonderful character studies. Many Indian chiefs must be classified with the Wise Men of the world.
"Had the white man adopted some of the Indian culture when he invaded their lands, we would not have this pollution problem today.
"The Indian knew^that the world was ruled by unalterable laws. Knowing them, he was wise. Keeping them, he was happy. Breaking them, he would die."—H. E. Schmidt, Wichita, Kansas.
before you fire...
HOMESICK —"This poem was written by my aunt, Vada Ireland, who has lived in El Paso, Texas, for the past several years, though she was born on a farm near Mascot, Nebraska."-Mrs. M. R. Morgan, Elwood.
HOMESICK FOR NEBRASKA by Vada Ireland El Paso, Texas Do I get homesick for Nebraska1? Yes! Every blessed spring When the fields begin to green And the meadowlark to sing. Then again in Indian Summer When the air is shimmering blue. Once I thought I saw tomorrow And its roads that beckon too. I once was heir to all the nation I could wish upon a star, I longed for miles and mountains Scenes strange and new and far. 'Tis a trait of human bondage Thus to dream of long ago. Oh the blazing moon of harvests! Oh the friends I used to know! Here, with pleasant climes and faces With allegiances to all Nostalgia paints a picture Of Nebraska in the Fall! Do I get homesick for Nebraska? I was born upon that range Yes, Ym homesick for Nebraska At every seasons change.LAYING IT ON THE LINE - "I think I would caution this bus driver (inside front cover, April 1970) not to cut such corners on a curve. I am sure glad I wasn't going west in the other lane."-U. W. Vossberg, Springfield, Missouri.
HOSTILE HILLS —"While looking through some back issues of NEBRASKAland, I came across a very interesting article, Adventure into the Hostile Hills by Ken Moreland, in the August, 1969, issue. This story was one of your finest features, and reminds me of when I was a lad some 50 years ago.
"My family and I lived along the Platte River in central Nebraska. When work slowed, my two brothers and I would sometimes go camping along the river. We would cook over an open fire, as did the four boys in the article, and we always had a lot of fun." —Leonard Russell, Watertown, South Dakota.
BUGS BE GONE —"Here is a recipe for insect repellant citronella candles called Skeeter Skooters." —Mrs. Edward Tollefsen, Kearney.
CANDLE INGREDIENTS Assemble a coffee can, soft wax, wire wick, wick tabs, and citronella scent. Procedure Melt the soft wax, using two cans to make a double boiler. Put wax in the smaller of the two cans, with water in the larger. Immerse the small can in the large and place over fire, bringing wax to 150 degrees. Use a candy thermometer to check temperature. Add citronella at the rate of 3 percent of weight of wax or one tablespoon per pound of wax. Stir carefully. Pour wax into the container and allow to cool until a thin veil of scum forms. Insert wick with wick tab attached. Wick tab will set on the bottom of the container, with wick protruding through the top of the wax. Allow the candle to harden and it is ready for use.MEMORIES-"The article, Butchering Day, (August 1970) by Melvin Heim certainly brought back memories. I could relive those interesting days at DeSoto in Washington County." —Seymour L. Smith, Omaha.
ODE TO A TREE —"A good many years ago, the Cottonwood trees in the Republican River area almost died out. They had always been a dear part of my childhood — thus the poem." —Mrs. K. E. Lawrence, Aurora, Illinois.
TO A STURDY COTTONWOOD by Mrs. K. E. Lawrence Aurora, Illinois The memory of a brown-eyed girl, A schoolhouse in the snow, Brought fame and fortune to a poet Who lived so long ago. Tho fame and wealth may never seek me, And from great heights F11 not look down; I'll pass them up for a memory of An old cottonwood tree in my hometown. To church Yd go every Sunday Dressed in my very best. A demure and meek little maiden All tomboyish desires supressed. On children's day and Easter My dear auntie and my mother Would insist I speak a piece in church While they coached from under cover. After church and Sunday school My saintly task behind Down the path through bushes and fences My happiness Yd find. With caution from out of my secret tree In true Indian fashion Yd peer down. And see all imagination's wonders Sneak stealthily through my little town. When from some sorrow or feat I turn, When a friend's disapproval I see, In memory's eye over miles and through years I hastily climb the old cottonwood tree. May God in his shower of blessings Increase the cottonwood tree Just in case in Nebraska's future There should be another tomboy like me.JUST NOT SO-"I would like to correct the article A Lake Is Born (December, 1969). There was no Springer grocery in Oakdale. There was a Farmer's Union and a Springer managed it. My husband was working there at the time. I've lived in Oakdale since 1886, and I should know '-Mrs. Earl McNare, Oakdale.
NEBRASKAlandPLUM CREEK GUN SHOP
PYTHON POSSE
SOME MEMORABLE characters hung out at my service station in Holdrege back in 1933. None of them ever got into trouble, but they were known in the community as sort of a "gas station gang".
I recall one particular day in July that year, when several of them were on hand. Some of them are dead now, but Chet Conn, Fred Glass, George Studebaker, and Cap Coe were there when Oscar Bjorklund and his wife drove in with news of a monster snake.
Perhaps some of us had imagined seeing snakes once in a while, but seldom on a hot, dry afternoon. We listened eagerly as Oscar, leaving his wife in the car, poured out his tale. While driving to town from his farm, he had gone by his pasture.
"Someone left a pole in our field," he had said to his wife. Thinking he had better remove it, he stopped the car, crossed the ditch and fence, and walked halfway to the 15 or 18-foot "pole". As he neared, one end raised up and hissed at him. It took him only seconds to beat a hasty retreat to the car, and then he rushed into town.
Now, I suppose I took it kindly that he came to my station, although he probably considered us a bunch of rowdies. But he knew he would get action from us. We listened to his story with elation, for it gave us something to do. It was the most exciting thing that had happened since the doings on the Fourth of July.
A handful of us made brief plans, piled into a car, and headed for the field where Oscar had seen the critter. Unfortunately, nothing there looked like a snake or a pole. So we started ranging farther afield until we ran into Oscar's brother, Charlie Bjorklund.
Charlie told us he had been cultivating corn when something frightened his dog. Wondering what it was, he had climbed down from the tractor to investigate. There, looking like a green dragon in the cornstalks was the biggest snake he had ever seen.
"It ran me off!" Charlie exclaimed. Then he had gone looking for a club to use as a weapon, but when he returned the big serpent had gone.
With Charlie's episode fresh in our minds, we started combing the field. Sure enough, we soon found what we were looking for. Cutting across the listed rows was a single track, but not the kind a wheel would make. It pushed to the side 8
We were hot on the trail now, converging on the path as if it led to a treasure. We wanted to capture the beast to see what it was. We followed the strange track to a large plum thicket in the center of the field. Perhaps 40 or 50 yards square, the thicket was like an island in a sea of corn, with the listed rows circling it. The snake had apparently gone in.
Like drunken sailors peering into a heavy fog, we circled the thicket, craning our necks and stalling for time. Finally, we decided that the only way to really see just what was going on was to enter the thorny entanglement. Somehow, Chet Conn and I were jostled into position and pushed into the brush. Sometimes waddling and sometimes crawling, we eased ourselves beneath and between the jungle of thorns and gnarled branches. We paused every few seconds, scrutinizing the ground ahead, expecting a huge snake to attack and swallow us.
I was perspiring heavily as I crept along. It was dark in there, since sunlight had to filter through all those leaves, branches, and thorns. Occasionally, one of the guys outside the thicket would yell, asking NEBRASKAland if we could see anything. We didn't answer though, thinking our shouts would reveal our location to the beast we were stalking.
Perhaps 5 or 10 minutes passed. With each cautious advance (surely we would sight it before long) our mission seemed more foolhardy.
Suddenly we heard a frightful noise in the bushes to our left. Both our hearts must have stopped momentarily before we panicked and blasted out of there. Chet had managed to get behind me on the way in, but I passed him on the way out. We gave no thought to those treacherous thorns, nor did we realize that our clothing and flesh were being ripped away.
Our exit lasted only seconds before we burst from the thicket, panting, sweating, and bleeding profusely. Only then did we realize that it had not been a vicious snake at all, merely a pheasant which had been startled from its afternoon nap.
We stood shamefacedly in front of our friends, unmindful of the bits of skin and pieces of clothing we had left behind us in the thorns. They had watched our rapid retreat with broad smiles on their faces because they had seen the pheasant go up and knew exactly what had happened.
After regaining our composure, the entire group stomped around the bush but never came up with scale or fang, or even a trail showing that the snake may have come out. Either he was still in there, or the trail we had followed was his exit route.
At any rate, the snake was never seen again, and our adventure ended much less dramatically than we had thought it would. Later, we surmised that it must have been a python, probably escaped from a circus train which had passed through on tracks across the Bjorklund farm a few days before.
My cuts and scratches healed, and the memory of that hot, summer-afternoon snake hunt faded. But every once in a while, that moment when the pheasant rattled out of the brush comes back to me. Then I can see Chet Conn and myself again, racing through the thorns. It wasn't funny for the two of us at the time, but now I have to chuckle every time I tell the story. And I still don't like snakes. THE END
Do you know of an exciting true outdoor tale that happened in Nebraska? Just jot down the incident and send it to: Editor, NEBRASKAland Magazine, State Capitol, Lincoln, Nebraska 68509.Starring the Radiant Starlite Tub/Shower
Fashion, flair and fiber glass best describe the beautiful newsculptured Starlite Tub/Shower Enclosures. No grouting or tile is needed and relatively no maintenance necessary. Always easily wiped clean they continually look bright and new. Write today...TRAVEL TIP OF THE MONTH
Chicago is a Frontier Town.
Our newest and largest. Starting soon with nonstop jets between Chicago's Midway Airport and Omaha, and thru-jets to Denver, we'll be making Chicagoland a major part of Frontierland-over 100 Frontier Towns in 17 states. Chicago is our kind of town.GETTING THE JUMP ON BIRDS
Take time to touch up field techniques. From tackle to togs, the few minutes spent can pay off in game aplenty after season really gets booming
NOT MANY SHOTGUNNERS are able to keep their hand or eye in during the off-season, and most hunters admit they need several shots at birds to figure out what they are doing wrong before getting back into the routine of shooting.
When the upland-bird hunter waits until opening day to get his practice, chances are the first dozen or so opportunities will be muffed. While a few of these misses can be blamed on tricky birds, a new brand of shells, or other excuses that come to mind at the time, hunting companions still guffaw. But perhaps they, too, miss some shots on opening day. After all, a hunter has to identify the bird when it gets up, figure out the range fairly accurately, compute the lead necessary for the speed, range, and direction of flight, and shoot —all in a second or two. To be consistently successful takes practice. Even the best gun hand loses his timing and distance-perception when he lays off for long periods. To provide practical and factual tips for the occasional shotgunner, we prevailed upon an authority on the subject, Bob Deitemeyer. As an active hunter, trap and skeet shooter, and manufacturer of shooting equipment, he is well versed in all phases of the sport. Bob is general manager of Western Gun, one of the largest firearm dealers in the area, and of Pacific Gunsight Company, makers of reloading equipment and scopes. He has some definite and sensible views on clothing, shells, and other supplies used in hunting.
Except for absolute beginners, hunters will already have at least one shotgun. Selection of loads for that gun will vary slightly, depending upon the bore, the intended game, and the season. This latter consideration is because birds become wilder later in the hunting season for a couple of reasons — they have seen hunters and know enough to get out of the way, and after snowfall they see and hear much better and can vamoose sooner.
Gunners wanting to get ready for the season should first get in some shooting practice. Bob believes the best way to do this is at a skeet range because of the flight patterns of the targets. The next best and probably the easiest method, he says, is to have a friend toss clay targets for the gunner with a hand trap. Ranges are fairly numerous in the state, but other areas can also be used, utilizing the hand thrower.
"This is an inexpensive method, yet a tricky tosser can slip a lot of misses between the hits until the OCTOBER 1970
"With a stack of targets and plenty of shells, get the tosser to flip out several slow birds, easy gliders at various elevations and angles. If these seem easy, increase the speed and make the flights tougher. You can duplicate almost anything a pheasant or quail does. Perhaps only a dozen shots will be required, but this is great fun, and the more shooting the better. Then, trade places and let the tosser shoot. Just keep safety rules in mind here, as well as in the field. The tosser should stay well behind the line of fire, preferably behind the shooter. Try low-flying targets, some lofted well up, some close, and some far out, plus some crossing from both directions. These are the most difficult to hit because they require the most lead," Bob says.
Clay targets are tough to hit with
a full-choke gun, but letting the birds
get out a ways and expecting a few
misses will lessen the disappointment. Rather than switch to a skeet
11
The same is true of ammunition. Don't use only loads with No. 9 shot during the clay target sessions, then switch to magnum field loads with No. 4's for hunting. In fact, this is one point Bob specifically points out.
Bob recommends "high brass" or heavy field loads of 3/4 drams of powder and 1 1/4 ounces of shot for the 12-gauge with a 2 1/2-inch chamber. Shot size for pheasants should be No. 7 1/2 for the first month or so, then No. 6 later in the season. There is no need for larger shot. In fact, he stresses, using larger shot for longer-range shooting merely results in crippled birds which limp away and die. A single No. 4 pellet, for example, will penetrate a ringneck at long range, but the bird will continue to fly until he bleeds to death, seldom to be recovered by the hunter.
For quail, Bob considers No. 8 shot the optimum load for the 12-gauge, 16-gauge, and 20-gauge. No. 9 shot is permissible in the .410, however. Avoid full choke if possible, as most quail shooting is short range stuff", but a one-shotgun hunter can use the full constriction by waiting a little longer to shoot.
When shooting ducks, Bob finds No. 6 shot far superior when working over decoys, but No. 4's get the nod for pass shooting. Of course, the 12 3-inch magnum with its 4 drams of powder and IV2 ounces of No. 4 shot would be ideal for high-flying ducks or geese, but No. 6 shot is plenty heavy for geese over decoys. Larger shot than No. 4 is just not necessary, in his opinion, at least for anything that flies.
While discussing shot, it might be well to put in a plug for the "shot protector" or one-piece plastic cup which holds the pellets and at the same time seals the gases behind. This increases efficiency by keeping all the power behind the departing shot, and also by keeping the shot from being deformed.
Plastic cups provide tighter patterns, but this does not necessitate more accurate shooting. Actually, the cups make the shot load more effective because there are no stray, deformed pellets. Deformed pellets don't stop birds because they are never in the right place at the right time. They look good on a piece of paper when testing pattern, but they actually get to the bird so much later than the main shot string that they can't put anything in the pot. Stop-action photos prove beyond question that utmost efficiency comes from plastic-encased shot, so the average gunner will get much better results with them.
Other factors to consider when making plans for the field include shooting glasses. A pair of tempered glasses, either plain or prescription, can protect eyes from damage caused by gun malfunctions, stones, sticks, and possibly stray shot. Of the many safety measures which should be taken when hunting, shooting glasses are one of the least troublesome and most important.
Safe gun handling must be reviewed and memorized to the point where it is natural. Keeping the gun unloaded except when in the field after game, never pointing the gun anywhere except where an accidental discharge would fall harmlessly, keeping the safety on except when firing, and always unloading the weapon at the end of a field, should be automatic actions.
Suitable clothing is another consideration that might seem unimportant before the season, but means the difference between comfort and misery when the birds or snow fly. Bob suggests two sets of garments, and they need not be new or fancy. Have lightweight shirt and pants with a shell vest or jacket for use early in the season or during mild spells later. Then, when cold weather moves in, wear thermal underwear and a couple of shirts which can be removed as the day, or you, warm up. A heavy, bulky jacket hinders movement and accuracy when a fast shot is necessary, and overheating during a long walk invites chills when you stop.
Speaking of exercise brings up another point —don't suddenly begin extensive hunting if you are not in shape. Start doing some walking or other physical conditioning weeks or months ahead, or work into the hunting season gradually. A sudden strain in the field can lead to collapse miles from medical help. Hunters who are not in top shape should never hunt alone, nor get into terrain where companions cannot get to them. Besides, companions make the hunt much more enjoyable.
Most preparations for the field are common sense which everyone knows, yet few make. Shooting practice is probably the most notable when lacking, as it is directly related to success.
Hitting clay targets consistently will mean that a pheasant should pose no difficulties. There will still be some that keep right on going as you stand there unbelieving, smoking shotgun in hand, but you will bring down more than you miss. For some reason, the hunter remembers his good shots, but companions remember his misses. If you don't miss, they will only remember the fun and that you are a safe hunter, and you will never find yourself short of hunting companions. THE END
NEBRASKAlandYour favorite photo could win a 14-day vacation on us!
Case of the Cockney Crook
With help from Scotland Yard and local police, Cody sent out his cowboy agents to solve the mystery
IT WAS BACK in merry old England, 1903, when a youthful would-be Robin Hood made off with Buffalo Bill Cody's treasury of jewels. That triggered the action, and Cody's super cowpokes suddenly became super sleuths.
Buffalo Bill's Wild West and Congress of Rough Riders of the World had been touring Europe. In the spring, they had performed before the King and Queen of England, as well as the future King George V and Queen Mary, making four successive rulers patrons of the show. But in the summer things were not going well. Commoners were not spending money on extravaganzas like the Wild West Show, and business was slow. Then, (Continued on page 51)
14 NEBRASKAland
NEBRASKA BEACHCOMBING
Discards of the past often become the most sought-after objects of today, but people accumulate them only when a suitable time has elapsed
AMERICANS ARE great accumulators. They buy the material things of life with ^ wild abandon, then soon abandon them just as wildly. When an article becomes cracked, rusted, empty, broken, or simply is not used for a while, it is discarded.
Strangely enough, however, discarded objects are often the most sought after —not right away, perhaps, but after a period of time has elapsed. Just as Americans accumulate and discard, so do they re-collect. Antique and "primitive" collecting has grown by leaps and bounds each year until almost every home has classic examples of the "good old days" adorning its living room, patio, den, or yard.
Not all of these historic art objects come from quaint antique shops. Many of them are unearthed wherever they happened to come to rest after being discarded so long ago. The finding of them makes the objects much more valuable than the actual cost because of the personal involvement. And, often this involvement includes sweet little old ladies who can be seen prowling through old dumps, around abandoned farmsteads, or along riverbanks in search of relics.
Actually, the hobby of beachcombing is growing steadily. With few exceptions, it is a very wholesome and commendable hobby. It gets people outside, gives them exercise, involves them in something for fun, and helps preserve remnants of the past which would otherwise be destroyed or lost.
Not all items unearthed by these modern-day beachcombers are of historic or intrinsic value. Far from it. Often the hunters drag home chunks of driftwood, worthless pieces of rusted iron, worn-out horseshoes, bits of glass or leather, and myriad other "junk". Yet, there may be some decorative use for these bits of debris, and, chances are, even if ultimately OCTOBER 1970 thrown away again, they will no longer be litter on the landscape.
Although most beachcombers are probably adults, this is a pastime ideally suited for children as well. Running up and down the shore-line of a lake or along the banks of a stream takes an amount of energy usually readily available in the young. Yet, it is a good team or family project because the elders can best decide what is worthy of preserving, although value judgment is seldom consistent in any two groups.
Almost everyone who spends a considerable amount of time in the outdoors picks up loose objects occasionally. Much like the objects of a scavenger hunt, some seem ludicrous, while others are legitimate and often valuable because of their attraction to a wide range of "gatherers". Tastes vary, of course, depending on the individuals, and where they live. Cars full of tourists passing through Nebraska often cause lifted eyebrows because the tops are loaded down with gnarled driftwood, broken-down old chairs, antlers, barrels, and bue-g-v wheels. Even animal skulls find their way into plush eastern apartments.
To study the techniques and habits of the modern beachcomber, NEBRASKAland Magazine accompanied a family on a typical outing.
Mr. and Mrs. Floyd Varn of Elgin spend a considerable amount of time out-of-doors. Mr. Varn, Elgin postmaster, has been a scout-master for 12 years, which has led him through numerous camping and hiking excursions. Then, fishing takes the family afield, as do picnics, vacations, and other outings. Late in July, while a niece and nephew were staying with them, the Varns headed north out of Elgin to beachcomb.
The party was made up of Mr. and Mrs.
Varn, their son Larry, foster-daughter Sheila,
17
Mrs. Varn's mother, Mrs. Lydia Armstrong of
Elgin, and Karen and Brian Varn of Superior,
children of Floyd's brother Arnold, a state
patrolman, and his wife. They planned to stroll
along the banks of the Missouri River above
Lewis and Clark Lake near Niobrara, then stop
at the Niobrara River, and hit part of the Elkhorn River just north of Elgin on the way home.
Although many rivers in the state were running low at the time because of a dry spell, the Missouri was different. It was flowing bank-full. Therefore, the best hunting grounds were underwater.
Upriver a few miles the story was the same. Brian and Larry, however, managed to divert their attention to wildlife —frogs which peered at them through moss and vegetation growing in the water at the base of the riverbank. It was a muddy-footed Brian who climbed into the car when it was time to head for the second stop along the Niobrara River. He had captured a frog, but when he handed it to the girls, while he climbed up the bank, they squealed and let it go, as girls will usually do.
Several sizable chunks of driftwood high on the bank were retrieved just before the Varns left the Missouri.
The east bank of the Niobrara River just above the Highway 12 bridge was a wide, long expanse of flat sand, pocked here and there where large pieces of driftwood had stopped, causing the water to eat away the sand around them. Several of these twisted pieces of root and limb were worthy of preserving.
Shallow water and sandy beaches provided a perfect playground, and the children were quick to take advantage of them. As they frolicked and ran through the water, the Varns and Mrs. Armstrong strolled along the wood-littered beach.
Unusual items are commonplace along the river. One such object, found by Mrs. Armstrong, was a small window box that had drifted in from some unknown yard upstream. The little box, with decorative circles cut in the ends, was perched on the sand with wild plants growing in it. Roots of the plants extended through the bottom into the sand beneath. An old cant hook, probably used by some farmer long ago to shuffle logs around for cabin building or fencing, had likewise probably made a long trip downriver many years ago.
Bottles are frequently washed miles away from their starting point, but the only ones found on this July day were a rubber-stoppered brown bottle common to the veterinary trade, and a ketchup bottle.
Many other interesting pieces of debris might have been found, but high water had long since receded and footprints in the sand indicated others had been there before.
Just as the children sought the cooling waters in the mid-90-degree temperature, so had others. Almost in the shade of the highway bridge, eight teenagers were playing a game of football. The knee-deep water slowed running plays, but scoring appeared to be only a minor part of the contest.
18Pushing onward, the family of beachcombers again loaded up and headed south toward the Elkhorn River. But, by the time the river was reached, the children found they had worn themselves out and couldn't find strength to go on. Even a brief rest and a cold drink from the pump at Neligh park were not enough to revive their energy. So, after a brief, longing look up and down the river, Floyd declared the expedition complete. But, there would be other days and other stretches of river to explore, and most certainly, other curios to discover.
Nebraska has more than its share of beachcombing opportunities. The thousands of miles of running streams and many of the reservoirs provide periodic "harvests" of antiques, driftwood, and primitives. Also, Indian artifacts are virtually everywhere in the state. While not literally beachcombing, the idea is the same — reclaiming objects discarded or lost by people OCTOBER 1970 of an earlier time. Often, landowners permit people to search their fields during the seasons when crops cannot be damaged. Relics exposed by farming operations and rain will eventually be lost again, unless they are picked up. Old dumps, Indian villages, abandoned farmsteads, old railroad right-of-ways, and places where pioneer traffic was heavy, are prime spots.
As a history-preserving hobby, or merely a way to spend a few leisure hours, beachcombing is attracting a growing number of followers. Bottles, insulators, coins, barbed wire, lamps, furniture, and countless other trivia from times past have new uses now, and they are less apt to be discarded a second time. Beachcombers are, after all, perhaps the most avid of the accumulators. THE END
19
ANTLER ASPIRATIONS
Reading, writing, arnnmetic were never as informative as my first crack at elusive Platte Unit deer
OCTOBER 1970FOR YEARS, I nurtured an urge to hunt deer, but I never mentioned it to anyone, or went beyond the planning stage, until the 1969 season rolled around. Then, I told myself, it's high time to do more than just think.
Before long, however, uncertainty edged into my eagerness. I knew neither the game nor the hunting techniques, so I would be hitting it pretty cold. Still, I reasoned, everybody has to be a beginner.
My doubts were compounded when I casually announced my plans to friends. Some told me about the time required to scout the territory and trail the deer. Others said I would get buck fever, while others asked technical questions which completely puzzled me.
Until then, my shooting experience consisted of occasional hunting and plinking with a .22 rifle or pistol, shotgunning for pheasants and ducks, and sending a few rounds toward distant, fog-shrouded targets with an M-l during my Army days. I had never used a rifle scope and my only contact with deer had been at a zoo or on a friend's dinner table. However, my gun-safety quotient is above reproach, so I figured it was just a matter of becoming familiar with the high-power weapon, learning how deer behave, going to their habitat, and putting bullet and critter together.
Finally, it was time to send in my permit application. A college buddy, Darrel Armstrong, and his wife Darlene, are teachers at Big Springs. Darrel promised to equip me with a rifle, put me up, feed me (which runs to a considerable expense), take me hunting, and keep me entertained. We would hunt in the Platte Unit in southwest Nebraska, about a four-hour Interstate drive from Lincoln.
My wife and two-year-old son Sean, picked me up after class Friday, November 7, 1969, at Dawes School, where I teach social studies. We headed west. Arriving in Big Springs about 10 p.m., we went to the Armstrongs' home and began making plans for the following morning. Saturday would start with breakfast at 4 a.m.
Bouncing along toward the South Platte River before dawn the next morning, Darrel continued briefing his novice companion. He led me across a channel of the South Platte River to a tree, pointed into the darkness where he had built a platform some 10 feet up, and told me to wait there for a buck. Then he left. In the dim light I saw several flocks of ducks glide overhead. I stood like stone, except for an occasional wiggling of toes and turning of head.
Almost two hours passed. I was getting tired and fidgety when two deer appeared in the distance. I clutched my rifle, tense as my heart raced, and shakily put the scope on the deer. They were crossing the sand bottom of the channel exactly where I had been earlier, and were coming right at me casually nibbling along the way. It was exhilarating. But neither of them wore antlers. Watching hopefully for a buck to come along behind the does, I eyed them through the scope of the borrowed .243. From time to time, I crosshaired the vital areas. Finally, when they were just a few yards away, they sensed my presence and scampered off.
A few minutes later, Darrel came back and told me to get out of the tree. We saw a third doe, pushed from its cover by a couple of quail hunters and their dogs. Then we joined some friends for a pre-arranged drive through a strip of timber along the river. Among the new arrivals were Jack Henderson, another "first-time" deer hunter; his wife Elaine, who came along just to see what deer hunting was like, and Harry and Betty Rogers, veteran hunters who were out, as much as anything, to help us beginners. Darlene had stayed at home because she was feeling ill. All my companions (Continued on page 62)
21
a little bit of fall
Angels in heaven put down their harps and smile favorably on Nebraska during the fairest season
AUTUMN is the fairest of the seasons, when shadows lengthen; when farmers feel an inner glow of warmth because their harvesting is done and their crops are safe in storage.
It is the quiet time before winter, when distant sounds drift by on gentle breezes like vesper chimes on Sunday.
Golden rays of sunlight kiss the leaves and make them blush. Narrow footpaths wind their way from yellow fields of stubble still unplowed, to hidden thickets where the warblers used to sing.
Skies are blue and clear.
Then silence, as even the breezes die. But in the stillness there is beauty. Angels in heaven put down their harps and smile with favor on Nebraska in the fall.
One day is as bright as the next and the farmers begin the fall plowing. Breezes rise to nip at the leaves and seldom know where they are going. Turned soil edges the field as the plowing continues. Like a letter edged in black,
Squirrels dart to and fro, gathering nuts for sleepy days ahead. Cottonwoods don their richest hues as the glory of fall crowns each tree. Rivulets ripple from pebble to pebble as if to escape the approaching freeze.
Already, Jack Frost has traced his icy fingertips along the hedgerows, caressing the countryside with silver strokes. Hoarfrost hides during Indian summer's daytime warmth, giving way to the whims of Mother Nature's colorful capers.
Autumn is the season of excitement and challenge for hunters who penetrate wilderness areas seeking game. Nothing is quite as exhilarating as the sight of a covey of quail 24
flushing from a stand of bluestem, or the sound
of a cocky pheasant as it cackles from cover.
Every hunter who has heard the far-off honking of Canada geese has heard the call of the
wild, and every person who has breathed the
cool, crisp air of a clear, fall day has inhaled
the very breath of life.
Autumn is the season of transformation; when summertime garments give way to the fashions of fall; when trees shed their flowing verdant robes and brace themselves for coming winds; when migratory birds turn south to warmer climes; when the lazy haze of summer days gives way to crystal clarity; when silver grass sweeps the darkening sky; when the wild plum matures in crimson red before it falls to its bed of leaves for winter; when the temperature drops and makes you feel chilly after the summer sun's warmth.
Twilight comes. The angels return to their heavenly music while the sun sinks away to another land.
Autumn is the symbolic season when lengthening shadows reach out, as if to embrace the last moments of life before the long winter. THE END
SONAR SEARCH
The "little green box" sends out signals showing exactly where fish are located. It has earned a place in angler's gear
LET A FISH show you how to catch fish. That is how he likes to say it. His name is Jim Fish and he runs an automotive tune-up and repair shop in Lincoln. He also catches many fish.
It was 7 a.m. on the Fourth of July, 1970, when Jim, his pretty 16-year-old daughter Pat, and I loaded the boat and headed out onto Harlan County Reservoir. Jim idled the 17-foot, inboard-outboard south out of Gremlin Cove. Once out on the lake, Jim hit the throttle and the boat seemed to lift clear of the water. Within minutes we were near the middle of the lake.
"Looks like a good place to start," Jim said. But instead of reaching for his rod and reel, he lifted a small green box from the floor of the boat and set it on the dash.
"There's no sense fishing where there are no fish," Jim said, as he lifted the lid of the box to reveal a round, speedometer-like dial. Jim takes a lot of stock in his little green box, which is an electronic fish finder. Pat was busy unwinding the wire from around the transducer, a five-inch-long black cylinder mounted on a board equipped with two large suction cups.
"This is the business end of the locator," Pat said, handing the transducer to her dad. Jim plugged the wire into the locator and then attached the suction cups to the side of the boat so the transducer ran just under the surface pointing almost straight down.
"How deep do you think the water is right here?" Jim asked me.
"That's pretty hard to tell," I answered, "but I would guess about 20 feet."
"You're not too far off," Jim said. "Hold on for just a second and we'll know for sure."
I moved up for a closer look at the locator. The dial was calibrated from zero to 100. When Jim flipped the machine on, a narrow band of red light appeared at zero. As he adjusted it, a second band appeared at about 17 or 18 feet.
"The zero light just shows the machine is on," Jim explained. "The second band is the bottom. Essentially, the locator is a sonar unit. It sends out sound waves which bounce back from the bottom or from fish. When they bounce back, they show up as light bands on the dial. The narrow bottom band we have right now means that the bottom is quite smooth, probably clay or mud. A rocky or uneven surface on the bottom will show up as a wider band."
As we moved farther out on the lake, Pat spotted a school of fish on the dial. They appeared as narrow flashes of light between four and seven feet under the surface.
"They're probably carp," Jim said. "At this time of the year the rough fish usually stay within the top 10 feet of water. If you (Continued on page 52)
NEBRASKAland
A Country Kind of Autumn
In this season of spice, cocky pheasants flaunt their feathered finery on a blazing background
THE FIRST EARLY and unexpected snowfall in October quickly melts on the breast of warm earth, but the frost of fickle fall lingers long enough to work its magic, and leaves behind its special charm. Our area in NEBRASKAland, the Sand Hills, has been touched by the Master Painter's brush. Mother Nature has created a masterpiece of design, deftly coloring the greens of summer into the shades of fall.
Mornings are as crisp as a bite from a new red apple. Colors are brilliant. Yesterday the ranch meadow was a green sea under the summer sun. Today it is a mixture of rosy tint, splashed about with artistic license. Haystacks stand golden against a base of tweed-colored hills. The pond is a broken mirror of floating glass, edged with a tattered fringe of grass. Orange stands of tall reed canary grass rim the slough, framing an indigo sky. Cattails show brown velvet along the ditch banks.
A small figure in jeans and pigtails, followed by two busy, bushy-tailed dogs, meanders through a fairy forest of dried cornstalks in the garden. She stoops to gather glossy golden pumpkins in a gunny sack. She drags her bounty to the edge of the strawberry patch and kneels to seek a few last berries, hidden beneath the protective foliage. The red juice of success is obligingly licked from her chin by her pink-tongued canine companions who romp around in the best of spirits, demanding (Continued on page 62)
30 NEBRASKAland
AN OLD ADAGE FALLS FLAT
I never let my two dogs work on rabbits, but the birds are unco-operative, so I give them their heads
THE PHEASANTS seemed plentiful, but dry weather kept them scattered and wilder than western broncos with tight cinches. Unaccustomed to running 50 to 60 miles a day, Dewey Zachau and I were rapidly tiring as we stalked the uncooperative ringnecks.
We didn't know it at first, but my dogs had the solution. My 2 Brittanies, 11-year-old Topper, and Holly, a 2-year-old female, were doing fine jobs on those pheasants, but they could only hold a few on point. If it had not been so dry, things might have been different. So until the next rain, we would have to keep our hamstrings loose.
We had driven 500 miles from our homes in Hawthorne, Wise, to get in some shooting near Randolph, and to give my younger dog a chance to work with the veteran, who might not make many more hunting seasons.
Since there were only two of us, we worked only shelterbelts, abandoned farms, and CAP public hunting lands, leaving big corn and milo fields to larger groups. We seldom hunted this type of cover without kicking out two or three bunnies. And often they were all that kept us from drawing a blank. On 32 the fourth day, the weather changed and much-needed moisture helped the pheasant situation. Until then, rabbits were the only targets.
For years, Dewey and I had been hunting pheasants, always upholding my Granddad's rule —never let a bird dog work on rabbits. "If my old Bob ever turned up his nose at a grouse to chase a rabbit," Grandpappy would say, "why, I'd pepper his rear end with fine shot till he'd quit or couldn't walk. . ."
Being an admirer of the old fellow ever since I can remember, I let this theory stick in my craw all these years. Then, Dewey and I let ourselves learn from the dogs.
Tired and discouraged after a slow and disappointing start, I let the dogs go when they started after a bunny. Pretty soon the action picked up to fever pitch. On many occasions, one dog would be trying to pin down a pheasant, while the other would be smelling out a bunny. During that hunt, Topper and Holly never changed. If one started on a pheasant, the dog stuck with him. If the other started on a bunny, the job got done.
Sometime after we gave the dogs their heads, we followed them into an old farmyard surrounded on three sides by a cornfield. Two bunnies greeted us, then NEBRASKAland disappeared under a building. The yard was prime cover for ringnecks as well as bunnies. There seemed to be so much scent around that the dogs were going in circles, trying to come up with a good track.
Dewey was following Topper toward what must have been a beautiful orchard in its time, but was now covered with briars, thorn apples, and weeds. I was staying close to Holly, who was moving in on some fast-moving pheasants. I heard Dewey pump 3 shots through his old 12-gauge and turned just in time to see a big rooster go end over teakettle in the middle of the orchard. Topper was disappearing around the corner of an old cornerib. In a matter of moments, he returned with a plump little bunny, victim of the first or second shot.
Dewey had made a nice double on the rooster and a stubborn little bunny, but Mr. Chink was still out there in that entanglement, and he was very likely alive and hiding. Our only hope was to send Topper into the weeds. We found an opening in the fence and Dewey went in. Every once in awhile I could hear Dewey calling the dog, but his six-foot, three-inch frame was hidden in the tangle of weeds.
Holly and I were scouting the outside, just in case the rooster had filtered through, when I heard Dewey's OCTOBER 1970 reaction to stumbling over a barbed wire. It had been strung like a booby trap between two plum trees.
As Dewey emerged from the tall weeds, he noticed Topper on point at the end of a decayed lumber pile. Moving in he kicked a couple of boards. Out scooted the rooster. Topper's first attempt produced only a mouthful of tail feathers, but his second try was successful, and Dewey had his well-deserved mixed double. He was not sure, though, if it was worth the twin vents in the knees of his new hunting pants.
With the help of our faithful dogs, we depleted the rabbit population somewhat in those days. And, as for pheasants, if I had not missed that big CAP rooster around quitting time the last day, we would have had a full bag.
Tired, windbeaten, and about 10 pounds lighter, we sat down to enjoy our last meal with Chappie Chapman, chief whip of a very fine cafe in Randolph. According to the chef, cottontails rank high on the bill of fare for local nimrods, and later, after a meal of them, I could see why.
As for my dogs, I'm certain they still enjoy Mr. Chink's scent as well as Brer Rabbit's. So, don't pass up those little corn-fed cottontails. Just leave your dogs alone. They'll show no partiality at all. THE END
33
The Missouri Watch
For Coast Guard crewmen, stretch of river is a way of life, and their cutter a moving workshop
WHIPPING LIKE A berserk lunker on the end of an unbreakable line, the Missouri River buoy spewed a rooster tail of water with each gyration. From the air-conditioned bridge of the U.S. Coast Guard Cutter Chippewa, the roiling water resembled the wake of some gigantic fish, though the pilot's trained eye told him better. Instinctively, he reached for a clipboard to note the maverick buoy's position. Then he settled back into the pilot's chair and continued to scan the river ahead. The fouled buoy would be pulled later. Farther downstream, buoys bobbed in rhythm with the bump and grind of the murky water as the river disappeared into one of its myrikd bends. Depth gauges signaled a steady channel, all buoys in position. Yet an Army Corps of Engineers patrol boat had reported that this stretch of river — just below the Brownville bridge — needed some work.
Making about 13 miles per hour, the Chippewa slipped beneath the steel strands of the bridge and began to slow, her twin 330-horsepower diesel engines churning water like giant egg beaters. Dishes in galley racks threatened to jump from their positions. Slowly, the big boat swung in an arc which would skirt the bank. Then she moved into the channel
A buoy, worse for its months of wear, tossed erratically below the bow of the 90-foot work barge lashed to the cutter. Leo Camerer, pilot for the Chippewa, jockied the big boat into position and ordered ready crewmen to lower their smallboat over the side. Loading a square sighting board into the flat-bottomed out-board, they hurtled past the Chippewa and headed for shore to provide alignment for the new buoy and to service the lighted shore aids on this southern stretch of the river.
Ready on the work barge, the buoying crew made final preparations for the marker to be put in place. Working through a loudspeaker on the work deck, BM1 Camerer, and the boat's master Chief Martin Pojar, kept the men informed of bridge operations and what was needed of them. On command, the winch operator dropped the anchoring spud, a foot-square steel beam, through a framed hole in the barge and onto the muddy Missouri River bottom. With the order to set the buoy, the men attached a one-pound, disk-shaped metal plate and 90 feet of three-eighths-inch steel cable to the nozzle of the jetting rig. Lowering the buoy anchor to the bottom, a jet of air literally blasted it into the riverbed. Retrieving the nozzle, crew members pushed the new buoy over the side of the barge and the boat began backing away to retrieve the old one. Its work done, the U.S. Coast Guard Cutter Chippewa pulled out and continued its voyage to the end of the run at Rulo.
Since its inception in 1790, the U.S. Coast Guard has been in every major American conflict. Until recently, the organization was under the direction of the Treasury Department, but then it was transfered to the Department of Transportation, though it reverts to Navy status in time of war. But more important to Nebraskans, specially constructed Coast Guard buoy tenders ply the waters of the Missouri River, keeping them open and marked for all types of river transportation. Based at Omaha, the CGC Chippewa and her sister ship, the CGC Gasconade, run the river from Rulo to Sioux City, charting its course and providing navigational aids for any craft using the waterway. Skippered by BMC Pojar, the Chippewa charts and maintains the channel from Rulo to Omaha, making the round trip every other week during open-water navigation months.
Built in 1965, the 141-ton, 75-foot Chippewa may not be the biggest thing on the river, but it is certainly one of the most complex. With a full complement of 12 men, the boat is decked out with dual depth finders, radar, and a communications system that would rattle James Bond. Almost antiseptic, the Chippewa garners more than ordinary pride from NEBRASKAland
her crew. Even the engine room resembles
a ship-board operating room in its sanitation.
Enroute downriver, crew members are kept busy cleaning, painting, and renovating equipment. A paint brush often seems an extension of a seaman's arm by the time the boat, averaging 13 miles per hour downriver, reaches Rulo. Even with all the activity, there is always time for military classes, ranging from damage control to equipment operation. Then it is back to cleaning. According to CS-2 Larry "Cook" Webb, messman and recent Vietnam returnee, "Keeping the boat in good shape isn't too hard if you keep at the job. But if you let it go, it takes a long time to take up the slack." In Webb's galley, it is difficult to find anything amiss, even for an experienced inspector like Chief Pojar.
Contrary to popular belief, there is not a port around every bend in the river. That means the cutter has to be completely self-sustaining. According to BM1 Camerer, the boat could probably stay on the river for almost a month without food replenishment. Fuel is another matter, since bucking the Missouri River's swift current eats fuel like mad. Even with the power of the two big diesels, upriver speeds seldom exceed four miles per hour.
"Coming upriver, you look at a tree on the bank," said Camerer. "Then you sit back and smoke a cigarette. When it's finished, you look again. All too often, that tree is still right where it was. Other times we hit ribbons of lesser currents and really shoot along. The river is that unpredictable," he said.
Unlike commercial tow boats plowing upriver and down, the Cutter Chippewa seldom runs all night. It is tied to anything big enough to hold the boat overnight. That may mean a tree, a rock, or a post—just as long as it is a safe area where possibilities of collision with other craft are remote. It is probably just as well that it stops for part of the night because a day on the river begins at 4:30 a.m. when the cook starts preparing breakfast. By 5 a.m. the rest of the crew is up and eating, and the boat and work get underway by 5:30. Depending on the condition of the river and the buoys, work may go on until 10 or 11 p.m. And, on rare occasions, the Chippewa will run
The crew often makes decisions on what happens aboard the tender. Most of the men have served on similar craft before, and know what to do and how to do it. Therefore, they frequently vote on where the boat ties up and determine what time their work is finished by the way they handle their duties. But on a 116-mile stretch of river studded with 226 buoys and 98 lighted shore aids, there is a lot to do and seldom enough time to do it.
Both on the river and in port, security watches continue around the clock. There are regular inspections to prepare for. Each week brings an inspection by the boat's officer in charge. Then, once a quarter, area officials from Leavenworth, Kans., go over the boat. Even in the off-season, keeping the boat in top condition is of prime importance. Outside maintenance, painting the upper aluminum decks, repairing equipment, and scrubbing down the entire boat go on when the weather permits. When foul weather sets in, the men move inside to spruce up.
Since taking command of the Chippewa in July 1969, Chief Pojar has never really had a close call. "Once we ran her up on a sandbar, but it didn't take long to get her off," he joked. Even that probably was not because of negligence, however, since the cutter only has a four-foot draft and can go almost anywhere along the river. Still there is cause for concern because of the danger of snapping cable, dropped buoys, and a thousand and one other things.
"To run a boat like this, you have to be a mother, father, and chaplain. You have to know each of the men, their problems and reactions," Chief Pojar said. "If a man is making a lot of mistakes, I bring him up on the bridge and show him what goes on.
So, Chief Pojar and the men of the Chippewa are a closely knit team. They know their jobs and they do them well. Their lives revolve around the boat and the Missouri River. That is why the many river users, both pleasure and commercial, find the waterway the safe place that it is. THE END
FISH TAGGING
While method and material are altered, marking has been done for 100 years
FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM, the battling bass twisted and turned in its attempt to shake off the plug firmly lodged in its mouth. The experienced angler played the fish for all it was worth, finally taking it with a deft stroke of his oft-used landing net. The fisherman took a longer look at his catch as it lay flopping on the grassy shore. It was a largemouth, big and hefty. Picking up the fish, the angler realized that it had been in the hands of man once before. Tightly pinned to the lower jaw was a small metal tag imprinted with a series of numbers.
The knowledgeable fisherman recognized the tag for what it was, a valuable tool in the science of fish management. Anxious to do his part in preserving the state's fish resources, he removed the tag and made a note of the date, place, and exact location in the lake where he caught the fish. This information, along with the tag, he would send to the Game and Parks Commission in Lincoln. Similar records sent in by other sportsmen would give the commission's Fisheries Division data needed to complete its studies on the tagged fish.
Scientists in the Game and Parks Commission are not doing anything really new, however, because man has been curious about nature for eons, especially when his surroundings provided food or recreation. The ancient Chinese, at least 3,000 years ago, were trying to find out enough about fish in order to propogate them. Also the Egyptians, and later the Greeks and Romans, recorded their observations on the kinds of fish and their habits.
Yet the truly scientific study of fish did not begin until the Eighteenth Century when European naturalists became interested in the classification, anatomy, and evolution of fish. Years later, conservation and the wise use and management of fish became an important area of study. Fish tagging has been proving its worth as a management procedure for almost 100 years, beginning with the work of Charles G. Atkins on Maine's Atlantic salmon. While methods and 44
One fish may seem much like any other of its species, but once the critter is tagged, it becomes an individual. With its unique set of numbers, the fish can be identified, even years later, from all its companions. Being able to identify an individual fish is perhaps the most important feature of tagging. When first caught, the fish may be measured, weighed, aged and sexed. Additional information may also be kept about all of the fish tagged in a particular project, such as where the fish were caught, when they were caught, at what depth they were caught, or any other factor which might be of interest to the researcher, or important to his study. When the same fish are caught again, either by anglers or by the technicians themselves, the statistics can be compared with the previous record. When the study involves enough subjects to make it valid, the fisheries biologist can start to make generalizations about a larger group of fish.
One type of information that can be inferred from the results of a tagging project is the population in a particular lake or pond. By knowing what percentage of tagged fish are being caught and the total number of fish taken, the biologist, armed with a calculator, can determine approximately how many fish there are in that spot. While obtaining information on populations, the experts find out about fish harvests, or how many fish are being caught by the state's fishermen. Figures can show if an area is being over-fished, or perhaps under-fished. Seasonal harvest information is also obtained. Returns on tagged fish have shown that the heaviest fishing pressure comes in April, May, and June.
Like people, some fish like to stay at home while others like to travel. Tagged fish, like banded birds, reveal the extent of their movements. Local, or short movements within a particular area, can be determined. So can lengthy seasonal migration. A Nebraska study on the flathead catfish in the Missouri River shows that the cats can be both homebodies and wanderers. Ninety-seven percent of the catfish were recaptured on the same side of the river on which they had been tagged. This strongly suggests that the flatheads do not cross the Missouri's main channel, but remain on the same side of the river where they were hatched. Yet, the same study showed that the flatheads can be long-distance travelers. While most of them moved only relatively short distances, one flathead, tagged and released near Plattsmouth, was eventually caught almost 100 miles away near the Kansas border.
While this catfish was an unusual traveler, similar treks are made annually by rainbow trout in the North Platte River. Trout tagged at Lake McConaughy (Continued on page 54)
OCTOBER 1970 45
NOTES ON NEBRASKA FAUNA. . . BROOK TROUT
Accidentally stocked by train wreck, these colorful scrappers face ecological annihilation. Only environmental cleanup can maintain them in Nebraska's wildlife realm
THE BROOK TROUT, Salvelinus fontinalis (Mitchell) is one of the most colorful fish found in Nebraska waters. The dark gray, wormlike overmarkings on the olive-green background form a mottled pattern on the back and dorsal fins of the fish. Lower parts of the body fade into a lighter color, and a red or orange line extends laterally along the body. There are numerous red and pale yellow spots on the sides, each spot faintly surrounded by a blue circle. Black and white stripes along the front edges of the lower body fins add to the beauty of the fish and distinguish the brook trout from other trout in Nebraska.
The brook trout, also called brookie, speckled trout, square-tail, red-spotted trout, coaster, or charr, has a streamlined, somewhat compressed body which is about five times as long as it is deep. All fins are soft-rayed. The caudal (tail) fin is square or slightly forked. The scales of the brook trout are extremely small. It has 200 or more scales in the lateral line along the side of the body. Well-developed teeth are found on the maxillary and premaxillary bones as well as on the head of the vomer (roof) bone inside 46 the mouth.
The original distribution in North America was in the Appalachian Mountains as far south as Georgia, and in the northeastern states as far west as Iowa. The earliest recorded introduction of brook trout in Nebraska was an accidental stocking, which resulted after the wreck of a train carrying the fish to another area, over the Elkhorn River during the summer of 1873. The first official introduction of brook trout was made in 1892 in streams near South Bend, North Platte, Sutton, and a pond north of Omaha.
Brook trout mature early in life. Approximately 95 percent of the males and 85 percent of the females are mature by the time they are yearlings. Brookie males as small as 3V2 inches and females as small as 4V2 inches have been found to be mature. Egg production depends on the size of the female. The average female produces 300 to 400 eggs. The number, however, may vary from less than 100 in a 5-inch fish to about 1,200 in a 14-inch female.
Spawning season ranges from as early as late summer in the northern states to as late as early winter in the southern area. As the spawning season approaches, mature trout seek gravel riffles in spring areas near streams or spring seepage areas in ponds. A shallow, saucer-shaped depression, called a redd, is excavated by the female in the gravel or rubble bottom, while the attending male actively defends his position. The eggs are deposited a number at a time and fertilized on extrusion. Upon the completion of the spawning act, the eggs are covered with bottom material, then left unattended. The incubation period depends on water temperature, but at a constant 50 degrees Fahrenheit, the eggs will hatch in about 47 days.
The brook trout has been crossbred with brown trout to produce the infertile tiger trout. This lack of fertility is due to the constricted areas in the ovaries and testes of the tiger trout. The cross strain is commendable for its vigor. The splake is a fertile cross between the brook and the lake trout, but the offspring are less productive than either of the parent species.
The growth rate of the brookie is based upon the amount of available food and aquatic habitat in which it exists. In small streams, fish of a 5-year class may attain a length of only 10 inches, whereas in large waters they may reach larger sizes. At the present time the state record is 5 pounds, 1 ounce, and the world record is 14 pounds, 8 ounces. This fish was caught in 1916 in the Nipigon River in Ontario, Canada.
Brookies are more gullible than other trout and are much more easily caught. Angling techniques range from spin casting to fly fishing, and lures used include a variety of flies and spinners.
The diet of the brook trout consists of caddis flies, two-winged flies, Mayflies, scuds, small fish, and crayfish. Of all the food items, insects make up the bulk of the diet.
Brook trout inhabit cool, clear, spring-fed ponds and streams, and have a relatively low tolerance of warm temperature. Exposure to temperatures around 68 degrees for more than a few hours will kill them. Pollution, and poor soil and water conservation practices take a heavy toll on the habitat of this colorful scrapper.
If a brook trout fishery is to be maintained in Nebraska, stream improvement practices must include good soil and water control, fencing of stream banks, restriction of runoff from feedlots, proper use of farm chemicals and fertilizers, installation of rock fills, and artificial undercuts to improve in-stream living conditions. THE END
NEBRASKAland
TEENAGE PHILOSOPHY
Madcap manuscripts are all part of judging half-dozen seasons of Sandoz Essay Contest
48WHENEVER A TEENAGER is asked to tell about life, you can bet your bottom dollar he or she will come up with something funny. Or maybe the comment will show an uncanny understanding of some of the inconsistencies in the world of adults. Uncluttered thinking lets a young person get right to the point.
During the past six years, NEBRASKAland Magazine has sponsored the annual Mari Sandoz Essay Contest in which junior high and high school students throughout the state have been invited to participate. Annual themes, different each year, are carefully designed to stimulate interest in Nebraska's history, promote awareness of the state's recreation facilities, and encourage young writers to develop their skills. The theme for the 1970 contest was Nebraska —Where History Lives On. There were approximately 600 entries. Some comments in the essays were funny, showing youthful and refreshing attitudes.
For instance, a 15-year-old sophomore from Grant told the story of how the children in one family left for school in a horse-drawn sleigh one blustery day in 1876. A blizzard developed and became so severe that the oldest boy, who was driving, decided to turn around and head for home. Wanting to get back as soon as possible, he took a shortcut across a field. Unable to see in the blowing snow, he lost his way.
They circled all day, harboring thoughts of death, when suddenly, late in the afternoon, they came upon a haystack which they knew was less than half a mile from home. From there it was easy to find the house.
"Talk about being happy!" the author of the essay wrote. 'The whole family was overjoyed!" That night at supper, grace lasted 15 minutes while the children's father gave thanks to God for preserving the lives of his children. "It was the happiest family on earth," the author wrote. "But a 15-minute grace! That's ridiculous!"
Another youngster wrote that he likes spring in Nebraska because the floors are not cold anymore in the mornings when he gets out of bed.
A 15-year-old girl from Pierce wrote in her essay that Nebraska is home for many people — whites, blacks, Indians, Jews, Catholics, Lutherans, and atheists.
Nebraska, compared with New York or California, may sound like a backward state to some people who look for sophistication, she wrote. "Nebraska may not sound sophisticated or exciting, but it has just as much to offer as any other land. Others may think it's just that Cornhusker State for farmers, but it offers challenges for all people."
This author, although she was not a winner, probably came as close as any to stating, in her own way, the official purpose of the essay contests.
NEBRASKAland Magazine's editor Dick Schaffer puts it this way: "The purpose is to stimulate interest in Nebraska's vast outdoor recreation and vacation opportunities, as well as its rich historical heritage. In addition, the contest encourages NEBRASKAland young people to study the lore in their own cities, towns, and villages. Another purpose is to promote the development of writing skills amongst young people."
Essay contest winners receive awards in recognition of outstanding work at the annual celebration of NEBRASKAland Days in North Platte. Winner of the 1970 contest was Carol Nelson of Wahoo.
Her essay was a serious poem. For this young authoress, history lived on in the mind of her great grandmother, as she wrote at the beginning of the poem.
"She's 91 springs old, my great grandmother Jo. A pioneer book of knowledge, Nebraska grown. Her eyes still snap with fire as she talks Of days ago when Indians roamed, where now the white man walks."While the authors of winning essays, for the most part, took a serious approach, others wrote unintentionally funny comments which made for delightful reading.
One youngster stated that Scouts Rest Ranch, the retreat on the outskirts of North Platte where Buffalo Bill Cody stayed whenever he was not on tour with his Wild West Show, was a home for aged mountain men.
Another said a blow out, the term usually associated with places where the winds of time have blown sand away to leave land depressions, is a good place to hide dead animals.
Yet another, giving his youthful impression of the way people think about each other, wrote: "City people think farmers are nuts for working.
A 15-year-old girl from Primrose felt many old sayings, brought to this part of America by pioneers, are still used today.
Many pioneer folk actually believed in and followed certain proverbs about love and marriage, she wrote. Here are some of her examples:
- The person who takes the last piece of cake from a plate will marry a rich mate.
- Hold a burning match, and the flame will turn toward your sweetheart.
- If you spill dishwater on your apron, you will get a drunken husband.
- The girl who catches the bridal bouquet will be the next to marry.
- If the bridgegroom carries the bride across the threshold of their new home, it will bring them good luck and happiness.
bound
to be popular
Picking up on criticism against members of the younger generation who wear beards these days, a 13-year-old girl from Wahoo submitted this poetic observation:
"In early days there were mustaches and many a beard, And now the oldsters think the hippies are wierd For wanting beards to wear Along with their long hair."One clever young fellow gave the obvious reason for monuments. "If there were no monuments, how could we ever remember all these things?"
One teeny-bopper from Grant said things have not changed at all. They have just become more complex.
In early days you caught "heck" for letting a boy kiss you goodnight at the garden gate in the moonlight. The neighbors may have seen! Today it is the same, she wrote, except that when you get your kiss you are usually at the front door and there is usually someone just inside switching the porch light on and off.
Probably the funniest, and yet most penetrating comment on adult life came from a 13-year-old girl from Union, who wrote the script for a television show she felt might take the place of one of the regular programs in a series which was being telecast during Nebraska's centennial year, 1967.
The show's host was calling various characters from Western history into the stage lights for interviews. One of the guests was Colonel John M. Chivington, who was responsible for the slaughter of some Cheyenne Indians in 1864.
Host: Is it true that you were both a colonel and a minister? Chivington: Yes. It is true. Host: Is it true you taught that it was wrong to kill, and yet you killed the Indians you were trying to convert? Chivington: Yes. It is true. Host: Why did you kill the Indians? Chivington: Well, you see, the Indians were easier to kill than convert, so I just said to myself, the heck with being a preacher. Jesse James was another guest. Host: Nebraska, like every other state, had its heroes and outlaws. One of the most notorious outlaws was Jesse James. Would you tell us, Jesse, who do you consider to be your greatest hero? James: Robin Hood is my hero. I try to be just like him. I rob from the rich and give to the poor. I believe all people were created equal.
From everyday things like cold floors in the morning, to universal problems like the difference in the moral code on killing humans during war and peace, these teenagers ran the gamut from beginning to end in a most delightful way. THE END
NEBRASKAlandCOCKNEY CROOK
(Continued from page 14)on June 17, at about 2 p.m., William F. Cody entrusted his jewels to his valet for storing. By 5 p.m. he was sending his showmen after the missing valet and jewelry.
- A King Edward gold breastpin, studded with diamonds;
- A gold rope-pattern chain, about eight inches long;
- A diamond horseshoe pendant set with seven stones (a gift from the King);
- A Masonic pendant, Col. W. F. Cody engraved thereon, helmet and double-breasted eagle in front with large diamond in center, on reverse side Knight Templar, cross and crown;
- A pair of cuff links, buffalo head with platinum horns, brown diamond eyes and gold nose;
- A gent's gold watch, open face, American make.
With advice and support from Scotland Yard and local authorities, and plenty of enthusiasm, Bill's canny cowboys attacked the problem with the same straightforward methods they used in their performances.
The white-hat boys split four ways to head the jewel rustler off at the pass. With Cody's trusted agent, Johnny Baker, in charge, the troops scattered all over England. Will Baker rushed to Southampton to locate the bandit's brother; a Mr. Newman went to Birmingham where the thief, William Puzey, was expected to be; and Lou Decker galloped into Windsor the next day to find the valet's sisters. The four men kept in constant contact through frequent telegrams, written as often as those from a new bride, whose husband is off to war.
Puzey's description was also sent to British authorities. The 19-year-old servant was short, about 5 feet, 7 inches tall, lightweight, and about 9 stone, or 126 pounds. His hair was dark brown, his complexion sallow, his face smooth and round. He had dark, deep-set eyes. His teeth were short and one middle front upper tooth was broken or partially decayed. The nail on the left index finger was black and deformed as though it had been mashed. He was wearing a dark-brown, check suit, and generally wore a soft shirt, sometimes a dickey. He had a cockney accent.
By 5:30 p.m., about half an hour after the discovery of the theft, city detectives located a man enroute to London who fitted the description. He was apprehended in London at 6 p.m., but proved himself innocent and was released.
Meanwhile, Cody's men were traveling to their posts. While the men were moving, the wires were silent, but soon they started a barrage of Post Office telegrams across the country.
By 7 a.m. the next day, Johnny Baker's investigations had found the robber's brother in Southampton. Puzey was a pantry man on an American steamer, the St. Paul. Johnny Baker wired the information to his Southampton agent, Will Baker, who replied that evening that he had checked all likely places for William Puzey and located the brother but there was no trace of the thief in Southampton.
At noon the same day, Johnny Baker sent Decker to Windsor to locate Puzey's two sisters, May and Julia. At 1 p.m. he received word from Newman in Birmingham that Puzey had purchased a tin box, some white paper, and twine. Baker instructed Newman to check with the Post Office and to determine if such a package had been posted. Then he wired Decker, who was still on his way to Windsor. "Puzey got his box in Birmingham and will most likely express jewelry or mail to May or Julia. Shadow them!"
That evening, Newman confirmed that Puzey had indeed mailed the box to May. When Baker received the telegram he wired Decker to nab May, and to be sure to have a search warrant with him. He warned Will to watch Puzey's brother.
Next morning, with no word from Decker, Baker wired Will asking if the brother had received a package in the mail. The box was 4 by 2lh inches, wrapped in white paper and twine.
Then he wrote a letter to Decker, listing all the articles which had been found to be missing from the show's dressing rooms during the preceding 12 weeks. Decker might have to search May's house for these other items which had disappeared.
JET STAR'S
At noon on the 19th, Decker wired Baker again, saying: "On a hot one. Give you news soon as I can." At 6 p.m. he reported all goods found intact.
The jewelry had apparently been in May's possession, for a later letter from the chief constable in Windsor stated that, in answer to an inquiry from the Cody boys, he had checked with her again. She had left Winsdor for London the day after Puzey's arrest. Before leaving, she had assured the constable that the only things she had received were the stolen jewelry and the other articles Decker had inspected.
Even after hearing the good news, Will at Southampton was still cautious. About half an hour after learning that the jewelry was safe, he wired: "Package as described received at Post Office. Have you located all the jewelry?"
And Johnny answered: "Decker says all jewelry safe. Keep sharp lookout for William. Think the package you located is another robbery of his."
The crook was still on the loose, so Buffalo Bill's men continued checking transportation and shadowing relatives. Saturday morning Will wired that he was about to check the St. Paul and warned Johnny to look for a letter to William.
Just before noon, Decker wired that he had caught Puzey and was going to Dudley with him. "Wire me five pounds!" he concluded.
Johnny answered, "Hurrah! You have done great work. Have sent £5 by wire today." Then he called the troops back to the show.
During further investigation a strange kind of ransom note turned up. Finding himself under unexpected pressure, Puzey had proposed the trade of the jewelry for his freedom. His almost illegible letter read, in part, as follows: "Col. W. F. Cody,
"I now take the pleasure to write to you and am very sorry what I have done to you because it is the first thing I ever stole, and it was Johnny Baker's fault that I did it...he was going to give me the sack (fire me)...and as for your pin, and watches, and chain, and other things, they are all right, and if you would let me know in the Daily Mail (through an ad in that newspaper) what you will do with me if I return them to you quite safe I would willingly send them on to you.
"...if you give Johnny Baker a whip in his hand, he would make a good slave driver... please let me know in the paper as soon as possible as I might leave England or sell some of your stuff... William Puzey
"P.S. If I get caught you will never get your valuables or see them again for they are all underground so you can please yourself what you do. As for the four pounds I have spent it so you can't have that. Say that you will send me a four-pound and I will see that you get all your things back quite safe. Let me know in the paper."
The final telegram from Decker came on June 24. "Puzey got the limit of that court. Would have got 3 years had he been sent to General Sessions, but would have taken 90 days. We arrive Great Western Station, 1:25. Will be hungry. Fix the cookhouse."
But that was not the end of the correspondence on the case.
In December of 1903, after serving his sentence, Puzey wrote to Bill, then back in Cody, Wyoming: "Sir, "I have served my time, for what I am sorry for, now I have come home pennyless and my Poor Mother, being a widow, she cannot help me. It was through my dear mother's honesty that you received your jewelry quite safe. Being as you are a gentleman, I am sure you would not miss a few pounds as they are due to me in back money. I hope you will kindly acknowledge this letter for the sake of my poor Mother. From Your Obedient Servant THE END William Puzey."
No answer is on record.
SONAR SEARCH
(Continued from page 28)spot any below 10 feet there is a pretty good chance that they are game fish."
For more than 100 yards, the depth stayed almost constant at 20 feet. Then, suddenly, it dropped off rapidly and the bottom band widened. At the same time, we began spotting fish, narrow bands of 52 NEBRASKAland light flashing on and off all the way from 12 to 25-foot depths.
This is what we're looking for," Jim said, swinging the boat around and dropping the anchor. "There's an old creekbed down here and we're sitting in about 25 to 30 feet of water right over the ledge."
"I'm going to catch the first fish," Pat claimed, as she pulled out her spinning rod, attached a Kastmaster, and dropped it into the water.
Following Pat's and Jim's example, I also dropped a lure clear to the bottom and began jigging. Jim explained that they usually have their best luck fishing just off the bottom even when it appears there are more fish higher up.
Moments later Pat's claim came true. She set the hook expertly and began playing the fish.
"Feels like a white bass," she said. Jim and I watched the light spinning rod throb until Pat lifted the 1 1/2-pound bass into the boat. Jim slipped the fish onto the stringer. During the next 15 minutes, Pat boated two or three more white bass while Jim and I went Ashless.
"They're down there!" Jim said, eyeing the locator. "All we have to do is catch them."
A sharp strike took me by surprise. I set the hook and immediately knew it was not a white bass. Jim quickly noticed the heavy arc in my rod and grabbed the landing net. Minutes later he scooped a 2 1/2-pound walleye out of the water and into the boat.
"There is a mighty fine meal," Jim said as he slipped the walleye onto the stringer.
During the next hour, Jim and Pat landed about 20 more white bass while I settled for a lone crappie and a bottom-feeding carp. While Jim and Pat were busy catching bass, a second boat moved to about 50 yards from us. Jim explained that most of the fishermen on the lake carry binoculars and when they spot someone catching fish they head that way.
"But that guy won't catch any fish," Jim said matter-of-factly. "He thinks he's moved in on the fish but he doesn't know that he's in almost 50 feet of water. With this wind, he won't be able to hold an anchor and even if he could, there are no fish out there. Sometimes we have had 15 or 20 boats around us. We would catch fish as fast as we could pull them in, but no one else would be doing any good. Just a few yards can make all the difference in the world."
I kept an eye on the other boat and just as Jim had predicted, it drifted off, Ashless.
It was noon, so we decided to head in for lunch. As we munched salami sandwiches, Jim explained more about the locators.
The manufacturer of the locators I sell has done research which indicates that almost all keeper-size gamefish are located in two to five percent of a lake's water. It means that over nine-tenths of a lake is, for all practical purposes, void of fish. The average weekend fisherman or vacation fisherman spends most of his time fishing where there are no fish. A person would have to fish a lake for years to learn by trial and error what you can learn in just a few hours with the locator."
"That's enough of your sales pitch, Dad," Pat said. "Let's get back out and catch some more fish." Back at the boat, I grabbed the stringer to lift the fish into the boat before we took off for the middle of the lake. Just as the fish were clear of the water a link of the metal stringer parted and the fish slipped back into the water. I almost fell into the drink too, trying to grab the sinking stringer. We circled the area several times looking for the fish but did not find them. "Don't worry," Jim said. "We'll catch more."
However, a long afternoon in the hot July sun yielded only four fish; two white bass, a crappie, and a drum. "The locator can find the fish," Jim said as we headed back for the dock, "but if they don't want to bite there's not much you can do."
That evening I talked to Jim about Harlan Reservoir. He explained that it is about the only place he fishes anymore.
"I just don't have time to get out during the week," Jim said, "and when I go on weekends I want to catch fish. Harlan is a lot closer than McConaughy and I have always had good luck here. The only problem with any big reservoir is the wind. I usually come down for three days and feel lucky if I'm able to fish during two of them."
I knew what Jim meant because I had driven down the previous weekend to fish with him. But a strong, hot, southerly wind had kept us off the lake.
It was that weekend when I had met Sam Hesser, one of Jim's fishing buddies. Sam is also a confirmed locator advocate, having owned one for five years. That morning Sam had landed an 8 1/2-pound whopper while fishing over a ledge spotted with the locator.
The next morning Pat decided to sleep in, so Jim and I headed for the lake alone. I was a bit pessimistic, remembering our lack of success the previous afternoon, and noting the stiff breeze springing up from the south. Jim, however, was full of unshakable confidence, the mark of all good fishermen.
"We'll get them this morning," he said as we pulled out of the harbor. The channel we were on yesterday comes out of that cove over there. It runs parallel to the shore for quite a distance, and then swings south. We'll find it somewhere toward the southern shore where we have a little shelter from this wind."
Jim located the shelf easily and we began fishing. Few boats were out on the lake, where the gusty wind was making even Jim's big craft bounce and pitch. We fished for an hour without luck before Jim suggested we move. A quarter of a mile away, Jim spotted an extremely sharp ledge on the locator and dropped the anchor.
"Look at the fish," Jim said, pointing toward the locator. The dial was brightly lit all the way from 10 feet to the bottom. Seconds later, I felt a slight tug on my line.
"I got one," I shouted.
"Me too," Jim said with a grin as he pumped the rod.
For 20 minutes, we caught white bass almost as fast as we could reel them in.
"This is great," Jim said as he swung a Impounder into the boat. "But they're not hitting the way they usually do. Normally, they really whack a lure. These are just tapping it. I've missed as many as I've hooked."
"I like this jigging," Jim said during a lull. "When you catch a fish by trolling you just sort of drag it in. But you can really feel them fight when you are jigging."
Twice again that morning they came back, fast and furious. By noon we had filled two four-foot stringers plus a metal stringer. My wrists and shoulders ached from catching fish.
"You had enough?" Jim asked.
"I think so," I said with a grin.
"Keep your ears open when we go in," Jim said. "I'll bet you'll hear some guys griping about the lake being fished out or the fish not biting. The fish are here though. You just have to know how to find them," he said, giving his little box an affectionate pat. THE END
master charge
THE INTERBANK CARD
Put Mast Charge to work for you. Over 4200 banks in all 50 states are behind it--so wherever you travel look for this sign. And keeping track of your expense couldn't be simpler. You'll recieve one monthly bill with a record of expense and one check pays all it really is convenent. accepted all ovr town -- all over americaFISH TAGGING
(Continued from page 45)make a 100-mile journey upriver to spawn in tributary streams in Nebraska's panhandle. Investigations on these migratory trout are continuing, and information is being collected concerning length of stream and lake residence, number of repeat spawnings, and similar life-history data that is available only through tagging.
The usefulness of tagging seems unlimited. Additional uses include getting
54
NEBRASKAland
the information on stocking success,
accumulating data on the distribution
of fish within a lake or reservoir, and
statistics on fish mortality.
Nebraska has been playing the tagging game for years now — and winning. Fishermen and the state can attest to the success of the Game and Parks Commission's fish management program. Last year, more than 25,000 fish were marked in several different projects. A variety of species was tagged, from pan-size bluegill to lunker catfish. Besides studying many different kinds of fish, the researchers also try to learn about as many different kinds of waters as possible, from mammoth Lake McConaughy to diminutive farm ponds.
Through the years, fisheries biologists have developed many types of tags, and there are many factors to be considered when choosing a tag to be used in a specific project. A different tag might be used, depending on if the fish are in a lake or in a stream, or if the fish are active or sluggish. The tag must not interfere with the fish's normal activities and it must not be a source of irritation. Of course, the tag must remain permanently attached for the project to be successful.
One Nebraska walleye kept its tag for seven years. Tagged in 1962, the fish was recaptured only last year, proving the durability of the tag as well as the longevity of the walleye. This may well be the longest period between tagging and recovery in the state. The shortest time came in a different operation. The walleye were tagged at Lake McConaughy, and one was returned to the technicians while they were still working. The fish had been in the water about 20 minutes. The hapless walleye was still regaining its equilibrium when a passerby lifted it from the water. Needless to say, the taggers asked that it be put back.
The tags used most in Nebraska include: (1) the jaw tag —a metal strap or ring attached to the fish's jaw; (2) the dangler tag, or streamer — a plastic disc attached to a nylon line; (3) the dart tag —a metal or plastic tag attached to a wire that is inserted beneath the skin of the fish.
While tagging is the most popular way of marking fish, other methods are also employed. Fins are often clipped so that a group of fish can be recognized. Dyes and other physical markings are also used. The most recently developed device is a radio transmitter. An individual fish can be monitored day and night, revealing to biologists information heretofore unavailable.
Information is the final product in any fish-tagging program. Often the value of such activities is apparent only after many years of research, but all time and effort pay off for the state's anglers. The job of maintaining Nebraska's renewable aquatic resources is a big one and involves many different management practices. In the years ahead, fish tagging will probably be one of the most important tools, as it has been in the past. THE END
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specializing in family and youth vacations For complete information write MR. HERB NEWMAN JR. Stuart, Nebr. 68780 Tele-402-924 3292OFFICIAL ENTRY BLANK
NEBRASKAland Photo Contest State Capitol Lincoln, Nebraska 68509
Name Street City State Zip Code Number in Family Category Where Taken Camera Used F/stop Shutter Speed This photograph is submitted with the understanding I agree to be bound by the rules of the NEBRASKAland Color Photo Contest as published in NEBRASKAland Magazine. For additional entry blanks include above information or write NEBRASKAland Photo Contest, State Capitol, Lincoln, Nebraska 68509. Signed 55
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Front Street, Sheldon Art Gallery
MENTION THE NAME Ogallala, and it was enough to set most God-fearing women and freckle-faced children to quaking in their button-up shoes. It was the kind of place mothers told their youngsters about, to keep them walking the straight and narrow. The end of the Texas Trail, Ogallala was the stopping point for every trigger-happy, dust-dry drover who made his way north behind a herd of bawling longhorns. With saloons almost outnumbering its residents, the town was not the kind of place the pious frequented.
That was more than a century ago. Today, the bustling little metropolis beside the South Platte River could not be friendlier. But heritage dies hard in Nebraska and Ogallala is no exception. A few years ago, a handful of promoters decided it might be a lucrative idea to resurrect the old Ogallala-the one which created so much history. Of course, the good folks of the western Nebraska community would not stand for shoot-outs along U.S. Highway 30 on the town's east side. So, the original had to be tempered a bit, but the raucous goings-on were the only sacrifices.
Front Street, as the restoration project was named, is about as close to old
Ogallala as one can get without a time
machine or the imagination of a Walter
Mitty. Though the location is different -
Ogallala used to be south of the river-attention to scale and realism put the
57
builders one up on the town's early residents for recognition elsewhere. Front
Street boasts six attractions with more
being added all the time. From the
Crystal Palace Saloon to the Ogallala
House General Store, it might be a
struggle for even a Boot Hill returnee to
tell the difference between this and the
real hell-bent-for-leather boom town.
The main trail runs east and west now, and is called Interstate 80 instead of the Texas Trail. But what lies at its end is the same rollicking good time that travelers of old knew, if a mite more refined. In the Crystal Palace, Slipper pounds out rinkey tink renditions to the sound of tapping toes and the whoop and holler of a bevy of dancing girls. A sign over the bar, in keeping with the peaceful atmosphere, warns any would-be hard case to check his six-gun. And the sarsaparilla flows fast and loose as one of the best shows on the high plains wends its way into the evening hours. Like the Ogallala of old, Front Street slows down in winter, but it never stops. While the show is presented only from early summer to early fall at 7:30 and 8:30 nightly, the facilities are open year-round. Trail drivers have their choice of packing their own picnic lunch or chowing down in the Cowboy's Rest Hotel dining room. Whatever the decision, added entertainment and enlightenment await visitors.
If there was one thing Ogallala was famous for a few years ago, it was
One glance into the foreboding atmosphere "where they put pappy away" is enough to realize why the town had such a dubious reputation. In fact, someone was on his way out most of the time. A poor, departed soul is on display, ready for his first and last ride in the hearse just outside.
NEW LIFELIKE K&W DECOYS "Lifelike - Lifesize - Lifetime 9J 5 SPECIES TO CHOOSE FROM White Fronts K&W Decoys are as exact replicas of their live mates as can be created. Manufactured from high tensile forming board, reinforced with Vb" steel pipe frame, these decoys have a bursting strength of over 1100 lbs. per square inch. K&W Decoys are light, durable, steadfast in heaviest wind and weather. Made to last... normal use should afford the average hunter a lifetime of enjoyment. For further information write: K&W DECOY CORPORATION Box 700 Bridgeport, Nebraska 69336 Ph. 308-262-0905 5 SPECIES TO CHOOSE FROMBut, there is a much lighter scene next door in the Tonsorial Palace. For those in need of a shave and a haircut for six bits, it may come as quite a shock to find a bath thrown in for the same price, with enough change left for a quick trip to the Crystal Palace. Considering the hygienic standards of way back when, today's tourists will marvel at the fact that barbers broke even on the baths. The customer in the chair may have been wondering the same thing.
Probably the most popular spot in Ogallala, the jail boasts a cell which looks as if it could hold an enraged rhino. And a gun collection healthy enough to stand off Sitting Bull and half the Sioux Nation hints that here is one lawman who would not take no for an answer. Period posters decorate the walls, warning of renegades who passed this way, possibly to help themselves to revenues at the Ogallala House General Store.
If the store doesn't have what modern tourists want, chances are the owners can get it. And, curio seekers can have the times of their lives browsing through both useful and nonsensical paraphernalia while waiting for the next stage to Boot Hill. Far from being as serious as it sounds, the trip is a regular feature aboard an authentic stagecoach. Or, if you line the driver's hand with enough loot, he'll probably take you farther.
Nebraska has a present and a past, and is proud of both. On the plus side stands the impressive ediface of Sheldon Art Gallery at 12th and R Streets in Lincoln.
A pattern in progress, Sheldon's modern, $3-million structure houses some of the most outstanding American art. Ranging from the great masters to op and pop art presentations, displays annually attract a growing number of art lovers.
Sheldon, a gift to the University of Nebraska from A. Bromley Sheldon of Lexington and Miss Frances Sheldon of Lincoln, is designed to fill the need for cultural enlightenment throughout the country's midsection. Big-name sculptors and painters find a welcome appreciation here, giving entertainment to all.
The building is the product of New York's Philip Johnson, one of the most outstanding museum architects in America. It is an ediface surrounded by tapered, curved columns. Its facade is of imported travertine marble, quarried and cut to specifications in Italy. Italian craftsmen were brought to this country to assemble the marble sections. That Johnson had a completely free hand in the building's design is evident in the regal atmosphere which pervades both the interior and exterior. Those who want to verify its excellence can do so daily throughout the year. THE END
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Roundup and What to do
October swings as this autumn month generates its own brand of fun from border to border
AUTUMN'S CRISP, clear days set the m\ stage for October in Nebraska and all the fun that goes with it. With something for everyone, October offers activities ranging from the excitement of the hunt to the thrill of motorcycle racing, or to the pomp and ceremony of the Ak-Sar-Ben Coronation and Ball.
Welcoming everyone to the state and its upbeat schedule of events is Kay Wilson, NEBRASKAland's Hostess of the Month. Daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Bernard Wilson of North Platte, Kay was a finalist in the Miss NEBRASKAland Pageant held in conjunction with NEBRASKAland Days at North Platte in June.
Kay is a sophomore at Kearney State College, majoring in business administration and journalism. Active as well as attractive, Kay is particularly well suited to represent the busy and beautiful month of October. She is a member of Gamma Phi Beta social sorority, Rodeo Club, and is the editor for SPURS, an honorary sophomore women's service publication. During summer months, she is a 4-H camp counselor. Her other interests and activities include horseback riding, swimming, photography, collecting antiques, and writing.
Fall in Nebraska automatically brings hunting to mind, and October offers its 60 share of outdoor sport. Antelope hunters will have until October 4 to bag their game with firearms. Then, they must pursue their quarry with bow and arrow, as the archery hunt resumes after the nine-day rifle season.
The Governor's Youth Safety Conference is slated for October 3 in Lincoln. The meet will put added emphasis on all phases of safety by making the younger generation more aware of precautions and responsibilities. That same day, Lincoln will also play host to the Nebraska State Historical Society Annual Meeting. Dedicated to preserving the state's past for the future, the society meeting is reserved for members only.
While in the Capitol City, visitors and residents alike may wish to take in the Tower on the Plains. From atop the State Capitol, the panorama of autumn unfolds in a blaze of color. And regularly scheduled tours are available free of charge.
Archers will also find sport in trying to outwit wary white-tailed and stately mule deer throughout the month.
Shotgunners are in for good sport starting October 3, as sharp-tailed grouse and prairie chicken become legal game in the Sand Hills and the western part of the state. Squirrel and rabbit hunters will have ample opportunity to fill their limits throughout October, and wild turkey hunters will cap the month with a bang on October 31, opening day of the annual fall season in designated areas.
Other events will find hunters sharpening their shooting eyes at trap meets in preparation for upcoming pheasant and quail seasons. Rover will get a chance to hone his hunting skills at field dog trials. Cozad will be the site of a registered trap shoot October 4, while Branched Oak Reservoir near Raymond will be the site of a Husker Bird Dog Club trial October 3 and 4, and a Nebraska Brittany Club meet October 10 and 11.
Much of Nebraska's beauty is found outdoors during October. Trees and shrubs don colorful fall costumes against the blue background of the autumn sky. Hunters will not be the only ones enjoying nature's kaleidoscope of color, as thousands of sightseers trek to the countryside to take in the view.
Nebraska communities take advantage of this colorful backdrop to stage happenings across the state. Grand Island will add the music of bands from across Nebraska in its annual "Harvest of Harmony", scheduled for October 3. At the same time, Doniphan will hold its annual Fall Festival. Diller's Harvest Festival breaks loose October 10. Brownville's Fall Festival and Tour of Homes takes place October 11.
Of course, football holds a big portion of Nebraskans' interest every fall. October offers what promises to be one of the top college football clashes in the Big Eight on October 10, as Nebraska's Cornhuskers meet Missouri's Tigers in Lincoln. The two teams, co-champions of the Big Eight Conference last year, will be in hot contention for the 1970 crown. But the Cornhuskers will be seeking to avenge last year's loss to Missouri, a setback that cost them undisputed possession of the conference title.
Two weeks later, the always-troublesome Oklahoma State Cowboys will be in Lincoln to battle in another Big Eight clash. But, if the Big Red's battles in Lincoln are not enough to satisfy the appetites of football-hungry Nebraskans, smaller colleges and junior colleges throughout the state have full schedules of bone-jarring gridiron tilts on tap, while prep athletes continue traditional intra-state rivalries.
The sound of a jolting block and the roar of a touchdown-frenzied crowd is supplemented by the scream of straining competition engines. Racing enthusiasts will have a tough choice to make during the month. Auto racing at Cornhusker Raceway in Omaha, and motorcycle racing at Nebraska City, are both slated for October 4.
The entire month also offers thrills for thoroughbred fans as pounding hooves and flashing silks dominate the final meet of Nebraska's racing season at Atokad Park in South Sioux City.
Providing a change of pace for all the action and excitement during October is the Ak-Sar-Ben Coronation and Ball in Omaha October 16 and 17. Nebraskans truly put their best foot forward for this, the state's most elaborate social function.
Whatever suits your fancy, be it the action tilt of the hunt, the pageantry of a ball, or the combination of both at a gridiron, you can find it in Nebraska during October.
What to do 3 — Opening Day, Grouse Season 3 — Lord's Acre Sale and Parade, Endicott 3 —Fall Festival, Doniphan 3 — Harvest of Harmony, Grand Island 3 — Annual Meeting, State Historical Society, Lincoln 3 —Governor's Youth Safety Conference, Lincoln 3-4-Husker Bird Dog Club Licensed Trial, Raymond 4 —Final Day, Rifle Antelope Season 4 — Motorcycle Races, Nebraska City 4 —Auto Races, Cornhusker Raceway, Omaha 4 —Registered Trap Shoot, Cozad 5 — Opening of second portion of Archery Antelope Season 10 —Show-De-0 Horse Show, Lincoln 10 —Harvest Festival, Diller 10 —University of Nebraska vs. University of Missouri, football, Lincoln 10-11 —Nebraska Antique Bottle Collectors Club Show and Sale, Omaha 10-11 —Nebraska Brittany Club Licensed Trial, Raymond 10-12 —Grasslands Livestock Show, North Platte 11 — Fall Festival and Tour of Homes, Brownville 16-17 —Ak-Sar-Ben Coronation and Ball, Omaha 17-18 —Midwest Autorama and Teen Fair, Omaha 24 — University of Nebraska vs. Oklahoma State, football, Lincoln 30 —Antique Show, Omaha 31 —Opening Day, Wild Turkey Season 31 —Final Day, Archery Antelope Season All month — Archery deer hunting, statewide All month — Squirrel hunting, statewide All month —Rabbit hunting, statewide All month - Thoroughbred racing, Atokad Park, South Sioux City THE END NEBRASKAland
A COUNTRY KIND OF AUTUMN
(Continued from page 30)tag. Engrossed in their rough-house play, they fail to notice a cocky pheasant in his feathered finery emerge from the cedar windbreak to strut proudly down the driveway.
Knots of red and white cattle embroider the fences. Flocks of red-winged blackbirds lift, wheel, and soar in unison in ever-gathering numbers above the valley. Morning is alive with harmonious sights and sounds.
Indian summer days drift with the Cottonwood leaves, leaves which changed overnight from shimmering, silvered green to shriveled brown. They all shiver down with the windy onslaught of November.
A little girl dressed in snowsuit and stocking cap, with new spurs gleaming on her bootheels, rides with the cowboys to gather the fat, sleek yearling calves for fall shipment. This is good cow country, the best in the West. Abundant grass and plenty of water allow the big Sand Hills ranches to remain stable in the face of phenomenal agricultural changes taking place around them.
The modern NEBRASKAland cowboys wear dusty sweat-stained Stetsons. They know the feel of a good quarter horse between their knees, throw a mean rope, and probably have a wad of chewing tobacco in their cheek. But they are no longer just range-riding hands. Now, many of them are college graduates who combine a lifetime of ranch knowledge with a shrewd business judgment essential to the cattle business of today.
The dust and shouts and bellowing mix and mingle in the sorting pens, as huge semi-trailer trucks are loaded with cattle to be shipped to feeder-buyers in other states. These buyers return year after year to purchase reputation-quality Sand Hills animals.
Traditionally, fall is a time for tallying up. The rancher must figure his profit on the basis of the cost of raising a calf, subtracted from the sale price. So it is with Mother Nature. She adds up her profits, which may be counted in a new growth of grass beginning to heal the scar of an old, eroded sand blow out. Likewise she subtracts her losses, perhaps the demise of a huge old cottonwood struck by lightning and felled.
Just as fall is the logical close to a rancher's fiscal year, so nature collects her memories during the autumn season in the Sand Hills, and puts them away under a bed of promises to dream of spring through the long winter ahead. Autumn spices the seasons. THE END
THE WEST AT ITS BEST
Hunter, fisherman, vacationer-whatever your bag —you'll find your place in the sun in the 250-mile-wide area of Nebraska south of the Platte River. "The West at its best", that's how the homefolks feel about it, and you will, too, after just one visit. It's a sportsman's Utopia, with acres upon acres of land, 11 major reservoirs, and many small lakes and streams. Hunters can pit their skills against pheasants, quail, waterfowl, and deer. And, here, too, ran the routes of the Oregon Trail and the Pony Express. History buffs will marvel at the rich heritage just waiting to be discovered. Your visit will be one to remember-that's the pledge of your hosts-members of the South Platte United Chambers of Commerce.ANTLER ASPIRATIONS
(Continued from page 21)were high school teachers from Big Springs.
Our first drive, with Betty and I posting deer escape routes, was fairly successful. The drivers were gone only 20 minutes when I heard a shot nearby. Expecting a herd of deer to charge by at any moment, I got ready. But nothing came out. When the drivers emerged, Harry said he had spotted a forkhorn buck lying in the sun across the river. He was out for a bigger rack, but after considerable argument with himself, he had downed the buck with a 100-yard neck shot. We could not wade through the river because it was too high, so we drove across a bridge to the other side, then gathered around Harry to watch the gutting procedure. It was my first time but I didn't learn much because Harry took only a few minutes to complete the job. I hoped he would be around if I downed a deer. We hung the carcass, planning to return later, hiked back to the rig, and jounced our way back to Darrel's place.
After lunch, Darrel's living room looked like a battle zone. Exhausted bodies were strewn everywhere, enjoying a rest after the long morning's exercises. In mid-afternoon, we struggled back into our rigs and headed to the river for a few more short drives. It seemed more like a quail or pheasant hunt as we walked through the trees. I had expected we would slip along like Indians, but we moved steadily, watching closely for deer or fresh tracks, and rarely stopped to listen. Our late drives flushed only more does. Then it was time to split up again, as each of us took a stand between the river and the cropland. We hoped to catch an unsuspecting buck heading out for dinner, but our patience proved fruitless.
Encouraged by the number of deer sighted during the day, we decided to follow the same schedule on Sunday, taking stands early and making a few short drives later. Unfortunately, we saw no bucks. On one drive, five mule deer, all does and fawns, trotted out of the trees into the open about 50 yards from us. There they stopped, alert and sniffing. Then the head doe caught our scent. She bolted, leading the small herd directly to the river where they leaped in, one at a time, and swam across. The slanting sun on river and deer made a mighty memorable scene. All of us watched until the deer climbed the far bank and bounded out of sight.
Monday was a working day for all of us, so we had to call a halt to our deer hunt. But I was determined to return for a second weekend. I felt I had already learned a lot and didn't want to quit. I knew where to look for deer now, could tell the direction of tracks, and had seen how deer react to hunters.
The week was a drag because I was the object of several student jibes. Other kids offered hunting tips.
Then it was Friday afternoon and time to head west. Again it was late to bed and early to rise at the Armstrongs, then back into the woods Saturday morning. I sat in a tree perch watching another sunrise and waiting for a buck, but none appeared.
Talking with other hunters late in the day, we discovered that many of them
Except for a doe, which wandered from her hideout in a cornfield, Saturday ended uneventfully. We saw a beautiful sunset, but the ideal weather was a hindrance to our hunting endeavors.
Piling into Darrel's 4-wheel-drive rig after breakfast Sunday, we drove to Lewellen with high expectations. New territory brought new anticipation, and this was fulfilled within minutes. We bounced along the ridges near the Clear Creek Waterfowl Refuge shortly after legal shooting time. There, less than a mile away on a hill inside the refuge, were nine frisky deer. At least one was a buck, but all we could do was watch them.
A few minutes later something much more interesting happened. Almost directly behind us, we suddenly spotted two deer standing about 400 yards away. One was a fine four-point buck. He wandered behind a pine tree for several minutes while the doe strolled around nearby. When his antlers edged out from behind the foliage, all eyes were fixed on him. Binoculars focused on the buck's every move.
Darrel and I debated a quick shot. The buck was only a few steps from the safety of a hillcrest. Then, as we stood there whispering, the pair ambled over the rim and out of sight. We hopped in the rig and drove as close as we dared, piled out, and sneaked to the draw where the deer had descended. We peered down expectantly, but didn't expect the doe to come prancing out into the open about 85 yards away. We froze as she stared at us. We stared back, shifting only our eyes as we looked for her mate. He was nowhere to be seen.
OCTOBER 1970 63
RISHLING'S GOOSE LORE
I stood still while Darrel slowly backed away, planning to circle to the left around the head of the canyon. He took only a few steps when the doe bolted into action. She headed back up the way she had come and the buck followed her from wherever he had been concealed. As they dashed away, I brought up my rifle. I heard Darrel fire. My first shot kicked up dirt in a bank as the buck ran behind it. I bolted in another round, and wasted several seconds picking up the empty cartridge. Each leap of the deer put more distance between us, but I had time for one more clean miss. Darrel also fired a few more times, hitting behind the buck as he dashed out of sight.
When we spotted him again, the buck was in the flats below, heading into heavy cover near the waterfowl refuge. Unwilling to believe he had escaped, we walked every inch of his trail, looking for signs of a hit. We found the tracks, which showed the fleeing pair had flushed out three more deer from trees below us. All five had fled to the sanctuary of the tall grass, leaving not a single drop of blood. Disappointment rushed in.
That buck had given us some thrilling moments and had made our hunt worth-while. Just seeing him close was ample reward for our long hours in the field. And, the buck episode convinced me I must try again. Now I know where to look for deer because I understand them better. Their habits and movements give clues to where they will be at any time of the day. Then, it is just a matter of stalking skill, shooting ability, and luck.
After our encounter with the big buck, we joined the rest of our hunting party and found that they had filled out two doe permits earlier in the morning. Darlene got hers, even though she had missed out on the first seven days of the season, and Betty got one too. Jack had climbed into the wrong tree stand in the pre-dawn darkness, and when twilight had come, he had seen a buck walk under the tree in which he was supposed to be perched. We heard that story several times during the rest of the day.
Darrel had been feeling bad all morning, and finally gave in to the flu. He and Darlene went home while those of us still in need of deer walked out several canyons. That was another experience. Those hills are long and steep. Anyone who gets a deer out of the territory really earns it. Our luck, however, remained unchanged. There was fresh sign everywhere, but does were apparently making most of it. I was on a stand overlooking a long canyon when three does wandered in. Expecting more deer, the group circled and walked it out. The three mule does passed within 25 feet of me on their way out of the canyon. Being that close to deer was quite an event, because until this hunt I had never seen deer in the wild.
Having exhausted all possibilities in the canyons, we headed back to the river, planning to close out the day and the 1969 season with one final drive through the lightly timbered banks of the South Platte. Darkness, however, found us wandering back to our car after walking almost two miles without rousting even a doe.
The six hunters in our party, holding six permits, had shot only three deer, but that was still above average for the Platte Unit, which is about 44 percent. Our success percentage could have been higher, but the seasoned hunters in our party had been hindered by us "newcomers". Everybody agreed that we had had as much fun as if we had all scored. I will get in considerable more target practice before opening day this year, and then we'll see how those shrewd old bucks make out. I'll still put one of those Platte deer on a platter. THE END
NEBRASKAland TRADING POST
Acceptance of advertising implies no endorsement of products or services. Classified Ads: 18 cents a word, minimum order $3.60. December 1970 closing date, October 9. Send classified ads to: Trading Post, NEBRASKAland, State Capitol, Lincoln, Nebraska 68509 DOGS AKC hunting dogs. Irish setters, English Spk. spaniels, pups, dogs and stud service: Also Westie and Basenji in December. H. D. Lubben, Hebron, Nebraska 68370. Tele. (402) 768-6237. ENGLISH pointers. Excellent gun dogs. Pups, dogs, and stud service. M. D. Mathews, M.D., St. Paul, Nebraska 68873. HUNTING dogs: German shorthairs, English pointers, Weimaraners, English, Irish, and Gordon setters, Chesapeakes, Labradors, and golden retrievers. Registered pups, all ages, $55 each. Robert Stevenson, Orleans, Nebraska 68966. OVER 500 prize puppies available every month. All popular and rare breeds. Major credit cards accepted. Excalibur International, 4230 South 84th Street, Omaha, Nebraska 68127 Telephone (402)331-5005. POINTERS. Pups, 8 weeks to 6 months, well bred. Priced for quick sale $50.00 and up. Few started and finished dogs. Roy Jines, Emmet, Nebraska. Phone 336-1779. QUAIL hunters, own the best. Pointers sired by Riggins White Knight out of Janies Cornhusker Mite to whelp Sept. 10, for delivery Nov. 1. $125.00. C. E. Wright, Rt. 8, Old Cheny Road, Lincoln. MISCELLANEOUS BEAUTIFUL pheasant feather pins. $1.10. George L. Hohnstein, 147 East 4th St., Hastings, Nebraska 68901. BUMPER stickers, decals, buttons. Low-cost, custom-made advertising for your business, special event, organization, or political campaign. Buy direct from manufacturer and save! Write for free brochure, price list, and samples. Please state intended use. Reflective Advertising, Inc. Dept. N, 873 Longacre, St. Louis, Missouri 63132. Phone (314) 423-5495. 2-4" CATFISH fingerlings, $100 per thousand. Packed for delivery and shipped best way. Fattig Fish Hatchery, Brady, Nebraska 69123. (308) 584-3451. FREE circular. New country records and 8 track tape cartridges. Hoe down riddle tunes, blue grass folk. Uncle Jim O'Neal, Box ANB, Arcadia, California 91006. FREE unique gift catalog, Box 174(N), Edgerton, Wisconsin 53534. FREMONT Collector's Show. Antiques, guns, dish- es, coins, bottles, barbed wire, knives, cartridges, relics, rocks, paintings, etc. Buy—sell—trade anything. Saturday and Sunday March 7-8, October 10-11. City Auditorium, Fremont, Nebraska 68025. OCTOBER 1970 FRYINGPANS west: 50 Indian, Mexican, Mormon, Frontier Recipes. Cookbook $1.00 postpaid. Mrs. Chapin, 6545 Calleluna, Tucson, Arizona 85710. LIVE traps for turtles, muskrats, small animals. Free delivery. SHAWNEE, 3934-AX Buena Vista, Dallas, Texas 75204. MAKE money with your camera. Report tells How, Where. Color Slide Markets. Send $1.03. R. H. Bernt, 1836 North Huston, Grand Island, Nebr. 68801. NEW, used and antique guns, $1 for year of lists or stop in at Bedlan's Sporting Goods, Fairbury, Nebraska 68352 NOW is the time—fall discounts on all new 1970 Larson boats in stock. Some used boats—Johnson and Bearcat motors, Appleby boats, sail boats, large stock accessories. Write or call Blackburn Auto Supply, 14 West 18th St., Scottsbluff, Nebr. 69361. PERSONALIZE your favorite gun, carving and checkering, Nebraska grown walnut stocks, D. D. Berlie, Box 906, Chadron, Nebraska 69337. Phone (308) 432-2075. "PREPARE for driver's test". 100 questions and answers based on Nebraska Driver's Manual. $1.03. E. Glebe. Box 295, Fairbury, Nebraska 68352. SOLID plastic decoys. Original Do-It-Yourself Decoy-Making Kit. All species available. Catalog 25 cents. Decoys Unlimited, Box 69E, Clinton, Iowa 52732. REAL ESTATE _ GOVERNMENT lands ... low as $1.00 acre! For exclusive "Government Land Buyer's Guide" . . . plus "Land Opportunity Review" listing lands available throughout U.S. send $1.00. Satisfaction Guaranteed! United Lands, 306-XI Carry Building, Washington, D.C. 20005. GOVERNMENT lands. Low as $1 acre. Millions of acres. For exclusive copyrighted report . . . plus "Land Opportunity Digest" listing lands available throughout the U.S., send $1. Satisfaction guaranteed! Land Disposal, Box 9091-571, Washington, D.C. 20003. HUNTERS, Farmhouse for large parties, house-keeping facilities available. Excellent northeast pheasant territory and private land. Michael D. Dougherty, Route 2, Newcastle, Nebraska. Phone (402) 355-2214. TAXIDERMY CREATIVE taxidermy—Modern methods and life-like workmanship on all fish and game since 1935. Also tanning and deerskin products. Sales and display room. Joe Voges, Naturecrafts, 925 4th Corso, Nebraska City, Nebraska 68410. Phone 873-5491. GAME heads and fish expertly mounted by latest methods. Forty years experience. Excellent workmanship on all mounts. Christiansen's Taxidermy. 421 South Monroe Street, Kimball, Nebraska 69145. KARL Schwarz Master Taxidermists. Mounting of game heads-birds-fish-animals-fur rugs-robes-tanning buckskin. Since 1910. 424 South 13th Street, Dept. A, Omaha, Nebraska 68102. REAL life taxidermy. Life-like appearance stressed. Bird mounting a specialty, also animals and game heads. Showroom downtown. Mike Kenner, 1140 Olive, Hebron, Nebraska. Phone 768-6624. Also located at 1560 Ridgeway Road, Lincoln, Nebraska. Phone 488-7224. TAXIDERMY work—big-game heads, fish-and-bird mounting; rug making, hide tanning, 36 years experience. Visitors welcome, Floyd Houser, Sutherland, Nebraska. Phone 386-4780. TAXIDERMY work. Recreate big game heads, fish, birds, and small animals. Visitors welcome. Larry's Taxidermy Shop, House of Birds, 1213 Second Street, Fairbury, Nebraska 68352. saqittARius predicts..OUTDOOR NEBRASKAland of the Air
SUNDAY KHAS Hastings (1230) 6:45 a.m. KMMJ Grand Island (750) 7:00 a.m. KBRL McCook (1300) 8:15 a.m. KRFS Superior (1600) 9:45 a.m. KXXX Colby, Kan. (790) 10:15 a.m. KRGi Grand Island (1430) 10:33 a.m. KODY North Platte (1240) 10:45 a.m. KCOW Alliance (1400) 12:15 p.m. KICX McCook (1360) 12:40 p.m. KRNY Kearney (1460) 12:45 p.m. KFOR Lincoln (1240) 12:45 p.m. KLMS Lincoln (1480) 1:00 p.m. KCNI Broken Bow (1280) 1:15 p.m. KAMI Coxad (1580) 2:45 p.m. KAWL York (1370) 3:30 p.m. KUVR Holdrege (1380) 4:45 p.m. KGFW Kearney (1340) 5:45 p.m. KMA Shenandoah, la. (960) 7:15 p.m. KNEB Scottsbluff (960) 9:00 p.m. MONDAY KSID Sidney (1340) 6:15 p.m. FRIDAY KTCH Wayne (1590) 3:45 p.m. KVSH Valentine (940) 5:10 p.m. KHUB Fremont (1340) 5:15 p.m. WJAG Norfolk (780) 5:30 p.m. KBRB Ainsworth (1400) 6:00 p.m. SATURDAY KTTT Columbus (1510) 6:05 a.m. KICS Hastings (1550) 6:15 a.m. KERY Scottsbluff (690) 7:45 a.m. KJSK Columbus (900) 10:45 a.m. KCSR Chadron (610) 11:45 a.m. KGMT Fairbury (1310) 12:45 p.m. KBRX O'Neill (1350) 4:30 p.m. KNCY Nebraska City (1600) 5:00 p.m. KOLT Scottsbluff (1320) 5:40 p.m. KMNS Sioux City, la. (620) 6:10 p.m. KRVN Lexington (1010) 6:45 p.m. KJSK-FM Columbus (101.1) 9:45 p.m. DIVISION CHIEFS C. Phillip Agee, research William J. Bailey Jr., federal aid Glen R. Foster, fisheries Carl E. Gettmann, enforcement Jack Hanna, budget and fiscal Dick H. Schaffer, information and tourism Frank Foote, asst. director Richard J. Spady, asst. director Lloyd Sfeen, personnel Jack D. Strain, parks Lyle Tanderup, engineering CONSERVATION OFFICERS Ainsworth—Max Showalter, 387-1960 Albion—Robert Kelly, 395-2538 Alliance—Marvin Bussinger, 762-5517 Alliance—Richard Furley, 762-2024 Alma—William F. Bonsall, 928-23"3 Arapahoe—Don Schaepler, 962-7818 Auburn—James Newcome, 274-3644 Bassett—Leonard Spoering, 684-3645 Bassett—Bruce Wiebe, 684-3511 Benkelman—H. Lee Bowers, 423-2893 Bridgeport—Andy Nielsen Broken Bow—Gene Jeffries, 872-5953 Columbus—Lyman Wilkinson, 564-4375 Crawford—Cecil Avey, 665-2517 Creighton—Gary R. Ralston, 425 Crofton—John Schuckman. 388-4421 David City—Lester H. Johnson, 367-4037 Fairbury—Larry Bauman, 729-3734 Fremont—Jim McCole, 721-2482 Gering—Mick Gray, 436-2686 Grand Island—Fred Salak, 384-0582 Hastings—Norbert Kampsnider, 462-8953 Lexington—Robert D. Patrick, 324-2138 Lincoln—Leroy Orvis, 488-1663 Lincoln—William O. Anderson, 432-9013 Milford—Dale Bruha, 761-453! Millard—Dick Wilson, 334-1234 Norfolk—Marion Shafer, 371-2031 Norfolk—Robert Downing, 371-2675 North Platte—Samuel Grasmick, 532-9546 North Platte—Roger A. Guenther, 532-2220 Ogallala—Parker Erickson Omaha—Dwight Allbery, 558-2910 O'Neill—Kenneth L. Adkisson, 336-3000 Ord—Gerald Woodgate, 728-5060 Oshkosh—Donald D. Hunt, 772-3697 Plattsmouth—Larry D. Elston, 296-3562 Ponca—Richard D. Turpin, 755-2612 Riverdale—Bill Earnest, 893-2571 Rushville—Marvin T. Kampbell, 327-2995 Sidney—Raymond Frandsen, 254-4438 Stapleton—John D. Henderson, 636-2430 Syracuse—Joe UI rich Tekamah—Richard Elston, 374-1698 Valentine—Elvln Zimmerman, 376-3674 York—Gail Woodslde, 362-4120 65
Outdoor Elsewhere
Lightweight Fishing Titles. The Angling Times, an English tabloid, gives a meaty recap of an international fishing match recently staged on a little West German river. The British captured first place in the contest, which was judged on overall weight of the fish caught, with 64 fish totalling 9 pounds and 11 ounces, for an average weight of 2 1/2 ounces per fish. Competing countries included West Germany, Austria, Belgium, France, and Luxembourg. Luxembourg finished third in the contest with a total of 230 fish that weighed a total of 2 pounds and 1/2 ounces. No species were identified, but some of them must have been plankton. —New York Urban Renewal. Some four years ago, Colby College officials delayed a $1 million construction project long enough to permit a nesting woodcock to hatch her young. Last spring a woodcock, that might have been the same hen or one of her offspring, was observed circling the same spot. However, a dormitory now stands there. After a thorough search, the bird headed for another part of the campus —the game preserve.— Maine Scientific Breakthrough. Getting worms out of a can has always been a problem for fishermen because the worms crawl to the very bottom of the can. But now, science has solved this problem. Anglers can carry worms in a coffee can from which both end? have been removed with a can opener and covered with the plastic lids that come with the cans. Then, when the worms squirm to the bottom of the can, as they always do, the fisherman simply turns the can upside down and takes off the plastic lid, and there are the worms. — Washington, D.C. Fringe Benefits. Small towns need doctors too! And, two little Pennsylvania 66 towns now without doctors are doing their best to attract physicians. Both boast good trout streams and deer-hunting country as added incentives for doctors to set up practice there. — Pennsylvania Off The Beaten Path. Goldfish and tropical species may satisfy most home-aquarium owners, but not a Baltimorean fish lover who decided to get off the beaten path. The fellow stocked a spare bathtub with such Maryland species as white and yellow perch, crappie, catfish, and pike, all caught from a local pond. He wanted to see if the fish would do well in captivity, which they did. The fish lover returned all the fish to the pond after a few months. —Maryland Snowmobile Woes. The snowmobile craze has boomed in snow states over the past few winters, and Wisconsin Fisheries personnel are concerned about the possibilities of snowmobiling contributing to winter fish kills. According to officials, heavy snowmobile traffic over shallow lakes could compact the snow, creating an unnatural, extra-thick ice barrier to sunlight, with fish kills the result. — Wisconsin Sore Feet. An irate Colorado hunter, nursing sore feet and a short temper after hours of unsuccessful hunting, stormed into a check station and confronted a game biologist. "Where the heck are the deer?" he asked. Maintaining his composure, the biologist nonchalantly nodded toward a buck and two does that had picked this very moment to cross the road just below the station. He then asked the hunter if those deer might fill the bill. "Can I shoot them?" asked the now bug-eyed hunter. "If you get off the road," the biologist yawned. The hunter complied, dropped the buck, and then made a pleasantly short and convenient trip back to the check station with his deer. — Colorado For The Record. A survey recently released by the Minnesota Game Department reveals that dogs killed more than four times as many deer as wolves and coyotes combined in the first three months of 1969, when snow and ice conditions were at their worst. A total of 519 kills were attributed to dogs, as opposed to 126 for wolves and coyotes. Each case was investigated by conservation officers of that state. — Minnesota Unfortunate Circumstances. The Golden Gate Angling and Casting Club of San Francisco was recently forced to shift its annual meeting from a Thursday night to a Sunday morning. The reason why was because they couldn't get a quorum for night sessions at its Golden Gate Park headquarters. And why not? Because of muggings and other crimes in the park. — CaliforniaLa Grand Isle
IN MARCH OF 1813, Manuel Lisa's French-Canadian trapping expedition came upon a huge island in the Platte River in what is now central Nebraska. The trappers, astonished with the incredible size of the island, named it appropriately — La Grande Isle.
In honor of the historic island, from which Nebraska's city of Grand Island derives its name, the Hall County Historical Society has erected a Historical Marker, which is located in Stolley Park on the southern fringe of the city.
In 1856, several businessmen from Davenport, Iowa, led by a fellow named Barrows, felt that with all the talk in Congress about a transcontinental railroad, building a frontier town could be a very worthy investment. Barrows thought that sooner or later a railroad would be built along the banks of the great Platte, and that eventually the national capitol would be moved from Washington to a central location. An area bordering the Platte near La Grande Isle would be an ideal location for investors to cash in on both counts, he thought.
The speculation was considered to be extraordinarily wild. The towns-people of Davenport thought the idea to be foolhardy, but in the spring of 1857 the speculators sold their idea to both prospective pioneers and, more importantly, to financiers. Before long an expedition started to the wide-open spaces of Nebraska under the leadership of William Stolley. On July 2, 1857, the trail-weary wagon train arrived at its destination — the fabled Grande Isle.
Having arrived too late that year to plant crops, the settlers scurried about building shelters. Winter came and, as luck would have it, it was unusually severe. But the determined pioneers stuck it out. The next year a financial slump in the East left the embryo city of Grand Island penniless. The enterprise was officially abandoned on the homefront in Davenport and the German settlers were on their own.
Giving up and going back to the established farmland in Iowa was the easy way out, and perhaps the most logical thing to do. But the immigrants decided to stay. For a number of years the settlers struggled to provide their families with the bare necessities of life. They encountered drought, grasshoppers, Indians, sickness, and many other hardships.
The original scheme-master, Barrows, did not live to see it, but a portion of his speculation came true July 8, 1866, when the Union Pacific Railroad reached Grand Island. Barrows had won and lost all in the same game. True, his thinking was unconventional, but his was an era of wild speculation. Without it, Grand Island today might simply be a large island of little consequence.
NEBRASKAland
