For the Record... REASONS FOR CHANGE

On October 8, 1970, the Game and Parks Commission approved a plan of reorganization calling for significant changes in various Commission programs and administrative structure. What are some of the reasons for these changes? How will they be made? What benefits can be expected?

First of all, improved efficiency of administration and operation is necessary. Increased responsibilities and new programs undertaken during the past 10 years have outgrown our administrative structure. Consolidation of some of our functions will result in more efficient use of personnel, equipment, and materials. In other instances, activities that have become outdated will be discontinued. Dollars will be saved in both cases.

Another aspect of efficiency has to do with improved communication. This must occur first within the agency itself, then with other agencies, and ultimately, the general public. We cannot hope to do an effective job of communicating with the public until we communicate well with ourselves. The reorganization plan is sprinkled throughout with devices designed for such improvement. Consolidation of the existing Game, Fish, and Research divisions into a Branch of Wildlife Services is an example of an attempt to improve "horizontal communication" within these biologically oriented units.

The establishment of an in-service training program in the Law Enforcement Division will be helpful in forging a communication link between biologists, conservation officers, and the public. The conservation officer is the agency's most constant contact with the people of the state, and is, therefore, in the best position to draw from and contribute to public information and interest at the field level.

Also built into the reorganization are some changes in program concepts. In line with current and future national trends, the agency recognizes the importance of non-consumptive use of all wildlife in addition to the traditional concern with consumptive use of game and fish. Efforts will be made to plan for and provide such uses as a com- plement to the current program.

It is planned to establish a metro-services representative in the Omaha-Lincoln area to better serve the great need existing there. He will provide for programs, make other public contacts, disseminate information in various ways, and interpret and relate metropolitan needs back to the Commission. Through this program we will hopefully develop new ways for the Commission to better serve this high-population area of the state.

While the first phase of reorganization is primarily one of consolidation, the second phase is one of administrative decentralization. This involves the placement of administrative personnel in the various district offices around the state who will be in charge of all Commission activities in the district, except for state parks. Placement of administrative authority in district offices will result in better supervision of agency personnel, faster action, and better fitting of our state programs to local needs.

The reorganization is also tied in with the new budget, and therefore is concerned with certain financial concepts that were altered concurrent with reorganization.

Finally, all aspects of reorganization are aimed at the ultimate goal of providing better service to the public at the least cost. The passage of time demands changes in all individuals as well as organizations if we are to effectively and efficiently meet obligations. We are trying.

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.

INTERESTING — "I sincerely hope you will consider making small-town stories a regular feature because I believe they will be entertaining, interesting, and profitable for your readers.

"If it has not already been done, I believe a historical article in each issue would be appropriate. It could cover Indian tribal days, pioneers, settlers, and up to modern times, naming people, events, and families in the order of development." — P. E. Johnson, Hillsboro, Oregon.

LOOP THE LOUP —"We enjoy reading NEBRASKAland very much, but we do have one suggestion.

"The articles cover a lot of regions in Nebraska, except for the North Loup and Middle Loup areas. If anyone has ever traveled the area, they know some of the beauty of it. -Mrs. Jim Mingus, Dannebrog.

HELP —"I need your help to get word to Nebraska artists to find out what they are doing. We find that no single news media reaches all areas of the state as NEBRASKAland does.

"Artists should send in dates of their exhibitions, group and private showings, and workshops. Information should be sent to Mrs. J. E. Tracy, 420 Cloverly Avenue, Fremont." —Jan Tracy, Fremont.

ARTIST IN PRINT-"I have been interested in the series of Sand Hill country seasons by Marcia Greer. I hope you will encourage Mrs. Greer to contribute to NEBRASKAland more often. Her descriptions of life in her area are most vivid and enjoyable. She has a choice of words that paints pictures, and I feel as if I am in the midst of the Sand Hills." — Mrs. Helen Bradshaw, Denver, Colorado.

TERRIBLE —"There is something terribly wrong with the placement of the shotgun in the photo used with NEBRASKAland's, Harness for Field Glasses in November.

"The weapon is pointing toward a part of the lad. Even if there is a post between them, I would think the charge, whatever it might be, could go through the post, injuring him. Why take such a chance?" — Harold M. Hill, Prescott, Arizona.

WATCH IT —"I just received my copy of NEBRASKAland, November 1970.1 had to look twice at the picture on page 7 (Harness for Field Glasses).

"The young fellow showing how to use the harness for field glasses won't be using it for long if he continues pointing the barrel of that shotgun at his midsection.

"We realize the action is open. However, the reaction to the picture is not good. If the gun is placed in this position for a picture, it could very well be placed in the same position, with the action closed, during a hunt.

"We all enjoy NEBRASKAland, but do watch those pictures!" —Monty Weymouth, Chadron.

A closer look at the photo may point up some facts that were overlooked. First, the muzzle of the weapon is leaning back into a crack in the board fence and against the supporting post. Second, the shotgun is angled away from the hunter. This is, of course, standard practice for a good hunter. Sorry if the photo alarmed some of our readers, but safety precautions were taken. — Editor.

THE HARD WAY-"While in general practice with Dr. Slagle of Alliance in 1921, we received a call from a doctor in Hemingford. He told us that he had an Indian boy with diphtheria.

"Each year, several hundred Indians came from Pine Ridge, South Dakota, to dig potatoes.

"He requested all the diphtheria antitoxin available to inoculate the well children and treat the patients. I collected all the antitoxin in the area and asked the Box Butte County sheriff to help me.

"We spent all day rounding up uncooperative Indian children hidden under wagons and in tents so that we could inoculate them. Then, the sheriff ordered the Indians back to the reservation so that medical supervision could be effective. We had great difficulty getting them FEBRUARY 1971 7   to move, as they were eager to make extra money harvesting potatoes. They simply didn't realize the seriousness of a diphtheria epidemic. The sheriff, with the help of some co-operative Indians, finally managed to head them toward the reservation, however. This is really practicing medicine the hard way." — A. E. Bennett, M.D., Berkeley, California.

TALLYHOTHE PYTHON-"PythonPosse in the October issue brought to mind a similar incident.

"In 1928 or 1929, my husband and I were living on a farm a little ways northwest of Phillips. My husband was cultivating corn, when all at once the horses went crazy. There, in front of them, was a large snake. It was sort of spotted, and stretched out a little over three rows of corn.

"My husband finally made it to the end of the field, but then came to the house and told me. We went back to the field, and, though the snake was gone, we could follow its trail across the field to a culvert at a road leading down to the Platte River.

"Neither of us ever saw the snake again, though my husband always thought it probably got away from a circus." —Mrs. Mary Bartz, Lakeview, California.

INFO FOUND-"Reader Clinkenbeard can obtain information on carp smoking and smokers by writing the Wisconsin Conservation Department, Madison, Wisconsin. There is no charge for the material." —Ralph O'Dell, Lake Isabella, Calif.

LOVE THAT MAGAZINE - 1 wrote a poem about wildlife that I believe NEBRASKAland readers might enjoy as much as I like every issue." —Tom Green, Dundee, Florida.

DRIFTING INTO TROUBLE

ABOUT THE FURTHEST thing from our minds last April 10 i was snow. Yet we were driving into one of the worst blizzards ever to come down the pike.

As soon as we got off work Friday night, Bob Atkins, Les Shaffer, Norman Heckmann, Elmer Owens, and I piled into our converted, 34-passenger bus and headed west. We all live in Norfolk and had been planning this trip for some time. Spring was almost three weeks old, and for ardent anglers like us that meant fishing. This particular trip was to Merritt Reservoir near Valentine, about 200 miles away.

Despite the drive, we were up bright and early Saturday morning to give the trout a try. That night, we were back in the camping area west of the dam, more than ready to sack in after a long day.

I still don't know why I woke up about 4 a.m. the next morning, but it was then that I found out just how much trouble we were in. When we went to bed, there was little warning of what greeted me when I looked out the window. The entire area was white. There was an inch of snow on the ground - enough to worry me. In the hills around Merritt, even a little snow can make for rough going. That's why I shook my sleeping companions awake and announced our predicament. My warning was greeted by growls and grumbles. I was severely chastised and told to get back to bed. Consequently, it was after 6 a.m. when we next awoke and peeked outside. Trouble had multiplied in that two-hour sleep. There was more snow on the ground than we could possibly negotiate in the bus.

Somehow, we weren't too worried about the snow. We'd been caught away from the bus several times before. On those occasions, we simply spent the night behind a rock or under a tree. Things weren't nearly that bad now; we were in the bus and snug as could be. There were some good-natured comments bandied about, but the snow continued to fall. But then the wind rose-suddenly. As it grew in strength, it whipped the snow into the worst blizzard I had ever seen, drifting the white stuff and packing it around the bus, covering our boats and the dock.

The situation worsened when I, as cook for the crew, announced that our food supply was at austerity level. To get our minds off both the snow and lack of food, we broke out the cards. But man cannot live by poker alone, and as the snow abated late that Sunday afternoon we decided to try to break out of the bus.

It was cold, but the wind had died down somewhat, and Merritt's waters were still open to navigation. We decided our best mode of transportation to get out of there was by boat, and as we broke one of them loose, we hoped to reach a house nearby. In that open craft, we were at the mercy of the elements as we sped along the shoreline. A frosty breeze was making life pretty miserable by the time we arrived at the home of Kenny Hurlburt, area supervisor for the local irrigation district. And a welcome sight it was. Just the thought of different company was enough to raise our spirits as we knocked at the door. But we weren't prepared for what we found. Several other people had already made it to the house and, before long, a total of 24 hungry campers and fishermen had converged on the Hurlburts.

Many people also dumped their camping gear in the dining room. In our case, we managed one boat trip back to the bus to get our sleeping bags, but it was too miserable to continue going back and forth, so we bedded down at the Hurlburt home, too.

Late Monday afternoon, a ton of food after we arrived, a snowplow finally pushed its way through the drifts on the road and pulled into the Hurlburts' yard. Earlier, we had called a friend in Valentine and when the plow arrived he was right behind. Piling into the car, we headed for town, abandoning our bus and breathing a little easier.

We spent that night in Valentine and returned to Norfolk on Tuesday. Two weeks later, we were back to claim our bus and get in some more fishing. That was by no means the end of our ordeal, though. Since that weekend in April, all of us have been the targets of some friendly jokes. But we consider ourselves lucky, for if we had been farther into the hills, our situation could have been even worse. As it was, all of us came through the blizzard in good shape and we still make regular trips in our trusty old bus. None of us, though, will ever forget that weekend at Merritt Reservoir.

HOW TO: MAKE ROOM FOR PURPLE MARTINS

ALTHOUGH THE BALD eagle has been America's national k symbol for almost 200 years, certain bird enthusiasts, if they had their way, might like a change. The bird they are so enthusiastic about is the purple martin.

There are probably more martins nesting in the United States now than there were in 1776. Not the least of the causes of this phenomenon are the many dwellings that have been set up just for these birds. Martins were perhaps the first birds in America to use man-made nesting sites. Indians, well before the arrival of white men, hollowed out gourds and hung them from poles above their tepees. In colonial times, martin houses were set up each spring. Perhaps the oldest continuously used martin colony is in Greencastle, Pennsylvania, in use since 1840. More recently, the town of Griggsville, Illinois, has become famous as "The Purple Martin Capital of the Nation".

The qualities of purple martins that so readily endear them to the homeowner are many. The sleek, blue-black swallows are not only attractive in appearance, but are a joy to watch in flight. They are clean birds, easy to attract, and nest comfortably alongside civilization. But more importantly, martins are known for the amazing number of bugs they eat, especially mosquitoes. It has been conservatively estimated that one martin consumes more than 2,000 mosquitoes a day. So it is not difficult to understand why many people are anxious to have purple martins nest near their homes.

Martin houses are different than other birdhouses in several important ways. The gregarious "skeetereaters" like to live communally with other martins, so a house should have at least six compartments. There is no upper limit. Some have in excess of 200 units. The holes in a martin house are placed near the bottom of the compartment, rather than near the top, and need not be natural looking, as a fancy little castle in the sky is apparently just as attractive to the martins as a plain apartment building.

Many plans for martin houses, including those given here, follow a basic design originally published by the U.S. Department of Agriculture. Modifications can be made as long as certain basic features are main- tained. Each nesting compartment should be 6 X 6 X 6 inches, inside measurements. The 2^2-inch en- trance holes should be cut in the walls 1 inch above the floor. Also, some arrangements should be made for ventilation, since martin houses

are always out in the open and can become quite hot in the summer while nesting is still going on. Most are made so that additional sections may be added later.

The house can be made from the following materials:

(All the above materials may also be cut from Vfe-inch plywood but di- mensions of walls, oase sides, and partitions must be adjusted.)

Oak:

Other materials:

All wood pieces can be cut first, according to the dimensions given in the diagram. The partitions (K,L) can be notched halfway through so that they fit together in an "eggcrate" fashion. These partitions may be lengthened in order to dado them into the sides. Two Vi-inch holes should be drilled at the top edge in the center of each of these pieces as ventilation holes leading into the central air shaft. Next, the 2V2-inch entrance holes may be cut into the sides (C,D,E,F) and gables (J). The bottom of the entrance holes should be one inch above the floorline, while those in the gables can be centered. Bevel the roof pieces (I) and cut the center ventilation openings through the attic floor (A) and the middle-level floor piece (B). Once the 12

pieces of cove molding, which keep the sections in alignment, are cut and mitered and the center cross pieces cut from oak or other durable wood, the materials are ready for assembly.

The birdhouse is made in three separate units: the roof and each of the nesting sections. The roof is made first. Nail the cove molding to the underside of the attic floor. Staple or tack a four-inch square of screen over the holes in the gables. Then the gables and roof pieces are nailed or screwed on top. Glue may be used on all joints.

The walls and partitions form the nesting sections. These sections are nailed or screwed to the floors, with the molding nailed to the underside.

Add the 2 1/2-inch base sides (G,H) to the bottom section. Within this frame rests the center cross built of a double-thickness of 3/4-inch oak boards, 2 1/2 inches wide. Depending on whether a 4 X 4 or a length of pipe is used for the pole, four heavy angle irons or a pipe flange should be bolted through the floor of the bottom section and the center cross.

The three units are held together with hooks and eyes. Building the birdhouse in sections makes winter storage easier and facilitates cleaning, a task which must be done each spring before the martins arrive. The house should be given two coats of white paint. Although martins have no color preference, white reflects sunlight and keeps the house cooler in summer.

The birdhouse should be placed on a pole 15 or 20 feet high, away from shade and buildings. The pole should be erected so that it can be easily raised and lowered. This can be done by mounting it between supports and attaching it with two bolts. When the lower bolt is removed, the upper acts as a hinge, allowing the birdhouse to be lowered to the ground.

Purple martins begin returning to Nebraska around April 1, and continue coming in the greatest numbers during the next two weeks. Though martins occur throughout the state, their range is generally restricted to the eastern third. Before building a purple martin house, it would probably be wise to make sure that martins are common in the area, as an unoccupied martin house will be taken over by less desirable house sparrows or starlings.

Once established in an area, the martins usually return year after year. The beautiful, soaring flight of the martins around their sturdy nesting house is a welcome sight over any homeowner's lawn or garden. THE END

Rare Conquest

ONE MAN'S CLAIM to fame lies in the fact that he drove a golf ball all the way across the United States. Another gained renown by standing on his head in front of the capitol buildings of all the states.

Famed mountaineer George Mallory insisted on climbing Mount Everest, even though he knew there was nothing on top but snow. When asked why he wanted to scale the mountain, he is said to have answered: "Because it is there."

Recently, NEBRASKAland Magazine was fortunate enough to enlist two young men with the same thirst for adventure and reckless abandon that must have marked Mallory. Throwing caution to the wind, they decided to tackle the highest point in Nebraska. Marty Mueller from Ogallala, and Eric Vant of Lincoln, both freshmen at the University of Nebraska in Lincoln, knew Nebraska's highest point couldn't quite equal Mount Everest. But then, sometimes you have to make do with what's available.

The logical start seemed to be to locate the high point. A telephone call to the U.S. Geological Survey yielded a complicated, township-range description of the spot somewhere in southwestern Kimball County. Another call to Betty Allen, manager of the Kimball Chamber of Commerce, brought a more down-to-earth explanation.

"The high point is on Henry Constable's ranch, near the Nebraska-Colorado-Wyoming border," Betty reported. She also advised that we wouldn't need climbing ropes or other equipment. So, armed with this knowledge, we continued our planning.

On the morning of November 6, Marty, Eric, and I headed west. With spirits high and the lure of adventure egging us on, we must have been a dashing crew. But I was about to put an end to that.

"What happens if the high point isn't on the Constable ranch?" I figured if the thought was bothering me, I might as well pass it on to my companions.

Eric was panic-stricken. I had heard earlier, before my pre-trip investigation, that the spot was around Harrison. That was considerably north of our destination, not at all where we were headed.

"It says right here that the point is near Kimball," he choked, pointing to our references. Those papers may have made him feel better, but Marty still looked doubtful. After all, how would Mallory have felt if he had missed Mount Everest?

Now seasoned adventurers aren't supposed to need maps. So when we arrived in the Kimball area, we struck out to find the spot without any such aids. Half an hour later, we were still wandering around the countryside south of Bushnell. That's when Eric decided to break out the farm directory. He located the Constable ranch and reported that we had to go farther southwest.

"We can't go too much farther, or we won't be in Nebraska anymore," Marty cautioned. He was almost proved right when we finally arrived at the ranch. It was only three-quarters of a mile north of the Colorado state line and just two miles out of Wyoming. "You've come to the right spot," Henry Constable said when we knocked at his door and explained our mission. "Let me crank up my pickup and open some gates for you. You follow along in your car."

As we started up a field road, Henry pulled to a halt and walked back to our car. "I don't want you fellows to be disappointed when we get there." He seemed almost apologetic. "There's not a lot to see. I've been trying to get a plaque or marker put up, but I haven't had any luck. There's only a post to mark the spot now."

Assuring him that we just wanted to reach the spot, we continued up the bumpy road. Near the crest of the hill, Henry slowed his pickup and pointed to the right. A hundred yards away, 11 antelope surveyed us briefly before bounding over the hill. At the top of the rise, Henry turned the pickup around and stopped.

"You guys think you can make it from here?" he called with a grin, noting a yellow post 50 feet away.

"Looks pretty rough," Eric quipped, "but we can give it a try."

Marty's long strides brought him to the summit first, with Eric and me close behind. As we congratulated each other on completion of the "rough" climb Henry walked over.

"Well, this is it," he said. "For years they thought the highest point was up north. Then, a few years back, they started drilling for oil in this area. A fellow took an elevation reading at his rig and found he was higher than the accepted high point in the state. More than that, they were drilling in a draw. That's when they started looking around and found this

"We're higher than Denver."

"That's true," Eric answered, "but that little rise over there looks even higher."

"Let's check it." Marty, an engineering major, pulled the transit from the car and set it up. As Eric headed "up the rise" it was obvious that he was walking downhill. The transit confirmed it. The true high point was 18 inches higher than the "rise".

"I guess this is it," Eric observed when he returned, "but that's some optical illusion."

Flag raising was our next task. We had agreed before leaving Lincoln that raising a Nebraska state flag would be a fitting tribute to our "climb". It turned out to be about the most difficult part of the journey. A stiff, gusty wind unfurled the blue banner, making its raising a real chore. But Marty and Eric struggled valiantly, and finally hoisted the mast into position. We planted it firmly in the ground, then stood back to look. Our conquest was rare indeed, but we managed to experience a bit of that same feeling Mallory must have had when he reached Mount Everest's summit. Then we packed our gear and left.

Back at the ranch, we stopped to thank Henry for his help. He met us at the door and asked us to sign his "high-point register".

'We're off the beaten path, so not too many people get out here," he explained. 'I just started keeping a log this spring. Wish I'd thought of it sooner. It would be interesting to look back and see who has been here over the years."

Henry saw us off with a wave and a friendly "You fellows come back and see us." We started home. For some time, we rode in silence.

"I guess quite a few people have been to Nebraska's highest point," Eric finally observed.

"Well, it's not too tough," Marty grinned.

"But I wonder if anybody has ever gone to the lowest spot," Eric mused.

"That's a great idea," Marty beamed. "The highest spot and the lowest spot. Let's do it."

"I'm game," I put in. 'When do you want to go?"

"How about tomorrow?" Eric asked. We all agreed, and that settled it. Spending the next half-hour speculating about where the lowest spot might be, we finally agreed it was likely to be somewhere in southeastern Nebraska. I was assigned to find its exact location. Another call to the U.S. Geological Survey confirmed our speculation. I learned that the lowest spot is in the extreme southeastern corner where the Missouri River flows from Nebraska into Kansas. An elevation check revealed that the low point fluctuates between 835 and 840 feet, depending on the river's level.

By noon the next day, we were on our way to Rulo, the town nearest our destination. As was the case with the high point, the low point was on private land. So, when we arrived in Rulo, our first task was to find the landowner, and an hour later, we discovered that he was a doctor in Kansas City, Missouri.

"That's a bit too far to go this afternoon," Marty grinned.

"What do you say we drive past the place again before we head back?" Eric queried.

A cornfield stretched from the road to the river's brushy edge. As we approached, we saw a corn picker in the far corner of the field.

"I'll bet that's the guy who rents the land," I said. "I'll hike in and ask him if we can cross to the river."

I caught the picker just as it rounded the end of the rows.

"You want to do what?" was the answer to my question.

"We're trying to get to the lowest spot in the state. From what we've been able to find out, it's right where the Missouri River crosses into Kansas."

"That would be right over there, where the fencerow runs to the river," the farmer said. "Go ahead." I couldn't help but notice him shaking his head as I walked away.

"Let's go," I yelled as I trotted up to the car. A field road took us to within a hundred yards of the river. We had visualized the low spot as part of a broad, sandy beach. But what met us as we hiked toward the river was a maze of weeds and willows.

Just as we plunged into the heavy brush, I remembered two machetes in the car. In a matter of minutes, Eric and Marty were hacking a path through the undergrowth like a couple of jungle fighters. I brought up the rear. About halfway through (Continued on page 64)

DESTINED TO DIE

FEW PERIODS IN western history excite the imagination as much as the short-lived reign of the Pony Express. Its legendary riders shuttled mail across the unsettled frontier at breakneck speed, while the railroad inched westward, and the first telegraph line was being strung across the country.

Although it lasted only 18 months and proved a financial failure in itself, the Pony Express survived through a series of stagecoach-line mergers and takeovers as one of the most colorful episodes in taming the West. During the Indian Wars, these daring young riders dazzled even the doughty by carrying mail from the Missouri River across Nebraska Territory to the West Coast through tough terrain, no matter how hostile the Indians or how rough the weather.

But the Pony Express was destined to die even before it began. Eventually it would become part of the Wells Fargo stageline, thus adding to this western giant which emerged supreme in the stagecoach business some 20 years after the discovery of gold in California.

While there had been other attempts to organize similar operations during the 1850's, the Pony Express, in operation from April 1860 to October 1861, is what historians have labelled the one and only because of its success and the spectacular way in which it was run.

It was a significant step in mail service across the West. But more than that, it served two significant purposes. The superiority of the central overland route, as opposed to a southern route to San Pedro, California, and then north by ship along the Pacific Coast to San Francisco, was established. And, California's allegiance to the Union at the beginning of the American Civil War was solidified because of the speedy delivery brought about by the Pony Express. Stagecoaches took approximately 25 days to travel from the Missouri River to California, but a Pony Express delivery was scheduled for only 10 days in summer and 12 in winter. Historians might argue the point of just how significant a part this colorful company played in keeping California in the Union during the Civil War, since coast-to-coast telegraph communication began late in 1861. But the fact remains that delivery time was cut in half.

The Pony Express was the result of a bold, adventure some scheme, organized in 1860 by three westerners—William Russell, Alexander Majors, and William Waddell.

During the 1850*8, the federal government awarded mail-delivery contracts to various stagecoach companies, depending on which could cross the West with the least number of mishaps. Service was erratic. Also, there was stiff competition between advocates of the central and southern routes.

But in 1860, Russell, Majors, and Waddell of Saint Joseph, Missouri, gained control of carrying the mail from the Missouri River to Salt Lake City. Earlier, they had operated short runs between Missouri towns and army outposts on Nebraska Territory's frontier, reaching out as far as Fort Kearny. At the end of the decade they wanted, once and for all, to establish the fact that the central route was the fastest way to California. Their problem was how to do it. That's when they came up with the Pony Express.

It took some doing, but they persuaded the federal government that if they were to get the mail contract along the entire route, they would deliver in 10 days or less. If they fulfilled (Continued on page 54)

ICE WALLS OF THE NIOBRARA

THE EBB AND FLOW of the seasons reveal the intricacies of nature, and wherever the difference between winter and summer is more pronounced, scenic contrast broadens. The Niobrara River wends its way through verdant valleys in summer, but in winter it stops, frozen in the grip of the seasons.

Here, one of nature's most spectacular phenomena unfolds as icy walls appear on cliff faces near Valentine. Designed by Mother Nature to guide the river along its course during summertime flow, sheer cliffs along the river inside the Fort Niobrara National Wildlife Refuge don an iridescent glow. Moisture from seepage springs at the brinks of the cliffs, coats the walls, and freezing temperatures hold this moisture in suspension, draping it over the escarpments with glacier-like pace.

The ice walls reach the height of beauty during winter's coldest days in late January or early February. Beauty is most brilliant late in the afternoons when sunlight skims across the fluted surfaces. Pale blue and green areas of ice

appear where the water carries minerals dissolved from the parent earth.

The Niobrara ice walls are a sight well worth the effort it takes to reach them. Access is gained several ways. Visitors may drive 3 miles east from Valentine on Nebraska Highway 12, stopping at the bridge which leads to refuge headquarters. There is a lookout point above Fort Falls near refuge headquarters. The lesser of the walls can be seen from there.

Perhaps the most adventuresome and aesthetically pleasing way to see the icy spectacle in its entirety is to hike the river, starting from the bridge. Snowshoes, although not mandatory, are recommended if the snow is deep. Ice creepers on shoes are also an asset while walking on slick surfaces.

The lesser of the walls is first in line, rising up from the north bank. Farther on, the small tributary from Fort Falls joins the Niobrara. A short detour up the tributary leads to Fort Falls, blanketed in ice with the water still rushing behind the sheath. Returning to the river, just downstream from the junction is the second of the ice walls. Still farther east is the buffalo bridge, used to drive the animals north and south across the river each spring and fall.

The river bends just beyond the bridge. The biggest and most spectacular ice wall is in the river's curve to the south. Along a 150-yard span there, the ice builds up to heights of 40 or 50 feet. The moisture is barely enough to keep the wall damp in summer, but in winter it freezes as it emerges, building to a thickness of three or four feet, depending on the weather.

Another way to see this natural beauty spot is to drive a snowmobile on the river's ice, but this is hazardous because the river has been known to open up during extended warm spells. When this happens, a canoe can be used, but this again is extremely dangerous because floating ice can damage the craft.

The walls are seemingly static, but there is constant, intricate movement from day to day as the icicles lengthen and the castles build up from below.

When spring arrives, the walls facing south disappear first. Those facing north stay longer, sometimes melting gradually, sometimes dropping off in chunks to be carried downstream by the current. And so an ebb of nature yields to the flow of spring as another of Nebraska's wonders passes. THE END

RECORD FOR NOW

ALMOST AN HOUR before dawn, the 17-foot inboard pushed its way out of Lemoyne Bay at Lake McConaughy and turned east toward the dam. Four anglers aboard the craft hauled in a few white bass as they trolled toward their destination, but weren't dissuaded from their original goal —Arthur Bay.

A strong north wind buffeted them, so they decided to pull the boat far up into the cove and drift out with the wind, rather than troll or anchor. They cast and retrieved or jigged the lures as they drifted.

It was still before sunup when the first customer grabbed a line. A treble-hooked, white slab on the business end was doing its job. The slab was a three-inch, heavy metal spoon rounded at the ends, a favorite lure for white bass and walleye at McConaughy for several years now.

After an exciting few minutes, the fish was hoisted aboard. Rather than a husky white bass, they found a striped bass on the lure, one that weighed slightly more than five pounds.

The two couples in the boat, Barney and Dixie Akers, and Gerald and Marceda Schmidt, knew what the state's striper record was, for an 11-year-old boy, an acquaintance from Syracuse, Kansas, presently held it. The record was over six pounds, and their little portable scale showed this fish to be less than that.

A day earlier, the second of their three-day trip to McConaughy from their homes near Kendall, Kansas, Gerald had hooked a fish about a quarter of a mile from where they were now fishing. After just a few minutes of fighting, the fish broke the line and made its escape. That episode was partial reason for choosing Arthur Bay today.

Within minutes, another striper took a spoon and was brought aboard —one that later scaled out just an ounce short of six pounds. Then Mrs. Schmidt latched onto one that wasn't brought in. The line gave way before the battle could really get started. But, every hit now added optimism to the morning venture. A third bragging- sized fish was soon added to the stringer, and it looked like a promising day for the quartet of anglers.

Still several minutes before the sun cleared the horizon, Dixie Akers felt the little dance that signaled (Continued on page 64)

ACTION IN THE RING

Country cattle auctions are outing for city slickers, but for ranchers they decide the fluctuating prices of prime beef

WHEN IT IS ALL said and done, the whole thing comes down to one word — profit. Yet, the cattle auction, a mainstay of Nebraska's agrarian economy, somehow comes off like a country fair, a gigantic shopping spree, and a neighborhood reunion all rolled into one. In fact, an auction probably packs more enjoyment, inch for inch, than any other spectacle of its kind in the state.

There is a common misconception about the cattle auction, be it in Nebraska or any of a dozen other states which depend heavily on the cowman and his product to bolster their economies. Urbanites, whose closest connection with beef is on a platter, seldom see the possibilities of the cattle auction as a place to go or a thing to do. Despite their down-on-cattle attitudes, this carryover from the days when railhead towns like Nebraska City, Ogallala, and Sidney spelled income for Texas cattle barons, still means an outing that is hard to beat.

Almost every Nebraska community, be it large or small, boasts a sale barn. Names for the structures vary, but the auction is the same. One day a week, ranchers gather to buy and sell their hooved gold. Sale day starts early, with many consignments shipped in by truck or rail the previous day. Some cattlemen prefer to pen their animals for a while prior to the sale, since the critters often lose weight in transit. Whatever the case, however, holding pens at the pavilion are seldom empty for more than a few days at a time.

Visitors would do well to arrive as early as the cattlemen if they want to get in on a piece of the action. A healthy share of the bickering, so common to sales, is never seen in the ring. And, at least a few of the consignments never hear the staccato chant of the auctioneer. They are spotted, evaluated, and snapped up by cattlemen seeking top stock, before they can be herded into the ring. The (Continued on page 62)

Bushytails in Ambush

HUNKERED DOWN in browning stands of seedless brome, a pair of camouflaged nimrods carefully eyed the no-man's-land between the river's brushy edge and the cornfield. Glistening frost, capping broken cornstalks, was preserved by long shadows of cottonwoods fingering out over the field. The night-cooled earth worked chills through layers of wool to pierce tender skin. The climbing sun etched a miniature horizon on a distant stand of ancient cottonwoods that fringed the peaceful Loup River bottomland near Monroe. Silhouettes of aging bow stands from years gone by seemed to mock the two squirrel hunters below.

A familiar shadow, originating from a nearby tree, pranced smoothly over the jagged field. Eager for action, Gary Ziegler pivoted to pinpoint the bushytail. Cautiously circling the tree, Gary almost missed seeing the squirrel frozen near a bowl-like depression 20 feet above. But he caught a glimpse of the prey and a .22-caliber slug whistled through the morning stillness,

smacking the bark below the rusty ball of fur. The squirrel's split-second pause gave Gary time to flick the selector button on his over-and-under. The solid "whump" of his .410 anchored two pounds of tasty meat securely in the wood pocket. Jerry Engberg, the second hunter, joined his partner at the tree.

Jerry, a self-employed carpenter and cabinet maker in Monroe, had teamed up with Gary, partner in a Monroe-based gas-propane retail business, for a day's pursuit of squirrels. Now, the two joined forces to retrieve the hunt's first prize from where it was lodged. Attempts to find a dead branch long enough to reach the bushytail failed. The piggyback method was out, since Gary's leg was still on the mend from a recent break. Finally, the team clicked as Jerry, an ardent cooner and veteran of many tree climbs, shinnied up a young mulberry close beside. With stick in hand, he freed the prize.

Gary's disappointment at the sight of so few of their intended quarry during the first 45 minutes of the hunt ebbed as Jerry recounted an earlier sighting. Several bushytails had been feeding in the corn just off a wooded point across the field.

Moving to a more promising site was in keeping with their original objective —to ambush a bushytail between timber and cornfield. Conceived and considered during many a cold morning of fruitless bow hunting, the idea to bag a respectable platter of under-harvested fox squirrels had finally come to be. The camouflaged suits, the memory of the three white-tailed does in the corn early that morning, and, most of all, the frigid waiting were reminiscent of past bow hunts.

Jerry settled into the willow peninsula so that he had a good view of several gnarled box elders near the core. After 10 minutes of idle wandering, Gary nestled under a fallen tree overlooking the cornfield. Near the remains of a bushytail's meal of corn on the cob, Gary awaited the gourmet's possible return. Partially eaten kernels reminded Gary that some people think fox

The whistling twang of Jerry's .22 shook Gary from his contemplation and had him on his feet and moving. When he arrived, Jerry was retrieving his trophy, and the story unraveled. The flick of a tail was the russet rodent's first mistake. An extended version of "hide and seek" ensued until Jerry's patience wore thin. A snap shot at a slightly revealed head ended the game. Not to be outdone, Gary renewed his search for the tiny targets.

His halfhearted shake of a four-inch sapling jarred two surprised family members from their high, leafy nest. A snap shot at one of the treetop acrobats from Gary's .410 was a washout. Jerry, meanwhile, drew bead on the second squirrel and, during one of its brief stops, brought down his second take of the morning. The two "camoed" hunters dismissed the other rascal with the feeble rationalization of "leaving seed for another year".

Theories tested and revised, the duo decided success might be waiting along the wooded border of an unpicked cornfield. A move into the rolling farmland provided another invitation to a bushytail bonanza.

Two "yellow bellies", caught feeding on the ground, skittered up an aging box elder. Dancing from tree to tree, the larger of the two found retreat in a hollowed branch. The other used the age-old ruse of slipping around to the far side of the tree and lying "doggo". Gary's calculated arrival on the same side forced the bushytail to shuffle back around the tree into Jerry's waiting gun sights. A resounding "thump" brought the pair's fourth prize to the leaf-littered ground. Gunfire, however, is the squirrel's best burglar alarm. So, Jerry and Gary decided to sit and wait for awhile.

Nestling down under gently leaning trees for the second time in the day, the now-enthused advocates of "squirreling" took up (Continued on page 55)

HOOK, LINE, AND ELECTRODE

FISHERIES BIOLOGISTS always suspected it, but a fish trap finally proved it. Rainbow trout definitely migrate from Lake McConaughy up the North Platte River to spawn, and then return to the reservoir.

Proof of this theory has come to light during the 1968, 1969, and 1970 seasons since an electrical fish trap, called a weir, has been in operation at the western end of Lake Mac just above the river's mouth. Although not major among conclusions derived from the fish trap, it is probably the one most likely to attract angler interest. Valuable information about the rainbow trout has been gleaned from studies connected with the weir to provide sport fishermen with even more clues on how to catch this elusive game fish.

Impounded at the eastern end by Kingsley Dam, second largest earth-fill construction of its kind in the world, Lake Mac is fed by the North Platte River from where it slashes through west-central Nebraska. With a source so mighty, it was only natural that Big Mac became a recreational area. But now, the lake and its tributary are also becoming important links with Nebraska's future fish production, especially since com- pletion of the weir,in 1967.

The whole thing started back in 1964 when Congress passed the Commercial Fisheries Research and Development Act. The law authorized the Federal Government to co-operate with state agencies on specific projects relating to commercial fishery resources. That year, Nebraska submitted a project proposal through the Bureau of Commercial Fisheries in Washington. In 1967, the state's Commercial Fishery Investigations project swung into operation. A continuing project, its objectives are to assess current stocks of sport and commercial fish in Nebraska reservoirs, and to establish the possibilities of an annual commercial removal program.

Fish-population counts by various methods had begun in 1955. These projects, which ran until 1966, indi- cated that approximately 60 percent of the lake's population consisted of rough fish —carp, quillback, river carpsucker, gizzard shad, and white, redhorse, and longnose suckers, the slough of the anglers, seldom kept when caught.

According to earlier research, large numbers of rough fish gather at the upper end of McConaughy during spring and early summer before moving west into the North Platte River to spawn. With information like that, it seemed that the river's mouth was the most suitable place to establish the fish trap. This installation soon became the key facility in the project.

Essentially, the weir consists of three electrical suspensions across the river. These form a barrier to fish migrating upriver, thus creating a trapping and holding area. Located 2.8 miles east of U.S. Highway 26 near Lewellen, the weir was established at the site of an abandoned irrigation diversion, which became obsolete with the completion of Kingsley Dam in 1941 and the subsequent buildup of water in the lake. Development began in January 1967 with initial construction in May and completion in September. When it was finished, three specially made electrical units supplied current for the suspensions, and the study began.

Fish research is no easy task, and much thought and planning went into construction of the project. Each of the three units receives power from a commer- cial utility source, then converts this power into pulsed, direct current which in turn energizes the suspensions. Direct current was used to keep fish mortality at a minimum, since it (Continued on page 63)

CHRONICLE OF CHANGE

NOTHING, THEY SAY, is so certain as change. Environmental forces dictate the alterations of lower forms of life. Landscapes are worn and weathered by man's meager efforts and nature's whimsical plots. Change is accepted as the norm. Yet, in distant corners of the mind, memories linger of things as they used to be. Tree stands of years gone by remain as veiled recollections long after they disappear. Age-old hills, undermined by a link in the highway chain, shimmer in misty memory. Man, though, has devised a more lasting means of preservation - the precise, all-seeing camera.

Living in a world where yesterday's landscape is today's memory, photographers keep a lasting chronicle of change. Photographs of today become objects of contrast with their predecessors. Technical excellence has no place here. Comparison is the key that is used to unlock the configuration of the past. The accompanying photographs should be evaluated in this way.

Products of William H. Jackson, the dean of American photographers, and Lou Ell, chief of NEBRASKAland's photographic section, these scenes offer a study in the changing face of Nebraska. They are the embodiments of change and of nature's passive resistance to that transformation throughout the last century.

A nation in turmoil greeted Civil War veterans. Few returned to life as they had known it. The antebellum South, crushed, lay smoldering in defeat. An

industrial North was verging on advanced mechanization, altering its peoples' lifestyles as it went. Footloose, many ex-soldiers from both sides headed West to build new lives in a virgin land. Among them was William H. Jackson, an Omahan with the wanderlust of a Gypsy. Jackson's roving led him to California, but it was a short stay. By 1868, at age 25, he was back in Omaha to set up a photographic studio.

Years of war and his stint on the western frontier, however, made city life tough for the young photographer. He wanted out, and he had the perfect solution. Turning much of the studio's operation over to his brother, Jackson built a traveling darkroom on a wagon frame and headed for the hills. He contented himself, at first, with rambling the area around Omaha, shooting portraits of local Indians. But that also proved to be too tame for the young artist's free spirit.

In 1869, about a year after establishing his studio, William H. Jackson was ready to move on to bigger and better things. Scheduling a trip west on the newly completed Union Pacific Railroad, he loaded his equipment, turned the remainder of the business over to his brother, and lit out. That trip was the turning point in his career.

Photographing landmarks and people along the route, Jackson soon attracted the attention of Dr. F. V. Hayden. A surveyor engaged in several geological surveys of the West, Hayden took an immediate fancy to the young photographer and his work. He was so impressed, in fact, that he arranged for Jackson to accompany the crews as their official photographer. With his love for life in the open, Jackson probably couldn't have been happier. Still, a photographic existence in a rail car was vastly different than in a studio. And, his work with the surveyors was to be, at best, unique.

Long before the advent of roll film and instant development, Jackson's equipment posed some interesting problems. His gear would have made most of today's paraphernalia look like studies in miniaturization. Large cameras and wet plates — the negatives of the day — had to be carted from place to place, no easy task in the frontier West. Since Jackson's subjects were often in some of the wildest country west of the Missouri River, a wagon darkroom was out. Railroaders of the period had their hands full just maintaining track they already had down and weren't interested in extending lines into the back country. So, taking such things into account, Jackson hired an assistant, loaded his belongings and equipment onto a mule named Hypo, and set off to make photographic history. Little did he know that, through his wanderings, he would become one of the best-known early western photographers.

With Nebraska his home, it seemed only fitting that Jackson devote at least part of his talents to the state's landmarks. With a series of photographs of attractions throughout the state, he did just that. The cameraman dealt primarily with the Pine Ridge, though some selections portray eastern Nebraska landscapes and notable subjects in Lincoln and Omaha. During years afield, he compiled a large collection of photos, a large portion of which now rests in the Colorado State Historical Society in Denver. Some examples of his work are presented here. Along with them are re-creations of the photographs, taken from the same locations Jackson used in his artistry.

This, then, is the meeting of two worlds. One is the world of William H. Jackson, frontier photographer. The other is the world of Lou Ell, his modern counterpart. In this assembly, the changing face of Nebraska becomes a chronicle of the ages. THE END

NOTES ON NEBRASKA FAUNA. . .

EASTERN SHORT-HORNED LIZARD

HORNED TOAD is an incorrect, but persistent name for the eastern short-horned lizard, Phrynosoma douglassii brevirostre. This small reptile has a broad, flattened body. The back of its head, sides of its body, and tail are bordered by a fringe of short spines, commonly called horns, from which it gets its name. These spines have bony cores and are only slightly longer than they are wide. The tail is short and makes up less than a third of its total length. Unlike most lizards, the tail is not brittle and will not break off. Adults are usually three to four inches long.

Maximum length is 4V2 inches. This lizard is a shy, harmless creature, but its body characteristics give it a gruesome appearance. It has a gular fold, a thick layer of skin on either side of the neck behind the ears. Along each side of its body is a line of what are commonly called enlarged scales, even though they are not really scales. Through the process of evolution, these bonelike particles, which were separate plates attached to the bodies of the horned lizard's reptilian ancestors, have molded together to become part of the continuous layer of skin along its sides.

Since the short legs and heavy body prevent it from running rapidly, the horned lizard must depend on coloration for protection against natural enemies. The top of the body is a grayish brown with two rows of large, irregular, blackish spots. The underside is a creamy white. These colors blend well with the lizard's natural surroundings, causing many people to overlook the reptile.

The horned lizard is found in North Dakota, Wyoming, and the western fifth of Nebraska. It is one of eight species in the Anguidae family found in North America, and the only one in Nebraska. Fairly rough terrain with scant vegetation is the place to look for it. In this restricted Nebraska range, the reptile is locally common in certain areas of the short-grass plains in the extreme western end of the state. It has been observed in large numbers around fossil diggings near Agate and Hemingford.

This westerner is quite tolerant of warm weather and is active only during the warmest months. It is one of the first to hibernate in the fall and one of the last to emerge in the spring. Horned lizards are uniquely different from other lizards in Nebraska in that females do not lay eggs, but bear living young. Five to six youngsters comprise an average brood. Young are usually an inch long at birth. It appears that more than one brood can be carried at the same time, because one female examined had six young, ready to be born, and four large eggs. The average number of eggs a female carries ranges from 10 to 15.

Voracious, these lizards feed exclusively on insects during the day. Despite its ugly appearance, this small reptile is definitely on the side of the rancher because its diet consists mainly of grasshoppers and ants, two pests the agriculturists don't like. One remarkable aspect is that even a small lizard can swallow a grasshopper over an inch in length.

So, the next time you see this shy creature, remember that it is not a toad, but a lizard. All in all, it's a pretty good little critter to have around. THE END

DESTINED TO DIE

their promise, the central route's superiority would be established. Trade from the southern route would come their way.

It was a race against time.

Obtaining the mail contract in Janu- ary 1860, they laid out the entire 1,966-mile route in 65 short days. They bought 500 mustangs and Kentucky-bred horses, and hired 200 express agents and 80 jockey-like riders. They also set up 190 stations along the way, equipping each with saddles and supplies.

The famous run in which a mailbag was relayed from horse to horse from Saint Joseph to Sacramento in 9 days began April 3, 1860. The route entered present-day Nebraska at the Gage County-Jefferson County line, cut northwest to join the Platte River at Fort Kearny, and dipped to Julesburg. From there, it headed northwest again, past Chimney Rock and Scotts Bluff National Monument, leaving the state where the North Platte River comes into Nebraska from Wyoming.

A rider whipped his horse at top speed for 10 or 12 miles to the next relay station, then jumped from the light saddle, scarcely touching the ground, to another waiting mount. If he had to stop, he could use only two scheduled minutes. In order to save time, the same saddle stayed with a horse as it was ridden back and forth between one relay station and the next. Only the mochilla, or saddlebag in which the mail was kept, was changed from horse to horse. Riders switched at home stations located approximately 70 miles apart. For the most part, they rode unarmed. Whenever they carried light guns, they did so without company approval.

The hectic schedule developed into military precision during the 18 months of Pony Express delivery. It caught the imagination of many young riders, torn between the lure of Civil War battlefields and the yen for excitement on the Pony Express trail.

One of the most dangerous stretches of the route lay through Nebraska Terrttory, where the U.S. Army was having difficulty protecting homesteaders as angry Indians attacked, hoping to keep the territory for themselves. But no matter how touchy the situation in each area along the Nebraska portion of the trail, the Pony Express went through.

One Nebraska rider, William Campbell, rode regularly between Valley Station 11 miles east of Fort Kearn£, to Box Elder Station 3 miles west of Fort McPherson. Although the riders were supposed to be at least 20 years old, Campbell was only 16. Like many other youths attracted to the Pony Express, he had lied about his age. Records compiled after the Pony Express ceased operation show that the average age of the riders was 19.

Campbell earned his place in the annals of history for staying in the saddle 24 hours on one run early in 1861 during the coldest part of the winter. A snowstorm had covered the trail with drifts, forcing him to use the tops of weeds along the trail as landmarks.

Campbell had other worries during his time on the trail. On one occasion he was chased by a herd of buffalo, and another time 15 or 20 wolves followed him several miles to the next relay station.

Throughout the duration of Pony Express delivery, only one rider was killed while on duty. Others died during outside activities. Melville Baughn, who rode to Fort Kearny from the east, was hanged as a murderer at Seneca, Kansas, several years after the Pony Express folded. Jim Beatley, who had the route into Nebraska from Kansas, was killed in a showdown in Jefferson County a year after Pony Express duty.

While these were some of the more spectacular incidents involving Nebraskans, the outstanding feats were those of bravery against the elements in order to make good the company's claim that nothing stopped the mail. Jack Keetley, riding to Big Sandy along the Little Blue River, once worked double duty for another rider, covering 340 miles in 31 hours without stopping to rest or eat. He was pulled from the saddle sound asleep.

While riders pelted across the prairie, the Pony Express attracted attention across the nation and evoked newspaper editorials. The San Francisco Bulletin echoed the thoughts of Russell, Majors, and Waddell, noting the venture's purpose was to establish the central overland route as the fastest link between East and West.

The Rocky Mountain News at Denver hoped it would "shame Congress into establishing daily or, at least, tri-weekly mail service across the West. Whether Congress ever admitted to shame would be a matter for high speculation, but it is on record that in the spring of 1861, a law was passed calling for bids to carry mail on a regular basis to the West Coast.

The Pony Express was riding high on the trail at this time, but Russell was in New York trying to get the government to pay some money due to him which he, in turn, needed to pay a company debt. A clerk in the federal treasury department obtained bonds worth $870,000 for Russell, but it turned out that they had been stolen, so Russell was arrested for possession of stolen goods. While he battled his way through the courts during the spring of 1861, John Butterfield, who operated along the southern route and was closely connected with the financial backers of Wells Fargo, got the mail contract away from Russell, Majors, and Waddell. He moved his coaches up to the central route, but knew he could not match the Pony Express for speed, so he signed a deal allowing the Pony Express to continue until completion of the telegraph line across the country.

With instant communication between the Atlantic and Pacific coasts, the Pony Express was suddenly obsolete. Although it continued operating about six weeks after the first telegraphic message was clicked between Washington, D.C. and San Francisco, it was officially discontinued October 26, 1861.

Wells Fargo bought the Pony Express and its $200,000 deficit a short while later, another step in the company's

The last competitor Wells Fargo faced was Kentucky-born Ben Holladay, owner of the Overland Stage Line, but Holladay saw the handwriting on the wall as the railroad pushed west. He sold his holdings to Wells Fargo in November 1866 for $1,500,000 plus $300,000 in Wells Fargo stock. Before that, he had been forced to move his stage terminal from Omaha to Columbus, and then to Fort Kearny, giving way to the stealthy approach of the iron horse.

After Wells Fargo gained control of the stagecoach business, the company

issued combination tickets allowing passengers to ride the train as far west as it went, then transfer to a stagecoach. But it was only a temporary arrangement, and when the twin bands of steel finally reached the West Coast, Wells Fargo eventually became a dormant firm, a subsidiary of American Express.

Relegated to history books since it was swallowed up by Wells Fargo, the Pony Express reappeared in Nebraska two years ago when the company, purchased from American Express by Baker Industries of Cedar Knolls, New Jersey, expanded its armored-car service to six cities in the state. Each armored car carries the original Pony Express emblem, a dashing rider in a diamond-shaped logo. Yet the days of those daring young men sweeping across the plains are gone forever.

While the reign of the Pony Express was short, it made an indelible mark in western history, a mark that will always be colored by romance and adventure reminiscent of the days when the frontier was being opened. THE END

BUSHTAILS IN AMBUSH

positions a hundred yards apart. Each selected an area of scant undergrowth within shooting range of the unpicked corn. The monotonous drone of nearby corn pickers reminded the hunters of the providers of their day's sport. The weathered, leaning, corncrib up the hill would soon be filled to provide clever bushytails with a source of winter food. Green mulberry leaves from small saplings in the wooded drainage bottom littered the ground. An isolated day of Indian summer, clear and warm for early November, had been preceded by almost a week of rain and fog. It was an ideal day for the tree rodents to resume their busy schedule of fall tasks after the days of dampness. An early afternoon lull seemed to settle over the squirrels' movements, and the action slowed.

A gentle snap of cornstalk readied Jerry's .22 for action. Tense moments of expectation passed as he anticipated his second squirrel of the afternoon. Another asset to his revised form of still- hunting bushytails revealed itself as one of NEBRASKAland's "gray ghosts" emerged from the unpicked corn. Darkened swirls above the eyes marked the white-tailed deer as a harvestable trophy for next fall. Nibbling cautiously on low hanging browse, the semi-yearling never detected the concealed hunter only 15 yards away. As Gary crossed a fallen elm to join his partner, the snap of a branch sent the fawn back into the corn in high gear. Suggesting they abandon the sitting approach for the more traditional method of stalking, Gary led the way through the remaining half-mile of naked woods.

The squirrels' siesta apparently over, action picked up, reaching breakneck pace in the remaining wooded bottom. A scrambling double leaped precariously from branch to branch. Gary's .410 nailed one. A moment's pause spelled the end for another corn-fattened squirrel as Jerry's skillful shot upended the second twin. Somewhat grudgingly, Jerry bore the brunt of the hunt's success in his game pouch.

Pre-planning their gunning gear had restricted Jerry to his .22 auto-loader as Gary, somewhat disgruntled, conceded to hold up the shotgun duties with his .22-.410 over-and-under. Both hunters, being of the old school, were dyed-in-the-wool riflemen when it came to "squirreling", but they agreed one should carry a scattergun to test their new hunting method. A definite asset on snap shots between corn and timber or on tree-topping bushytails, the shotgun was somewhat less desirable on branch-hugging squirrels. A damaged rear sight made Gary's use of the rifle barrel of the handy little weapon less accurate.

Not to be outdone on any account, Gary rattled off the seventh fryer of the day, a scampering acrobat. The rugged little speedster shot into a seven-foot, hollowed-out log. The cabinet maker's attempts to dislodge the prize, while Gary guarded the other end, failed to move the quarry. Jokingly, Jerry questioned whether Gary had even hit the target. After several rather humorous methods to retrieve the prize, the expired game was finally pulled from its last retreat.

Hardly out of sight of the squirrel log, the two nimrods teamed up to pick off another tree runner with the feisty .410, and its slower nest mate with a .22 long rifle.

Nearing the end of the squirrel's haven, the serene little valley erupted in a last-minute flurry as a pair, leaping from treetop to treetop, fell to Gary's swinging scattergun. The noisy intrusion on their previously unhunted area sparked two more bushytails into instant flight a mere 20 yards away. Again, an unwary pause just before following its litter mate into the safety of a tree den spelled the end of another "tree rat", as Jerry claimed the last of the day's kill with squirrel No. 12.

With only an hour of daylight remaining, the satisfied hunters decided two short of the legal limit was an appropriate place to end the day and start cleaning up. Eager to test a new field-dressing procedure, the pair approached the task with more-than-usual enthusiasm. A short, horizontal cut through the skin below the tail, then through the tail vertebrae, followed by a slow, easy pull of the hind legs while standing on the tail, peeled the skin back over the body easily. A pull of the remaining V-shaped fur on the belly completed the skinning operation. The remainder of the dressing procedures was quickly completed.

An abundance of game in their bags and a successful hunt behind them, the partners started rehashing their new squirreling technique. All points considered, both admitted that their innovation was less than 100-percent successful. Only two of their bag had been taken from ambush. But their other theories had been strengthened — fox squirrels' main food source is corn and they nest in nearby trees. Consequently, the best place to hunt them is between their nests and the cornfields, regardless of the method.

Theories revised, meat in the bag, and promise of another day to match wits with more of the area's under rvested bushytails lightened the hunters' load as they hiked back to the pickup, headed for home. THE END

MILESTONES ALONG man's age-old trek toward freedom usually stand tall and erect, resplendent in marble and bronze. But, in Nebraska City, an earth and stone monument to one of our nation's most emotional quests for freedom lies buried beneath Nebraska sod, covered only by a cabin of roughhewn logs.

The cabin marks the location of John Brown's Cave, one of the hiding places for runaway slaves who made their way north on Brown's "Underground Railroad". At this cave, and at dozens of others like it along secret routes from the south, runaway black men spent days in hiding, resting for another segment of a journey under cover of darkness.

Slaves made their way up the Missouri River, probably from Auburn or Falls City, until they saw the three huge oak trees marking the way to the Nebraska City sanctuary. Then, after a meal and a day's rest, John Kagi or his helpers led them back to the river and smuggled them to the next station, either Tabor or Civil Bend, Iowa.

Today, the cabin appears just as it was in the 1850's, a typical settler's home with a vegetable cellar beneath the floor. But, instead of handfuls of fugitive slaves arriving at night, the cabin and cave are now visited during the day by scores of tourists.

A tour of John Brown's Cave includes a look into the cabin, which once housed Fugitive slaves on Underground Railroad once found shelter in Nebraska City cabin Allen B. Mayhew and his wife, Mary. Mary's brother, John Henry Kagi, was one of John Brown's right-hand men, and he often stayed in the cabin with his sister and her husband.

Kagi, active in the abolitionist movement, was secretary of war in John Brown's "cabinet", and was with the fiery leader during the ill-fated raid on Harper's Ferry, Virginia. He was killed, and Brown was captured.

The one-room cabin is austere and the interior is typical of the frontier in all but one respect. Near the stairs leading to the loft, the cave's secret entrance is exposed.

Outside, a more convenient entrance provides access to the first of two cellar rooms. Here the Mayhews kept their fruits and vegetables. But, a second chamber behind was anything but a place to store vegetables.

There, the fugitives hid during the day. The handful of black mannequins now in the room to add realism, seem to fill it. When runaway slaves hid there, however, as many as 15 or 20 were packed into the cool, damp niche.

Continuing into the cave, a secret passage leads to a trap door hidden in the cabin floor, then to another entrance concealed behind vines in the creekbed.

Visitors can follow the route slaves took along the creek bottom. A wooden walkway the runaways used also provides a unique view of scenery that is hidden from most sightseers.

Emerging from the vines and trees along the creek, the visitor is greeted by dozens of other historic attractions. In the center of a clearing stands a replica of the scaffold from which John Brown was hanged after his infamous raid at Harper's Ferry. Skirting the area is "River Country", collections of all types of Americana, including a blacksmith shop, fire station, an army blockhouse, a country store, land office, and a collection of vintage farm tools and machinery.

Along the way, visitors see a "Gay 90's" house, complete with kitchen and laundry equipment, and furniture of the era. Other buildings include two log cabins, one of which was the first structure in Nebraska City. There are also buildings housing guns, tools, Indian artifacts, and other relics of old Nebraska and the abolitionist crusade.

These exhibits are all the work of George Rowe and his late wife, Florence. Rowe acquired the cabin and cave in 1954. Since then he has invested most of his time and resources in researching the cave's authenticity, restoring both it and the cabin, and collecting antiques.

Sources disagree on the background of John Brown's cave, but Rowe contends that it is the site of an "Underground Railroad" station. He bases his state- ment on his own research and on John Henry Kagi and the Old Log Cabin Home, an (Continued on page 59)

AN ICE FISHERMAN'S HELPER

Do-it-yourselfer's delight, this tip-up is third hand on winter foray

FOR THE ICE fisherman who wants to work a lot of territory without spending a fortune on equipment, a cheap, easily assembled tip-up is a must. Scrap materials and half an hour are all that are required to build this instrument.

Materials needed include five feet of 1 X 4 or 1 X 3 lumber, a strip of metal banding, a spool of line, a 2 X 5/16-inch machine bolt and hex nut (or equivalent), 4 washers, a wing nut, 3 screw eyes, and about a dozen nails.

Begin by cutting up the 1X4 and nailing it together into a classic cross. Dimensions are not critical, but should be generous enough to cover an oversized hole in the ice. In the model pictured, the main piece is 30 inches long, and the cross-arm 18 inches, nailed 9 inches from one end. Do not nail the two pieces together at the center of the joint since a hole is to be drilled there. The cross-arm should be nailed beneath the main piece.

The next step is to bore two holes, one at the center of the cross pieces through which the line will pass, and the other 8 inches farther down the long end. This hole, which will accept the spool assembly, should be only slightly larger than the stove bolt — %-inch if a 5/16-inch bolt is used. The head of the bolt will be at the bottom, and the hole should be countersunk to accept both the head and a washer. This will provide a flush surface on which a scrap of wood can be nailed to seal the bolt head, preventing possible freeze-up.

With this hole drilled and counter-sunk, insert the bolt and washer with the threaded end up. On top, install another washer, the spool, then another washer, and thread on the nut. Tighten just enough to eliminate wobble but still allow free turning. Having achieved the desired tension, attach the wing-nut and tighten it down on the hex nut. The assembly can be oiled for smoother operation.

With the spool attached, feed out a foot or so of line. Mount two small screw-eyes, one close to the spool, and the other close to the hole where the line will drop into the water. A third eye should be screwed into a scrap of wood which is then nailed to the main beam so the eyelet is parallel to the upright and centered above the hole. Care should be taken in positioning this third screw-eye so that the line angles down slightly, insuring smooth passage from spool to water. Thread the line and check this operation.

Finally, attach the flag assembly. A piece of metal banding, such as that used to strap boxes, makes an ideal flag arm, flexible and easily attached. Lumberyards are good sources for this scrap. A two-foot piece, free of major kinks, should be snipped off and straightened. With a heavy nail or center punch, hammer three holes through the banding along six inches of one end. Tack this end near the base of the main beam.

Now, bend the metal sharply so that it stands erect. This will be the flag's "alert position" when a fish takes the hook.

Snip a portion of the spool lip from the top edge and sand it smooth. Enough should be removed so that the flag arm is released easily. Test the rig by hooking the banding under the lip of the spool and drawing out line until the arm is released. Tension should be such that the banding springs rapidly away from the spool.

To make the flag arm more visible at a distance, a small piece of bright cloth can be attached to the upper end. Two holes can be punched in the banding and carpet tacks used as rivets to secure the cloth.

If desired, two large nails can be driven through each end of the main beam to stabilize the tip-up and help keep it centered over the opening in the ice. Except for rigging the line, the project is finished. THE END

historical work written by Edward D. Bartling.

Rowe's future plans call for the addition of an Indian museum, and a church made of native stone. The church, to serve as a place of meditation for travelers, will be furnished with old pews and other trappings which Rowe has acquired from a church of pioneer vintage.

Rowe and his staff will be on vacation during February, but visitors will be able to drop in for a look starting in March. Guided tours start at the gift shop any time during daylight hours. Admission is $1 for adults and 35 cents for children.

Meanwhile, farther west, a batch of dedicated Nebraska anglers will be enjoying fine outdoor sport on the frozen surfaces of many Sand Hills lakes. To the uninitiated, it may seem that "enjoying" is the wrong word to use, but once bitten by the ice-fishing bug, many outdoorsmen count this brand of angling among their favorite activities.

Bundled up against sub-zero temperatures and biting winds, hundreds of sportsmen stoically tend their lines, waiting for panfish, walleye, northern pike, or bass to take their offering.

Most ice fishermen insist that their brand of fishing is far more productive for panfish than the mid-summer variety. And, ice fishing has other rewards as well. Ice fishermen have the lake all to themselves in mid-winter, providing hours of solitude to "get away from it all". There are no swimmers, boaters, or water skiers to contend with, only hardwater purists on the frozen surface, and unseen bass, bluegill, and northern pike below.

Another advantage is that the angler can fish an entire lake, something he cannot do in the summer unless he has lugged a boat to the water. He can walk right out and drop his line over the edge of a 15-foot dropoff near a weedbed, where bluegill, crappie, northern pike, and bass hang out. Or, he can head for slightly deeper water to try for walleye and perch. While trial and error may have their place in locating just the right spot, a good bet is trying the areas of the lake that were productive during the summer.

Lakes, farm ponds, sandpits, and reservoirs are all potentially good ice-fishing spots, but the Sand Hills lakes are among the most popular since they freeze earlier than other Nebraska waters.

Among the most productive are lakes in the Valentine National Wildlife Refuge south of Valentine. Pelican Lake is a hot spot for northern pike and bluegill. Other productive waters include Watts Lake with northern pike, perch, and bass, and Dewey Lake offering bluegill, bass, and perch. Clear Lake on the refuge offers bass and Sacramento perch, while West Long Lake has bass and yellow perch.

Anglers should remember that special federal regulations apply when fishing the refuge lakes. These include a ban on using minnows, fish, or any parts of fish as bait.

Merritt Reservoir, also near Valentine, is another potentially good lake for ice fishermen. Occasional bass and bluegill are taken there during the winter, and anglers can score big on trout if they play their cards right and have favorable conditions.

A less-popular lake with good ice fishing potential is Fish Lake in Rock County, offering northern pike and yellow perch. Schoolhouse Lake and Shoup Lake, both located between Valentine and Nenzel, and Shell Lake in northwest Cherry County, all yield bass and bluegill.

With these and many other waters beckoning, hundreds of hard-water fishermen will be on their way to the lakes as soon as the ice reaches a safe thickness of about four inches. And, most will not mind a bit of company if a novice wishes to take up the sport.

All that is needed are several layers of warm duds, an auger or axe to penetrate the ice, some adapted fishing equip- ment, a bit of bait, and a few simple lures. With the addition of a small ration of determination and patience, the angler is set for some hot action during Nebraska's coldest months. THE END

Roundup and What to do

From boat shows to basketball, February is a month "on the go"

FEBRUARY, THE shortest month of the year, marks the beginning of preparation for summertime fun with two big outdoor-equipment shows scheduled to take place in the state, the first in Lincoln and the second in Omaha.

Welcoming visitors to these annual events is NEBRASKAland Magazine's February hostess, Diana Meacham, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. William L. Meacham of Sioux City. Her hobbies fit well with the theme of the shows, since she likes to participate in all outdoor sports, especially swimming. An August graduate of Wayne State College, she was named Miss Congeniality in the Miss NEBRASKAland Pageant during the 1970 NEBRASKAland Days in North Platte.

First of the two big shows is the Nebraska International Sports and Travel Show in Lincoln's Pershing Auditorium February 10 to 14. The roster of stage performers promises an array of glittering entertainers from country to comedy personalities.

Stage shows are scheduled for 8 p.m. each day with matinees at 3 p.m. Saturday and Sunday. Daily emcees are Homer and Jethro.

Entertainers Wednesday, February 10, are a troupe from Nashville's Grand 01' Opry, and rock 'n' roll singer Conway Twitty. Homer and Jethro put on their own show Thursday, February 11. Danny Davis and the Nashville Brass appear Friday, February 12. Saturday, February 13, the Serendipity Singers are the star attraction.

Designed to display the latest in outdoor equipment, some 300 exhibitors from as far north as the Canadian provinces of Manitoba and Ontario are to attend.

Although exhibitors come from distant points, 60 to 70 percent of them are from the metropolitan areas of eastern Nebraska. Equipment including vehicles, campers, and all kinds of watercraft from canoes to high-powered motorboats are on hand. This is the second annual show of this type in Lincoln.

The Omaha Boat, Sports, and Travel Show takes place February 23 to 28 in the Civic Auditorium. Sponsored by the Omaha Fish and Wildlife Club, it is designed to give visitors a full range of travel and outdoor recreation offerings. States surrounding Nebraska promote tourism, outdoor-equipment retailers display their stock, and camping and recreation areas advertise what they have in store for tourists. Stage-show times are 8:30 p.m. Tuesday to Saturday, and 7:30 p.m. Sundays. Matinees are at 3:30 p.m. Friday to Sunday.

While the month includes many other activities and events, two highlights for the working people are holidays February 12, Lincoln's birthday, and February 15, Washington's birthday.

Two other traditional days, although not holidays, are Groundhog Day February 2, and Saint Valentine's Day February 14. Tradition has it that the groundhog comes out of hibernation on the second day of the month. If it sees its shadow, it crawls back into the lair for six more weeks of winter weather. Bur if the sun is behind clouds, it signifies that spring is just around the corner.

The Valentine Chamber of Commerce plays Cupid February 14 by stamping mail with a specially designed, heartshaped cachet. The Saint Valentine's Day Coronation and Ball, sponsored by the town's high school, includes the crowning of a king and queen for the day.

The Cornhuskers' basketball schedule continues with home games on the University of Nebraska's Lincoln campus against Kansas February 6, Missouri February 13, and Oklahoma February 22. Creighton's opponents on home boards in Omaha are Southern Illinois February 3, and Providence February 8.

The Omaha Knights face the Fort Worth Wings February 6, the Tulsa Oilers February 7, the Amarillo Wranglers February 14, the Oklahoma Blazers February 20, the Dallas Blackhawks February 21, and the Kansas City Blues February 27, all on home ice.

One of the highlights in the world of sport occurs February 24 at 7:30 p.m. when the Harlem Globetrotters bring the Basketball Circus to Lincoln's Pershing Auditorium. The players, wuth their antics on the basketball boards, have entertained thousands of spectators, but they still get laughs galore wherever they go.

The annual State High School Wrestling Tournament takes place at the University of Nebraska's Coliseum February 19 and 20.

Guest speaker at the banquet during the annual Phelps-Gosper County Livestock Feeders and Growers Association tour February 16 is Chancellor Durward (Woody) Varner of the University of Nebraska. The tour offers members a look at latest feeding methods developed in the two counties during the preceeding year.

In the world of theater, the Lincoln Community Playhouse presents "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?" nine times (see listing for dates) during the month, beginning at 8:30 p.m. Fridays and Saturdays, and 7:30 p.m. Sundays. Reservations must be picked up at the playhouse at 18th and L streets at least half an hour before curtain time.

For the outdoor buffs, February is a good ice-fishing month, and there are many frozen bodies of water throughout the state where bites can be expected (see Where To Go, this issue). And, hunting remains as one of the top winter sports in Nebraska (see Outdoor Calendar, this issue).

Whether or not the groundhog sees its shadow at the beginning of the month depends on a whim of the weather, but to weather the storm of fun in the month means deciding on one of February's many activities.

ACTION IN THE RING

uninitiated should take their time as they prowl the pens, though. Westerners aren't known for extraordinary displays of oratory, and the casual observer may be standing right next to one of the biggest sales of the day and never know it is taking place. But you can bet that when two weathered faces are hat-brim to hatbrim, there is business in the wind. Inside the arena, things are more open, but it stilJ takes an eagle eye to pick out the serious business from the tomfoolery.

If you've never been to an auction, understanding the auctioneer is like trying to understand a tape recording played backward. To the untrained ear, words seem to run together into a stream of meaningless drivel. But, since the man on the microphone spent years learning and perfecting his vocal trade, there are few wasted words in his monologue. The whole thing starts out calmly. Slowly and easily, with a nasal twang, the auctioneer explains the consignment, names the seller, and gives a few pointers on the animal's qualifications. But from there on, it is catch as catch can while words rattle around the pavilion like BB's in a bottle.

Those who tune out with the first vocal blast, however, are jarred into reality again when the rhythm breaks. It is the auctioneer's job to jack the price up to where the seller thinks it should be. A break in the action can mean he is trying to do just that. If anyone can make a plea for more money, and make you believe it necessary, the professional auctioneer is the one to do it. With a touch of prairie humor thrown in to keep the audience on its toes, he extols the virtues of the cattle in the ring. Then he is off and running again, and more than likely, his spiel has done its job. Consignments pass under his gavel fast and furiously as the novice tries to keep up with the action.

Knowing what is going on in the audience is almost as tough as knowing what the auctioneer is saying. The red face peering from under a Stetson threatens to swallow a burned-out stogie as the cattleman leans forward to catch every possible view of the cow on the block. In a flash, he has purchased the critter, and the city slicker sitting at his elbow didn't even know the westerner was bidding. There is a technique to the whole thing that is becoming a lost art as older cattle buyers drop out of the action. In days gone by, the flick of an eyelash or the flash of a pinkie were enough to up the bidding. It looked like a lazy man's business to the neophyte, but there was a reason, though it may have been as much cow-country lore as anything. In the old days, cattle transfers were on a cash basis. While prices were low by today's standards, the process required a large amount of cash on hand, and a buyer didn't want to set himself up for any rough characters in the crowd with a display of bidding. Hence, a system that rivaled some of the world's best codes was devised. Also, trying to talk over a few hundred head of bawling, restless range cattle, and the drone of the

auctioneer, would have been like shouting down a screaming jet. Raising an eyebrow was a lot more efficient than bellowing out a bid. It did, however, make for a great number of stone-faced spectators. More and more, the cattle auction bidders are becoming as vocal as the ringmaster. And, there is a good chance that fewer customers with a nervous twitch are buying cattle they can't afford.

If a cattle auction looks like bedlam to the newcomer, he is probably half right. Ring men (the tinhorn analogy would be a shill) are constantly on the move. Their job is to canvass the spectators for bids and relay those bids to the auctioneer. Actually, they are an important part of the auctioneer's staff, because anyone talking as fast as he does probably couldn't keep the bids straight without help. Barking encouragement to the prospective bidders, ring men are really the showoffs of the affair. A good ring man is as hoarse as a Big Red football fan after a day on the job. But they always manage to make it back for the next sale. It must be something in the blood.

That's the way the cattle industry is — a bloodline to business. Take, for in- stance, the rancher-father who carts his young heir to every sale. If there is any way for it to happen, the youngster will someday take over the spread, and the cattle auction is just another of his training grounds. It is not unusual to see mini-cowboys or cowgirls straddling the arena fence when they look as if they should be riding a hobbyhorse instead. In cattle country, a youngster's education begins almost before he can walk.

Cattle auctions in the state are growing, and there is a reason. Nebraska is in a rather unique situation. Its grazing grounds are known far and wide, with cattlemen from other states vying for acreage for their beeves on NEBRASKAland's rangeland. On the other hand, Nebraska steaks are as highly touted throughout the United States as bouillabaisse throughout Europe. Consequently, cattlemen from across the nation ship their beeves into the grasslands of Nebraska to be fed and fattened for sale. While the cattle may originally be from out of the state, the end result is a cross-section of Nebraska beef that reads like a textbook of different species. Cattle range from Charolais to Herefords to Angus to Shorthorns, and on and on. The whole affair means an interesting and informative duke's mixture for both casual observer and veteran buyer.

So, amid the unique aroma of money on the hoof, Nebraska's cattle auctions go on as living traditions of the state's animal industry. Be the sales at the gigantic Omaha stockyards or the tiny crossroads sale barn, they mean a day filled with action. THE END

HOOK LINE ELECTRODE

does not kill fish unless something prevents the stunned species from floating back out of the electrical field. Calculations proved correct as the study progressed, because fish mortality at the weir has been negligible due partly to correct electricity control.

This electricity in the water, however, can have lethal effects on humans and animals. Therefore, certain safety precautions have been taken. All facilities are enclosed in a fenced area. Warning lights on shore and buoys on the river have been placed both above and below the suspensions. Thus far, no livestock or animal deaths have occurred, and biologists hope to keep the mortality record clean.

Actually, the weir operation is quite simple. Migration drives in roe-laden fish are fierce. Reaching spawning grounds is their foremost urge. In order to satisfy this instinct, the fish swim back and forth across the river along the edge of the electrical field until they find the opening where they hope to be able to continue upstream. When they find the opening, they swim into a cage, and are trapped.

This cage, holding the fish, is lifted from the water at regular time intervals for fish removal.

Many modifications and improvements have been made during the weir's operation, and as the 1971 season begins, the facility is expected to reach peak efficiency. In foregoing seasons, though, certain facts have come to light. Preliminary data indicates that both rough and game fish leave McConaughy and migrate into the North Platte River for spawning. Confirmed species include carp, quillback, and river carpsucker.

Game species are rainbow and brown trout, channel catfish, walleye, and white bass. Rough fish trapped at the weir are removed and sold to packing plants or processors, with approximately 45,000 pounds harvested during the last three years. Yet, additional knowledge has been gained for anglers through use of the weir.

Game fish trapped by the weir are weighed, measured and sometimes tagged before being released above the suspensions. During 1970, a total of 500 catfish, 500 walleye, and 200 rainbow trout were tagged at the weir. Valuable movement and harvest information is being collected as a result of the program.

The North Platte River facility has been extremely valuable in collecting life-history information on the rainbow trout. Rainbows have existed in McConaughy since the lake was formed, although they were not caught to any great extent until the early 1960's, when trolling became popular. The rainbow population is sustained by small feeder streams which enter the North Platte River 70 to 100 miles above the lake.

This self-sustaining population's origin is relatively unknown, except for the fact that rainbow trout, obtained from various commercial sources, had been stocked into the North Platte drainage long before McConaughy came into being. Records prior to 1930 are obscure, but after the reservoir's impoundment, rainbows were stocked directly into the lake.

In 1962, an intensive investigation of the rainbow's life history was launched by the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission, and the weir subsequently confirmed beliefs that large trout migrated from McConaughy to spawn in the upper North Platte River drainage. Tagging at the weir and tag returns showed that, after spawning, adult rainbows leave the North Platte's tributary streams and return to Lake Mac. The weir proved that movement to the spawning streams starts in late August and early September, continuing until early April. It also showed that two distinct sub-populations -fall and spring-spawning rainbows- exist in this movement, with the former constituting the larger portion of the run. Past stocking of marked hatchery rainbows into the spawning streams and reservoir however, have failed to supplement the annual mature-fish runs.

Results from the weir study also indicate that walleye, white bass, and channel catfish are the principle warm- water sport fish in McConaughy which use the river for spawning purposes. All are currently maintaining harvestable populations through natural reproduction in the reservoir and the river, though climatic conditions cause year-to-year fluctuation. The river's exact influence on these three species is unknown, but the channel catfish is probably most dependent on the river for spawning habitat.

The Lewellen weir has thus proved to be an effective device for the monitoring

of upstream fish migrations, and a valuable tool for uncovering more facts about game fish, especially popular species like the rainbow trout.

The outdoorsman and the scientist work and play side by side at Lake Mac. They may not be aware of each other all the time, but what they do is complementary. The fisherman, by reporting a tagged catch, provides the biologist with information supplemental to the studies, and the scientist learns what the sportsman wants to know in order to fully explore all angles of angling. THE END

A RECORD-FOR NOW

action ahead. She grabbed for the reel, set the hook, and the scrap began.

"It felt like a good, solid fish, and in a few minutes I knew it was," she said. "Since Marceda had lost her fish earlier, everyone cautioned me to play it easily now. Many minutes passed, and I was bringing it no closer to the boat. I must have checked brake tension a dozen times. Then, little by little, I cranked in a bit more line, and success seemed somewhat closer. Despite the constant threat of breaking the line, I couldn't help but hurry my retrieve. Still, the fish was not done yet, so I enjoyed several more minutes of play with my catch.

"I was really having a good time, but I was starting to get worried, too. Suddenly, the fish surfaced, and we caught a glimpse of it as it dashed back and forth. Barney broke out the net when the fish finally swirled around on the surface. The next minute, he dumped it into the boat.

"Everyone else had stopped fishing during the long see-saw battle. Now they all foohed' and 'aahed' as there, flopping but resplendent in the bottom of the boat, was the most magnificent fish of the morning, and of my career. My husband dug into his tackle box again for his scale, and when he hung my fish on it, the little pointer showed well over nine pounds."

"That is a state record fish," he exclaimed proudly for my benefit. "It beats the old record by more than three pounds."

All of them wanted to get their lures back into the water pronto to land more of the big ones, but the moment was gone. Even pulling the boat back into the cove and drifting over the same spot proved futile.

"Probably all that stirred water your fish caused scared the rest of them off," Gerald suggested.

So, just minutes after the sun came up, they started the boat and turned back toward the Samuelson marina to have the prize officially weighed.

"Rather than weighing less when we got there," Dixie said proudly, "the scales showed it to be 10 pounds, 1 ounce. The state record was certainly mine!"

Success with white bass, catfish, and walleye the quartet had enjoyed the previous day was dimmed only slightly by landing the record striper. Mrs. Akers was justifiably proud of her catch, but, it may not be a long-standing record. Earlier winners have been toppled repeatedly as the McConaughy stripers continue growing toward the expected ultimate size of close to 30 pounds.

Most of the stripers the Akers and Schmidts caught on that September 29 morning were taken in almost 50 feet of water. Techniques used were similar to those for white bass.

Original stocking of striped bass in Lake McConaughy came in 1961 when 360 fingerlings and 10 larger ones, up to 6 pounds, were released. Subsequent stockings were made in 1963, then every year since 1965. Thus far, 58,161 stripers have been put into the lake. How many have been taken out is unknown as some of the early catches may have been mistaken for white bass because their appearance when small is very similar. The first verified catch was in May 1968, and each year since then the record has been broken many times. In 1969, 144 stripers were definitely identified in anglers' creels.

Growth of the fish has been as anticipated. The 10-pound-plus specimen landed by Mrs. Akers was from the 1965 stocking. In that year, over 3,000 striped bass fingerlings were released into the lake, so there are still many comparable lunkers prowling around in McConaughy's depths-maybe even bigger ones.

The fact that some of the stripers have attained such size is encouraging to fishermen and fishery biologists. Survival has been good, and if growth continues at the expected rate, the scene should be set for real action.

Although it is not known if striped bass will spawn in the lake, their numbers can be bolstered each year by addition of more fingerlings or adult fish. While this is more costly than natural reproduction, the stripers have a life span long enough to ensure at least moderate populations, and some real lunkers should develop.

Up to now, striper fry have been traded from other states. Hopefully, eggs can be obtained from McConaughy stock in the future and fry can be reared in state hatcheries for release into Lake McConaughy and other suitable reservoirs. The stripers are faring well thus far, as shown by the increasing harvest.

Fishery technicians with the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission don't anticipate natural spawning, but at the same time, they don't rule it out completely. The fish may be able to adapt to the conditions and find suitable habitat. Even if they don't, however, annual releases could ultimately create a tremendous fishing potential.

There is less than one striper per surface acre of water now, but the ratio may eventually increase to two or three per acre, which would offer worthwhile prospects from the angler standpoint. And, as stripers grow larger, they can utilize the vast populations of shad which are a virtual waste once they outgrow meal size for white bass, walleye, and other predators.

Fishing techniques will have to be devised to land stripers consistently, and that may take some doing. No foolproof method has yet been found to take species that have been around for a long time, so plenty of trial and error lies ahead. Perhaps they will continue to be caught by anglers pursuing walleye or white bass. Fishermen are always ready to accept the challenge of a new breed, however, especially if the critters have heft.

Mrs. Barney Akers and her fishing companions have added fuel to the fire of angling anticipation. Where one 10-pounder lurks, others are certain to roam, and they are still eating and growing. Dixie Akers currently holds the state's striped-bass record, but she may have to come back next season for an even bigger striper to keep the title. After all, there are many other enterprising anglers who have a chance to top her record, once warmer weather lures them back to lakeside. THE END

RARE CONQUEST

the thicket, Marty stopped. "I hear something upstream," he said after a moment's pause. We all listened.

"I think it's a tugboat," Eric guessed.

"Let's try to break through in time to see it."

Hacking at double time, we made it to the river's edge just as the tug and its barges passed. As the boat disappeared around a bend, we surveyed our surroundings.

"Here's the fencerow," Marty said, "so the lowest point must be right there."

"Right there" was a muddy little shelf, three feet below us, at the river's edge. Eric quickly hopped down onto the ledge.

"Well, that's about as low as you can get," Marty grinned. "You beat me to the spot."

When Marty joined Eric on the low point, our second mission was accomplished, so we headed back for the car. As we started into the brush, a flock of mallards shot by overhead.

"I knew I should have brought my shotgun," Marty grumbled, shaking his head as we retraced our steps through the tangle of brush.

Our hike back to the car was halted again, this time by the faraway honking of geese headed south for the winter. Finally, we spotted two ragged lines in the western sky, and watched silently as the snows and blues lazed past high above.

"A guy might have brought those in with decoys," Eric speculated, as we continued to the car.

On the way back to Lincoln, we reviewed our two expeditions. We had been nearly as far west as we could go without leaving the state. And. we definitely had been as far east as possible. Elevations ranged from 5,424 feet in the west, to 840 feet in the east, a difference of 4,584 feet —more than three-quarters of a mile —all that within a distance of 500 miles.

Eric summed it all up with typical adventurer's logic when he said: "I think we are now qualified to give the lowdown on the high point and the highlights of the low point." THE END

Outdoor Elsewhere

Waterfowl Escapades. Just how many times the American duck hunter escapes the hum of a vacuum cleaner on fall-winter weekends, and sneaks out from underfoot into the haven of a duck blind depends on what part of the country he calls home. Based on surveys conducted by the Bureau of Sport Fisheries and Wildlife statistics, Pacific Flyway waterfowl hunters rank notoriously high on housewives' wanted lists. While West Coast hunters average 5.5 duck and goose hunts per season, gunners throughout the Atlantic Flyway manage only 4.8 excursions. Meanwhile, hunters in the Central and Mississippi Flyways average 5.1 trips each. — Washington, DC.

The Perfect Golf Game. Playing a Florida golf course that is notorious for its many water hazards, having lakes and ponds along almost every fairway, a visiting Tennessean decided to carry a fishing rod with him. And, as weird as it might sound, while waiting for a foursome to clear the green ahead, the golfer-angler landed a 71/2-pound largemouth bass from an adjacent pond. Then, with his luck running at high pitch, the golfer's next tee shot landed only a few inches from a hole-in-one.— Florida

Funny Type of Fun. Outdoorsmen are a rare breed, with an even rarer endurance level. "It's funny," one hunter once said. "I simply love to sit in a freezing duck blind, waiting for action. If I had to do it, I wouldn't for $100. But, the way it is, I do it for fun." — New York

Loves To Pay Taxes. One American taxpayer hasn't heard that you're not sup- posed to enjoy paying taxes. In fact, at his own insistence, the hunter pays an 11-percent excise tax on sporting arms and ammunition. He has been paying this tax since 1937, and through it he has provided over $400 million to conservation programs. These funds are used to maintain and increase wildlife populations through improvement of range, land purchase, and research. The monies have been used to purchase more than 2V2 million acres of land. And, while paid for by sportsmen, this land is open to the public. It's a good thing for our nation's wildlife that the hunter is such a willing taxpayer. — Connecticut

Circumstantial Evidence. A Washington outdoorsman and his wife are now safe at home wondering how their story might have set with a conservation officer if they had been checked while on a recent fishing and camping tour. The sporting couple froze milk cartons of water for use in their camp cooler. But, on this particular trip, when the husband went to put the duo's limit of dressed trout into the cooler, he discovered that instead of ice, the cartons contained 16 frozen trout and two ducks from last year's season. — Washington

Red Is No Longer First. While it's plenty safe to wear red at a University of Nebraska football game, red is no longer the safest color for a hunter to wear in the woods. According to scientific research, hunter orange is the latest in hunter safety, and should reduce hunting accidents considerably. This fluorescent color was labeled "most visible" after tests by the U.S. Army, Harvard University, and the Massachusetts Department of Fisheries and Game. Hunter orange stood out like a beacon in situations where other colors blended into the background. Some states have already adopted big-game hunting rules making orange clothing mandatory. — Connecticut

Submarine Warfare. Sonar, an apparatus used to detect enemy submarines, is being employed by Minnesota's fish-and-game officials to rid the state of a different type of underwater enemy. Fisheries biologists have adapted the sonar technique to pinpoint schools of carp and other unwanted rough fish for quick removal by netting. Formerly, it was a hit-or-miss effort since the location of rough fish was highly uncertain. — Minnesota

Dedicated Angler. There is no question about the dedication of a Maryland female angler who is now wearing a knee-to-ankle cast as proof. While boarding the family cruiser for a day of deep-sea fishing recently, the feminine fanatic accidentally slipped and broke her ankle. But, determined to fish, she refused medical attention until alter the outing, during which she landed 50 of the vessel's 200 fish. -Maryland

Ionia's Volcano

AS PREPOSTEROUS as it may sound, a fiery volcano was once thought to have existed in Nebraska. Located high on a bluff overlooking the Missouri River in the northeastern part of the state, the "volcano" was the subject of many discussions, both heated and calm, in early days.

In commemoration of the historic site, the Newcastle Community Betterment Committee has sponsored the construction of a Nebraska State Historical Marker near the volcano's alleged site.

White men first discovered the volcano when Lewis and Clark skirted the area in 1804. The explorers noted a high-rising bluff near present-day Newcastle, and were particularly interested because the bluff appeared to have been on fire. Their expedition camped upriver from the mysterious area for further investigation. While talking with Indians living in the immediate vicinity, Lewis and Clark heard many stories and legends about the feared, smoking hill.

One such report told of a fireworshipping, cruel, and powerful Indian tribe that inhabited the river lands more than a hundred vears before- To them, the volcano was sacred and had been connected with tribal sacrifices and other rituals.

In 1832, George Catlin, early-day explorer and artist, noted the volcano while on a steamboat voyage up the Missouri. Then, in 1833 Prince Maximillian and his party observed the unusual phenomenon of the volcanic cliff.

In 1856, a town was established near the site of the awesome volcano. The village was named Ionia. Despite efforts of many learned persons to prove that the volcano was just a barrel of blarney, area settlers feared the mysterious region bordering the river. The volcano was a household word with settlers throughout the region, and hundreds of stories were told about the crater on the bluff.

However, in 1878 the destiny of the Ionia Volcano, as it had come to be known, was decided by the bulling Missouri River. The great river eroded the bank until finally the entire bluff tumbled into the swirling current.

The town, too, was destined for a watery death as the river ate toward it bit by bit. Townspeople were finally forced to move to higher ground, and Ionia soon died, becoming a thing of the past, but the legend of the volcano lives on. THE END