TWO for the money

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.

PICTURES PLEASE - "In the January 1969 issue of NEBRASKAland, I noticed a series of pictures, Artistry in Ice by Lou Ell. If at all possible, I would like to have several reproductions of the same. Could you please let me know what the cost would be?" —Howard B. Camden, Southfield, Michigan.

Reproduction prints are available, on special order, for all color photos used in NEBRASKAland. Costs are $7.00 per print for 5X7s and $9.50 each for 8X10's. Checks for the full amount of purchase must accompany each order and should be made payable to Waltz the Camera Man. Allow approximately a month for delivery. — Editor.

TWEET — "Somewhere, I read about a bird call for songbirds. This is not a duck or goose call. Do you know where I might write to locate this item?" - Mrs. William P. Snyder, Paxton.

We would suggest that anyone interested in such a call contact the National Audubon Society, 1130 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10028.-Editor.

HERE'S HOW-"In the December 1970 issue of NEBRASKAland, I noticed Dr. Fred Svoboda's letter asking about the leg-pulling trick on pheasants. Here is how it is done:

"Break the leg bone about halfway between the spur and the knee joint. Grasp the leg and step on the foot, then pull. This removes most of the tendons and makes a very tasty piece of dark meat." — Lewis Rowan, Cozad.

WHAT ARE THEY-"I am interested in making Skeeter Skooters (Speak Up, October 1970). I would like to know what wire wicks and wick tabs are, and where I can get them."-Peter J. Conroy, Greensburg, Pennsylvania.

NO KNELL-"The November 1970 issue of NEBRASKAland was of particular interest to me. I am one of the four children in my family who were born at Fort Niobrara.

"When the fort was abandoned, my father was ordered to report to Fort Hancock, Sandy Hook, New Jersey.

"I am glad that the death knell did not sound for Fort Niobrara, as it did for so many of the early outposts."-Anna Mangan Upjohn, Omaha.

COMPLETE HARMONY-"I am a veteran (84), born in Platte County, and I lived in Lincoln for more than 50 years. Although we now live in Texas, we shall always be Nebraskans at heart.

'Your prairie dog story (Straight From the Burrow, February 1970) took me back to the late 1890's when I accompanied my father to Columbus from the northeast. The final stretch was a trail winding to the city limits toward the Catholic church and school. That last stretch, now a cemetery, was a prairie dog town, and what I observed as a kid was in complete harmony with NEBRASKAland's story." - E. Charles Mueller, former Lincolnite.

HIP HISTORY-"Among the uninitiated, archeology is often considered to be 'hip' or 'groovy'. We Dig Her by, NEBRASKAland, December 1970, certainly perpetuates this image and conveys to the general reader the impression that the cultural antiquities of Nebraska may be freely plundered for personal and private pleasure.

"I am amazed at the naivete of the 'excavators' who, in reference to previous amateur activity at the Palmer site, state, 'Needless to say, this uncontrolled digging has riddled the hill, and I believe that is why it has never been properly exposed'. Yet these same individuals, in their archeological expertise, admit to 'picking a likely looking spot' and digging at least four holes, not grids, just holes.

"The article has all the verbal adornment that was once so characteristic of earlier (Continued on page 12)

For the Record... CITIZEN INVOLVEMENT

You've seen them—everybody has—those stomach-twisting pictures of a raccoon or some other poor wild creature with its head caught in ajar or tin can. Helpless to extricate itself, the beast struggles until it can struggle no more.

Untold thousands of wild and domestic animals die in just such grim circumstances every year —victims of a common disease called littering. And, this is just one of the many evil side effects of what has become a national disgrace.

It costs U.S. taxpayers an estimated $500 million each year to remove litter from streets, highways, parks, beaches, and other public property. In a single 12-month period, the U.S. Forest Service spent $15V2 million to clean up the national recreation facilities and sites it administers. And, that is all in addition to the elbow grease the average citizen expends to pick up trash from his own property.

The Nebraska Department of Roads figures that the cost of litter pickup along our state's highways is climbing at a rate of about five percent a year. In 1968, it cost Nebraska taxpayers $164,052 to keep Interstate 80 and primary roads clean. In 1969, that figure rose to $172,490. Many more dollars go to the upkeep of state parks and recreation areas, and city streets and parks.

What is even more important than the dollars spent on litter pickup is the pollution of our environment. Not only is trash a festering sore on the landscape, it is a health menace. It creates breeding grounds for disease-carrying insects and rodents, while destroying the natural beauty of our country.

The landscape is not the only area that suffers. Litter and trash thrown into our lakes and streams pollute the water and harm fish and plant life. A recent survey of the 50 state fish and game agencies revealed that the mess left behind by litterbugs was a major reason for the closing of a number of fishing waters and hunting grounds in over 10 states.

Whether we like to admit it or not, visitors are NOT the culprits. Like accidents, most littering happens close to home. According to a survey by Keep America Beautiful, most litterbugs live within five miles of the spot where they dumped that trash. The same study shows that interstate highways are less prone to litter than are slower-speed roads. Even so, the National Highway Research Board has determined that one cubic yard of litter is deposited along each mile of the nation's primary and interstate highways every month.

What, then, is the answer? There is only one —citizen involvement. Litter doesn't throw itself away. People spread litter and only people can prevent it.

Only a concerned public can combat this lazy man's syndrome called littering. Each individual must condition himself to THINK before tossing that tissue, gum wrapper, can, or bottle —and then not throw it. That trash came with us, and it should go home with us for deposit in the proper manner. And, while working on ourselves, we should work on others. There are many ways that this can be accomplished through organizations and individuals. Finally, we must be willing to report offenders. There are adequate laws to deal with littering, but catching the culprits is far from easy.

Remember, only you can help keep Nebraska beautiful, and every litter bit hurts.

Amazing New SUPER AEROSOL Bail MAKES FISH BITE or NO COST

Science has just developed a sensational new substance called "SPF 83" which throws off a pungent odor that all fish love. It is now blended exclusively with GYPSY FISH BAIT OIL and put into AEROSOL cans to make it America's most powerful and easiest-to-use bait for all kinds and types of fish. "SPF 83" has the magnetic power that attracts fish from great distances through thousands of smell organs which cover their bodies. They fight like mad for your bait and the biggest ones usually get there first. New GYPSY with "SPF 83" in Aerosol cans is so easy to use, it makes fishing more fun than ever. No more messing with eye- dropper, no more spilling on clothes or gear—just a press of one finger on the stem and "swish" your live bait or lure is "loaded" and ready to catch your limit in half the usual time. So, whether you're a novice or an "old timer" get the new SUPER AEROSOL GYPSY today.

NEW GYPSY with "SPF 83" has been packed in Aerosol spray cans to take all the work and mess out of "doping" your bait. Here's how easy it is. Shake can once or twice, point hole in stem toward bait, press stem and watch the fine vapor spray cover your bait with the most amazing fish bait odor ever. If you cast or troll, repeat as often as necessary to keep your bait power-packed. Each Aerosol can contains a full season's supply of GYPSY with "SPF 83". You'd better order several for your party .. . they'll all want to try it.

There's nothing in Aerosol Gypsy with "SPF 83" to pollute water or harm fish so it's legal in all states including Alaska and Hawaii. No matter if you're a guide, a beginner or an expert, new Aerosol Gypsy with "SPF 83" is a must for your next fishing trip.

No matter if you still fish, cast, spin or troll ... if you use live bait or artificial lures ... if you fish rivers, creeks, lakes, ponds or the ocean you'll be thrilled with the fast action you get with "SPF 83" fortified Aerosol spray Gypsy. One whiff of "SPF 83" and fish streak toward your bait, fighting mad and you'll soon have them in your creel.

TREE-BLIND FALOUT

FALLING TOOK only moments. From the time my hand slipped off that dew-dampened branch until I hit the ground 20 feet below, I hardly had time to think.

After I landed there was plenty of time to think. I fell almost flat on my back, and probably my only hurt would have been to my pride at having my seven-year-old son Craig witness the whole sequence. But, a branch on the ground was my undoing, as I landed smack on top of it.

Severe pain shot through me, and I didn't dare move. In fact, I couldn't move for a long time. Craig, who had begged to come along with me on this deer-scouting expedition, rushed over to me. Concern over one's welfare is usually welcome, I guess, but at that moment young Craig's solaces didn't help much.

For several minutes, while I tried to recover mv senses and wished the pain would subside, I just lay there lamenting my situation.

On the way into the area, we had passed a farmer combining, so he MARCH 1971 came to mind first. I talked Craig into leaving to look for the man across the river. Reluctantly, but knowing he was doing his best to help, Craig headed out.

Left alone, I pondered my situation. Craig and I had driven to Monroe, Nebraska from our home in Seward to look for deer sign and to check out the tree blind I had used previously. It was just a little after 11:30 a.m. on October 15,1970, when that slippery branch caused my fall. I couldn't help feeling sorry for myself, yet I chastised myself for being so clumsy. As a state patrolman, I am supposed to be concerned with safety more than the average person, yet here I was, flattened by a careless moment.

Only a few minutes passed before Craig returned with unhappy news that he had found no one. The farmer had apparently stopped work and gone home for lunch. My situation looked grim, and the pain had eased somewhat, so I forced myself to move a bit. This brought the pain again, but it was not as unbearable as before.

After a few moments of getting used to it, I was able to crawl on my hands and knees, so Craig and I started out on the three-quarter of a mile to the river. After innumerable rest stops to let the pain subside, we finally arrived at the Loup River. I didn't dare cross, however, as the water was at least 18 inches deep — maybe more —and it might sweep me away.

It appeared the highway was the best place to seek aid. Much as I disliked the idea, I urged Craig to cross the river and walk to Nebraska Highway 22 to stop a passing motorist.

"Take a stick to test the bottom," I told him. He found a limb and walked to the river bank, then stepped in and slowly waded across, probing for holes with the stick.

Once across, Craig walked to the highway. But, motorists simply ignored the youngster trying to flag them down.

Then, he spotted a nearby farmhouse. He walked up the road to the door and knocked, but no one was home. Again he returned with unhappy tidings, and again we complained together.

I finally remembered that the Monroe Alfalfa Mill was only two miles away. By this time I felt like Simon Legree. Craig was the only one who could help, though, so despite his age and the fact that he must be very tired, I assigned another task. As I watched the little figure trudge away again, I thought what a great companion he was.

This time, his walk paid off. Ron Aase and Ralph Cook listened to the story told by the sad little boy, and things began to happen. Cook called the Monore rescue unit, and at 4:30 p.m., I heard a siren wailing toward me. A mighty efficient crew, complete with stretcher, soon carried me across the river and rushed me to the hospital.

There, doctors found I had broken four vertebrae. Two long but carefree months of recuperation followed.

I wasn't able to participate in my annual deer hunt. That was hard to take, especially after Craig told me he had spotted several good places for deer during his scouting trips looking for people that day I was hurt.

My episode out there in the woods will not be forgotten. I gained additional respect for safety, and many times give thanks that my son was with me. I believe those five long hours of suffering would have been considerably longer without him, and I may have missed a lot more than just one deer season without his help.

HOW TO: MAKE PLASTIC WORMS

THE LOWLY WORM has long been on the wanted list. Fishermen armed with shovels, electrodes, and vibrators attempt to dig, shock, and rattle him out of his humble, earthy home.

But the worms don't always cooperate. This may have been the reason for the creation of plastic worms. Although skeptics at first, anglers soon found that the artificial wigglers were often superior to their natural counterparts. But, as is the case with any commodity, the value of worms increases with demand, and, in today's inflated economy, the angler is faced with the problem of what to do about the rising cost of worms.

To Dennis Unruh and Les Spath, both avid bass fishermen and plasticworm advocates, the solution seemed simple —they would have to start making their own worms. A check through the classified advertising sections of some of the national outdoor magazines revealed that sup- plies to make worms were available, so they were soon in business.

The equipment is simple, consisting of liquid plastic, hardening and softening agents, coloring, and the worm molds. Liquid plastic costs about $12 a gallon, but is available in smaller quantities at a slightly higher cost. The hardening and softening agents, and coloring each cost approximately a dollar, while the worm molds, available in almost any size and pattern, run about $2.25. Thus the total cost of getting into production will range from $10 to $20.

Begin by pouring some of the liquid plastic into a pan and placing it over medium-low heat on a stove. The liquid has the color and consistency of milk, but will soon begin to turn to a semi-solid state, similar to rubber cement. The solution must be stirred constantly as it is heated to prevent scorching. Following the rubber-cement state, it will change again, this time to a clear liquid.

Now is the time to add the softener or hardener, and the coloring. The softener or hardener will make the worm more or less flexible. Dennis and Les add softener, with the idea that a more flexible worm has better action in the water and allows the hook to be set easily. However, personal preference and experimentation will determine how much of either agent should be added. Although they make blue, black, red, NEBRASKAland 10 and purple worms, Les and Dennis agree that purple is their best fishgetter.

A small ladle with a wood or insulated handle is then used to transfer the liquid plastic into the mold. At this point caution is essential, for the liquid will stick to the skin and burn like hot tar. The mold should be slightly overfilled to allow for shrinkage during cooling, and then set aside. After several minutes the worm can be pulled from the mold, and should be dropped into a sink filled with cool water. The worms float and cure without curling. It is advantageous to have at least two molds so one can be filled while the other is cooling, thus speeding the process. However, the liquid must be stirred constantly.

If a mold is filled too full, extra plastic will adhere to the worm, but this may be trimmed off with a razor blade or scissors. Scraps of plastic and broken or fish-mangled worms should be saved, for they can be melted and formed again.

Les estimates they get between 600 and 800 worms to a gallon of plastic, depending on the mold size. The cost figures out to about three cents per worm, which is well below commercial prices.

And they work! Dennis can vouch for that. Last summer he took more than 300 bass from the Salt Valley lakes around Lincoln using his plastic worms, with 14 of the fish topping the 4-pound mark. Actually, Dennis and Les think their "homemades" work better than "store boughts", for they can tailor the color and flexibility to fit their exact fishing needs.

SPEAK UP

archeological dilettantes. For example, 'An expedition into the wilds of Central Nebraska in search of ancient archeological digging', and 'Larry's persistent hacking with my army surplus spade'. The article is a sad testimony to the ever-increasing amateur destruction that threatens to eliminate our prehistoric heritage. Perhaps the worst indictment of all is the reference to the skeleton as 'Herby'. I would remind the 'excavators' that 'Herby' was once a human being — not another cute relic. In May of 1969, when the remains were shown to me at the Nebraska Academy of Sciences meeting, I recommended that they be given to the State Historical Society or the University of Nebraska Department of Anthropology. I understand now that 'Herby' has been sold to a collector for $25 which raises some serious questions about the vaunted 'scientific' purpose of the 'excavation'.

"Archeology is not a lark or a Saturday-afternoon thrill trip as the 'excavators' would have us believe. It is a professional discipline that is often exploited by uninformed amateurs who show a distressing lack of concern for the artifactual remains of the past. I would suggest that a more appropriate title for 'We Dig Herby' might be 'Another Pothole'."-R. Clark Mallam, Instructor of Anthropology, Luther College, Decorah, Iowa.

We completely agree that archeology is a serious and professional discipline. And, we also concede that many finds which may have proven beneficial to all mankind might have been destroyed or lost by indiscriminate, unprofessional excavation. Certainly, the past is best explored by those with the techniques, knowhow. and facilities to do the job. But, there is another side to the coin. As for the Palmer site, historians, archeologists, anthropologists, and state engineers have known of its existence for years. To date, apparently, none have bothered to explore it in depth - professionally or as a lark. As for calling the remains Herby, we find no justification for calling them anything else. Certainly, Catalog Number 123456 is no more flattering.

Admittedly, those who exposed the site in this instance possessed no professional credentials. However, let us take a look at professional standing in this country. To use the example of an associate, recall, if you will, the fantastic color and black-and-white photography turned out each year by people whose true occupations range from auto mechanic to jet pilot. In the archeological sense, consider for a moment that the Rosetta Stone, which I am sure you will recall unlocked the translation of three Egyptian languages, was discovered by one of Napoleon's lieutenants. He was far from professional, yet the world was better for his discovery. Or, there is the peasant shepherd who discovered the Dead Sea Scrolls. What a tremendous link with the past they proved to be. Yet, the man could neither read nor write, obviously not a professional.

We believe that the professional should have every opportunity to explore, define, and categorize archeological subjects. But, we also feel that those in the profession should be big enough to share a corner of their niche with those who share their interest in the matter. Just as writing cannot and should not be reserved for only those with the educational background, but should include anyone with the talent and desire, archeology should be an open field. There are times when it pays off. — Editor.

TO SHOOT HENS-"My father receives NEBRASKAland from an American friend. I enjoy the magazine very much.

"I am writing to you in hopes that you can help me with a matter concerning hen pheasants in Ireland. The hen pheasant has been protected by law since 1959. The season on males is open from the first day of November to the last day of January.

"During the past two seasons, I have flushed a lot of hens but hardly any males. Most of the hens are very old and I think that is bad. Hen pheasants, as you know, become barren after five years. Therefore, what good is a young cock when mated with such a hen?

"I feel there should be at least one season in every two for shooting hens. Or, gun clubs might be given permission to organize a shoot and just take the older hens. Then maybe our pheasant population would grow rapidly."-Robert Ryan, Ballyfermot Dublin, Ireland.

The regulation restricting hunters to the taking of cocks only is based on the fact that pheasants are highly polygamous and one male will mate with many hens. Up to 90 percent of the cocks can be removed from the population without affecting production. Also, cocks can readily be distinguished from hens, thus a cocks- only regulation is practical from an enforcement standpoint.

A certain number of hens are also surplus to production needs. However, restricting the harvest of hens to the number that can be removed without affecting the following year's production is not easy to regulate. We have allowed hunters to harvest hens in past seasons and there was some concern that an over-harvest may have occurred in some areas. This, however, was not detected in our surveys. Also, the season was not particularly popular with the sportsmen or the landowners. Thus, we discontinued a hen season.-Ken Johnson, Assistant Chief, Game Division.

Indian Incantations

LIKE A POT of gold at the end of a rainbow, answers to mysteries of the past frequently seem just out of reach. As time passes, the mains' stays of an entire way ot life slip from view to become lost forever. Little is known of the life-styles of the Aztecs. Incan temples are among the only concrete examples of this primitive peoples' way of life. And, prehistoric man's missing link still confounds and confuses scientists around the world.

These examples, though, are far from home. Nebraska has its own mystery, perhaps as great as any of these, in the medicine men of the plains Indian. Always a part of romance and legend, these priests of the flatlands are as elusive as specters in the night. Their cures, unknown to their people, remain largely matters of conjecture among the whites who research them today. Some things, however, are known. What follows is a cursory examination of available information. It is in no way complete, nor is it intended as the last word of Indian medicine. It is simply a recounting of what has been learned and what might have been.

Garbed in finery garnered from nature, the medicine man cut a striking figure amidst the lives of the plains Indian. He was a symbol of power and a personage to be feared, respected, and envied. He was mortal, but his powers, both real and imagined, made his mortality insignificant. He was the seer of visions and the embodiment of the Great Spirit. He was all things to all men, yet he was the bearer of angry retribution or the purveyor of heavenly understanding.

Medicine men played a variety of roles in Indian society. They were not restricted to simply healing sickness among their people, but instead became spiritual leaders as well, taking a back seat only to the chief in social impact. Each tribe had several medicine men (in larger tribes, they were even organized into guilds) who were thought to bear supernatural powers. These powers, which gave them the ability to recognize and cure disease, were derived from some obscure being who watched over the tribe. In an age where a belief in the supernatural is lagging, we are often unable to understand the workings of the medicine man. But his flock placed undying trust in his hands.

Among the Skidi Pawnee, medicine men often employed slight of hand and other trickery to display their powers. Many, however, believed that they really did have ability to heal and to communicate with the supreme being. Therefore, they performed (Continued on page 64)

GILBERT-BAKER CAMP-OUT

WHEN THE FIRST day of winter rolls around, some animals have the right idea as they pull their chubby bodies into remote, protected lairs to sleep away the time until warmer temperatures return. Man, of course, cannot resort to such practical maneuvers. Instead, he must find diversions to fill out the winter months.

Winter does have some nice things about it. Snow, for instance, is alright if it falls gently and lies prettily. Only when pushed along by strong north winds, when it piles into huge road-clogging drifts, does snow become an enemy of man. Sleeping in it, however, no matter how still it lies, can be considered a pleasant experience only by a handful of avid camping devotees.

On one such wintry day, strong winds dropped the chill index to well below zero as three lowans slipped into Nebraska for a bit of exploring and camping. December 22, the first day of winter, fell right in the middle of their three-day adventure. Brothers John and Paul Iverson of Fort Dodge, and John's college roommate, Dennis Bausman of Ackley, took advantage of the first days of Christmas vacation from school to make the trek to Nebraska's Pine Ridge area for a go at the rigors of winter outdoors.

Skies were heavily overcast and gloomy when the trio and I set out from Lincoln on our 1,000-mile round trip. But, the farther west we went, the brighter things looked. As we arrived in the Panhandle, the sun shone brightly and the outing took on a more pleasant prospect. Perhaps we would not awaken the next morning under mounds of ice and snow.

It was still not quite clear to me how and why I was along with the hardy threesome. When NEBRASKAland Magazine learned of their plans, it seemed like a perfect opportunity to accompany them and partake of the same outdoor pleasures. So, there I was with my sleeping bag, a handful of candy bars, and a sack of pretzels.

The sun had long since disappeared behind the hills when we pulled into the camping site at the Gilbert-Baker area north of Harrison. In the dark, the tent-setting-up ritual was even more challenging. While John gingerly tapped the aluminum nails, which were to hold his tent secure, into the frozen earth, Dennis and I scouted the grounds for two trees. They could not just be any old trees — they had to be the right distance apart on fairly level ground so we could rope another tent between them. Then, a third, smaller tent, with its own poles, was put up to house miscellaneous gear. John's tent was a red-orange, nylon, two-man job popular with backpackers because of its light weight and because it will roll into a six-inch bundle. It even had a floor and its own center poles. The larger green tent was canvas, also had a floor, and was possibly warmer. Its sturdy wooden pegs punched right through the frozen surface. Little "U"-shaped metal pins secured the smaller, blue canvas storage tent.

Between rope pulling and tent-stake pounding, we made the short trip to the fire often to return feeling to our numb fingers. Wind sporadically whistled up and down the canyon, so the roaring fire was like a hot, smoky magnet drawing us to it.

Paul, a six-foot-plus freshman at Iowa State University presently majoring in math, was the best insulated of the group because of his beard. We didn't make any jokes about him getting it under a tent peg or anything, but some references to it were made during the next couple of days. He started the beard in September, concurrent with the beginning of school, and it did add a certain flair to his demeanor. As he trudged MARCH 1971 17   over the frozen hills he looked the most authentic of us "mountain men".

With the problem of shelter out of the way, the thought of food came to mind next. Because Paul had the cleanest hands and was easiest persuaded, he was elected to squeeze patties out of the cylindrical tube of hamburger. Since the meat was frozen almost solid, it was first placed ceremoniously on a log beside the fire to thaw out.

When the meat was pliable, he formed the cool tube into several round blobs which Dennis attempted to squash to cookable thickness. For the most part, the project was a success, and the rapidly cooling hamburgers were consumed with salt, pepper, and a gob of cats-up decorating each. The fare was meager, but a few bags of crunchy things kept us occupied as we sat around the fire and speculated on coming events.

It wasn't long before our crew decided to turn in. The fire was keeping only one side warm, and the sleeping bags promised to be more efficient. As the tents were placed right on the snow, a foam pad was slipped into the green tent, but John and Paul elected not to use one.

"The snow is plenty of insulation," John claimed. Both he and Paul were using fairly light dacron bags, the type used by backpackers because they roll up to little more than a paper-towel-size package. I felt more secure knowing that Dennis and I had heavy, down-filled bags —bulky, but warm. Thermal suits worn to "bed", along with heavy socks, would make for more bearable sleeping.

After the initial stirring and rustling to get ready for the sack, everything quieted down rapidly. It was too cold for much bantering, once away from the log inferno. For a while, we dialed around on the radio trying to get a weather forecast, but indications were that it might snow the following day. We already knew it was going to be mighty cold. As the stations all faded out as soon as focused in, that was soon given up.

The temperature had already dropped to about 15 degrees when we turned in. Overnight, it probably went down at least another five degrees or so. Anyway, it went down far enough to freeze up the area's pump, and it took a little coaxing the next morning before we finally freed it so we could get water for coffee.

When the troops gathered around another blazing fire, the sun was already touching the peaks of the hills above us. John didn't complain much about the overnight cold, but Paul said his feet had been frigid all night.

"It's too bad you don't have a beard on your feet, too,"Dennis chided. "I suppose your face didn't get cold did it?"

Paul calmly ignored all references to his bristle and went about the business of readying his pack. John likewise stuffed sundries into and onto his pack, and must not have suffered much during the night or just wasn't complaining. I fared pretty well, but did find myself all scrunched up in the bag early in the morning.

Breakfast was a real production. Water was heated for coffee and instant orange juice, bacon was fried, then eggs slipped into the hot grease. Of course the bacon froze again while the eggs fried, but only a few grumbles were heard.

"Since these packs aren't too heavy," Dennis observed, wiping grease from his fingers, "I'll tote one. Besides, it might help break the wind."

"I knew there must be some reason for you to volunteer for work," John kidded. "You construction engineers are trained better than to do any labor."

"Well, if you physics majors could figure things as practically as we do, you should be able to come up NEBRASKAland 18 with a better method of hauling things than on your back," Dennis replied to his roommate. "Paul, what do you figure the odds are of them ever coming up with a solution?"

"I don't know, I'm keeping too busy just trying to get warm —these boots seemed to turn into ice during the night."

Everyone tried to get their boots warm by pointing them toward the fire, and it did help. Finally, we were ready to head out. I had hauled my bow and broad- heads along on the off chance we would stumble across a deer hiding under a tree, but I was the only one hunting, carrying my unfilled archery-deer permit. That gave me a good excuse not to carry a pack. There were plenty of deer tracks around, but most were several days old. The snow had been on the ground for a week or so.

We could hear the wind howling through the hills above us, and as we trekked up the creek and into the timber, we felt it. We kept warm enough when moving, but sheltered places were hard to find. Thermal undies were a must for us, but our outerwear was not real bulky. John sported a new insulated jacket sewn just a few days before by his mother. It was light and warm, like the rest of our outerwear. Wool and insulated nylon were predominant, and were adequate except when we stopped moving. The going was pretty easy except for occasional inclines. There, frozen ground made the footing slippery and progress slowed. Also, snow on the hills was much deeper because it was shaded by the heavy stand of pines.

"This is great country," John observed. "It's a lot more impressive than I expected, especially after seeing all that flat land on the way out."

"Yeh," agreed Dennis, "this looks just like the mountains. It feels like the mountains, too, at least when you try to climb them. I seem to have miscalculated the weight of this pack. Or haven't you heard me huffing and puffing back here?"

"I was hoping that was you and not a bear," Paul quipped. "You older fellows can't seem to take this exercise. I suppose I'll be the same when I get to be a senior."

'We'll probably end up carrying you before the day is over," Dennis shot back. "You probably couldn't hear me puffing over your own wheezing."

During the next few hours, we covered many acres of Pine Ridge landscape, most of it either up or downhill. We traversed cliff faces, snowy canyon bottoms, frozen hillsides, and canyon edges where we could peer into the recesses. The cold was our worst problem. Then, very light snow or ice crystals started falling amidst the bright sunshine.

Rather than attempting to carry lunches with us, we planned to return to camp for something warm at mealtimes. Most of the trip back was downhill, so it went quickly. A roaring fire again was started, and boots again held close for the drying-out ceremony.

"Let's hurry up and heat up a can of something, and we'll head up into that big canyon over there," John suggested, pointing off in the opposite direction from the morning's hike.

"You bet," agreed Dennis and Paul, rubbing their hands over the fire. I merely burrowed deeper into my smoke-laden jacket, jammed my frigid fingers closer to the dancing flames, and cringed at what lay ahead. At least food sounded like a good idea, as I had nibbled only one frozen candy bar while sliding around in the hills. Another day and a half, and a few more trips like that, and I would be ready for a long rest. Grudgingly, I backed away from the fire and joined the others', ready to hit the trail again.

TWIN LAKES JONAH

DICK DONALDSON and C. W. Wilcox can't say I warning. Five minutes after we on the line.

Gentelemen it is only right to tell you I'm the bodbo when it comes to fishing. I know men and that you catch some nice e, but from now until I leave, you'll p, let alone catch a fish."

I knew it was only coincidence, but on three previous with other good anglers, we hadn't take a respectable fish. Since fishermen, especially good ones, hate to admit failure, they blamed their poor luck on me. So, wih a perverse sense of humor, I exploited the charge to exasperate my fishing buddies

Dick, who is big enough to hunt bears with a BB gun, guffawed. "Nonsense, we'll catch cats. Always have and there's no reason why we won't catch some tonight."

C.W. was a lttle more cautions. "Never can tell, but we have taken uite a few out of here and tonight seems perfect. Let's try it"

The three of us were on an early-August expedition for channel cats at tWIN lakes, one of the Salt Valley impoundments west of Lincoln. We were fishing the east lake from which the state recreation area takes its name. The lake located half a mile north and half a mile west of the Pleasant Dale interchange on Interstate 80 was comparatively new, but in the summer of 1969 it was already coming into its own as fishing water. The use of motors is forbidden on th elake, but rather than wrestle with Dick's big outboard, we tipped it up and left it aboard as we rowed out to our spot.

Since I was a guest, I volunteered to take the oars while Dick and C>W. briefed me on the lake. I was surrprised to hear that it had walleye, norhten pike, flathead c atfish, largemouth, bulegill, and channel cats. The channel cats were our main targets.

"I took 18 cats out of there in a 4-day stretch," Dick said, pointing to a little bay on the east shore. "We'll hit it later this evening, but right now I wanted to try the east side of the island."

On the way out I learned that C. W., whose Christian name is Clifford ("I don't like it, call me C.W.") and Dick fished almost every day. Dick has a few head of cattle on his farm near Emerald but he doesn't let farming interfere with his fishing. C. W., from Lincoln, is a retired railroad conductor.

The 14-foot fishing boat was easy to row and we made good time to the island. Dick wanted to fish a narrow strip of water between it and the east shore.

"It's been pretty hot, and I have a hunch the cats are in that deep water. There's quite a bit of shade from the island and a lot of submerged brush, just right for cats. We'll try a smelt and see what happens," the Emerald fisherman explained.

Now I knew what caused the nose-wrinkling odor that seemed to come from everywhere. The smelt were frozen, but as they softened in the heat they "ripened", and I knew catfish wouldn't have any trouble sniffing out our baits. Dick snipped a four-inch smelt into pieces, tossed me a chunk, and told me to "bait up".

C. W. rigged two lines. One with smelt, the other with shrimp. "One to port, one to starboard," he chanted, suiting the action to his words. Dick made a long cast off the stern while I tossed out amidships and settled back to study our surroundings.

The island was a gentle hogback with a fringe of water-killed trees circling its (Continued on page 62)

Lesser Wildlife

WALK THE WOODS one day, and stalk the lesser creatures that dwell in this leafy world. Hike the fields. They too are home for a host of smaller animals. Search the prairies, and find the fauna seldom seen.

Patience pays off for the inquisitive seeker. Curiosity often captures both the observer and the observed, as pairs of eyes meet through foliage, brush, or grass. Look high and low, for these creatures find living space in the great outdoors from cellar to ceiling —from beneath the ground to the tops of the trees.

Knowing when to look can be as important as where to look. Dawn, dusk, or the deep of night are best. Many animals are nocturnal by nature, and active only under the cloak of darkness.

Forays by day are less productive. Creatures are seen only at a distance, if at all. Their eyes, ears, and noses tell of an intruder's presence far in advance, and most lose little time in heading for cover.

When a creature is seen by day, it is usually an accident. Preoccupied with 23 MARCH 1971   seeking prey, confused by the wind or weather, or curious because of immaturity or inexperience, the animal lets his guard slip, and suddenly, there he is, startled. But he is not stationary for long. Quickly he stumbles for hiding, leaving only a memory behind, a memory that film occasionally record.

Such chance encounters are rare but chances for such an experience increase according to the amount of time spent outdoors. The payoff comes when a part of the secret world of wildlife is discovered, when an animal little seen and little known reveals an aspect of its life history previously unrecorded— when man gets a glimpse of the world he wasn't meant to see.

Walk the woods, then watch and wait. A screech owl drops from a lofty limb and stoops to snatch up a deer mouse caught off guard. Hike the fields. A cottontail may hear your approach and wait just to see who you are. Search the prairies, for one fortunate day a badger who has lost his way may be found. And therein lies an experience to be remembered for years.

A walk through the woods or fields offers more than encounters with the lesser creatures that live there. It offers a lesson in the why of wildlife, a lesson in ecology. For in this changing world, everything living and dead causes reaction somewhere else. And so it is in the outdoor ecosystem. Any corner of these habitats can be a home for some form of wildlife, each filling a niche, each having a place of its own.

Harsher lessons are there to be learned, too, for everv creature has its place in the drama of life. The natural world is a revolving stage where the animals enter and exit according to the script of survival.

Within the woods, the mouse is near the bottom of the food chain. He falls prey to snakes and other predators. The snake, in turn, is captured and devoured by the owl. But the owl provides food for the skunk, who eats the eggs of almost any species. The skunk, again, may become a meal for a hungry fox or badger.

The laws of nature that control the life cycle of these creatures also control man's life and death, though he often forgets. He must learn to care not only for his own existence, but also for his coexistence with all other creatures, for in the scheme of the natural world, man is but a lesser creature himself.

NATIONAL GRAPPLING CHAMPIONS

THE FEVERISH CROWD whoops "pin 'em". The giant fieldhouse throbs with electrifying excitement. Head Coach Don Benning writhes in his rigid steel chair and fellow matmen holler with super enthusiasm. "Pin 'em, pin 'em," the cries continue, bursting with partisan emotions. Oldsters, youngsters, collegians, and others all join in. And, far more times than not, the UNO fieldhouse crowd's wishes are met by the overwhelmingly powerful National Champion University of Nebraska at Omaha wrestling team.

Reigning NAIA (National Association of Intercollegiate Athletics) National Champions, the UNO wrestling Indians are working doggedly toward retaining their championship status this year. The Indians will travel to Boone, North Carolina this month to put their hard-earned title on the line against the nation's top small-college wrestlers.

Winning has become a tradition with the Indian matmen and their determined Head Coach Don Benning. In the four combat seasons prior to the team's 1970 winning of the National Championship, the rugged Indians posted a prodigious record in dual competition of 50 wins, 4 losses, and 3 standoffs. Also in 1970, Coach Benning's winning Indians garnered the prestigious Rocky Mountain Conference wrestling title, UNO's athletic conference affiliation.

Wrestling, one of the world's oldest forms of man-to-man athletic competition, was born at what was then Omaha University in 1948. The first wrestling season ever for the Indians, the team went to battle twice. The grapplers broke even, winning one and losing the other. The school maintained a wrestling squad for only two more seasons and then expelled the sport from the intercollegiate competitive agenda.

Then in the fall of 1957, the demanding sport was reinstated on the Omaha campus. The school fielded only an average team that year, struggling to keep the win column in balance with the dreaded losing list. The team continued on that route for the next few seasons. However, the turning point was not far in the future.

In 1963, Don Benning, one of UNO's greatest wrestlers and an outstanding running back on the varsity football squad, took the (Continued on page 55)

BUCKSKIN BUNNIES

FOR ONE BRIEF moment last December, Nebraska stood locked in the grip of time and space for two hunters. Clad in buckskins, they roamed the southeastern portion of the state, recalling the opening of a virgin frontier. And during their day-long hunt for cottontails, they provided a living lesson in the state's history.

Dick Hedges, a self-employed well driller from Lincoln, and Bill Ihm, a chemist for the State of Nebraska from Davey, were on a holiday season hunt that began in the early hours of December 28. Hauling out of the rack long before sunrise, the two members of Lincoln's Great Plains Muzzle-Loading Club climbed into homemade buckskins. His coonskin cap snugged over his eyebrows, Hedges selected a prized muzzle-loading rifle from a gun cabinet in his living room and draped a coyote-pelt poncho over his frame. He was about to mount Ihm's heated van for the ride to their hunting grounds.

On the trip to Bluestem State Recreation Area, one of the Salt Valley Lakes that surround Lincoln, the pair charted the day's actOn the trip to Bluestem State Recreation Area, one of the Salt Valley Lakesivities. First on the agenda was a stop at the Sprague-Martell area lake. Reports from Game Commission conservation officers had it that the area was hopping with bunnies. In a period of low rabbit populations, the two enthusiasts figured the possibility was worth exploring.

Old Sol was just clearing a low-lying eastern cloud bank when the pair wheeled into the picnic area at Bluestem and parked. A heavily brushed draw ran south from their parking spot and looked like a good place to start. Sliding from the van, both hunters realized almost immediately that they were in for some rough going. The mercury hovered just below the teen mark and a breeze gave the cold a cutting edge that sliced through deer hide like a hot knife through butter. Bill, probably the wiser of the two, at least in that instance, slapped a rats-nest wig over his civilian haircut and curled the strands about his ears as he made his way to the rear of the van.

"I may not look too great, but neither did the trappers who actually wore their hair this way." Completing his outfit, Ihm slid his flintlock rifle from the back of the truck and began the tedious loading process. Locating his powder horn, he poured about a hundred grains of black powder into a hollow knife handle and dropped the propellant down the octagonal barrel. Next, a hunk of linen wadding, wrapped around a .45-caliber round ball, was stuffed down the bore. After priming the weapon with a little powder in the flintlock pan, he was ready to go.

Dick, on the other hand, was still wrestling with a hand warmer made from an inside-out muskrat pelt.

"I haven't gotten the other warmer finished, so I guess the one will have to do for now," he announced as he rounded the corner of the van and began loading his rifle, also a flintlock.

"That's too bad," Ihm taunted. "With that knit glove on your left hand, it sort of breaks the frontiersman spell you've cultivated."

Just as he finished, Dick put the last taps to his load and was ready to shove off. The pair separated, Ihm taking one side of the draw while Hedges cut off the escape route nearest the van. A heavy frost shook off the brome and skittered over the duo's Indian moccasins as they snaked along the draw. While Ihm had elected to use a solid ball in his rifle, Dick was carrying a shot load. Though it is deeply rifled, a muzzle-loader can also take shot, making it a dual-purpose weapon. And, since bunnies are not only fast but small, a hit with a solid ball may leave only fur and ears. Shot, on the other hand, is an effective load on the puff-tailed speedsters and doesn't tear them up too badly. Range is somewhat limited with BB's, but 100-yard shots in dense brush are few.

The modern mountain men were nearing an intersecting road that signaled a westward turn in their path when brer bunny's nerves gave out.

"One coming out," Bill yelled as the puffball shot past him and headed west. His fast but even swing brought the muzzle on target and he squeezed off the shot. Flint scraped home as the hammer fell, igniting powder in the flash pan a fraction of a second later. Still later, the long barrel belched fire, smoke, and lead.

"I led him about a foot," Bill lamented as a cloud of blue smoke wafted over the field. "Another half-foot would have put him in the pot."

"As it was, you just dusted his fanny with dirt. That ball must have hit a good 30 NEBRASKAland six inches behind him," Dick squelched Ihm's idle what-if's.

"I think I'll switch to shot," Bill ignored the comment. "That way I don't have to be right on for a hit."

Bill was still stuffing firing components down the front-loader when Dick started his swing through the remaining brush. Joining the hunt, Ihm helped stomp out brush piles and thickets until both were blue in the face —if not from exertion, from cold. But, while things were looking up after sighting the one bunny, that didn't help keep Dick's feet warm. He was nearing the fence that put an end to state land and open hunting when he suddenly plopped down on the frozen turf and began clawing at his right moccasin.

"When the feeling starts to go, it's time to do something," he explained as Bill shuffled up. "I've had too much experience with frostbitten feet to just let them go without something to warm them."

"I think we've about run this place dry," Bill commented as Dick flailed away at his frigid foot. "What do you say we head back to the van and move over to Wagon Train Lake near Hickman? There's supposed to be a pretty fair population there."

Sliding back into his moccasin, Dick nodded a curt O.K., shouldered his rifle, and headed for warmth.

During their move, prospects for the coming leg of the hunt and the quality of arms kept the conversation going. With only one unharmed bunny behind them, all the pair had to lean on was hope. Weaponry was another matter. Ihm and Hedges both make their own muzzle-loaders. There are (Continued on page 54)

CATFISH FARMER

THE FATTENING OF beef and hogs for market by crowding them into a small area and feeding them a high concentration of food in a relatively short period of time in preparation for sale has been common practice for a long time, but only recently has this idea spread to the production offish. Traditionally, fish have been harvested on a catch-as-catch-can basis, and a certain aura of romance has always hovered over the fishermen coming in from the mists over the sea.

But time marches on, and new methods for increased production with profit motives always in the background are constantly being found.

Last summer biologists of the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission's Fisheries Division conducted a study on commercial production of channel catfish with the idea that this species be marketed in the state as it is farther south. Although the fish appears on a few restaurants' menus, it is by far not as common as in the southern states.

The culture offish in small farm ponds or sandpits has long been of interest in Nebraska. However, one common problem has plagued the pond owner —how to harvest the fish. The only feasible way was to drain the pond, an almost impossible task in Nebraska. This is what led fisheries biologists to believe that confining fish to a cage might lead to more practical harvesting.

Study ponds were selected in Otoe County near Syracuse and Jefferson County near Fairbury, both located in southeastern Nebraska. Owners of the ponds agreed to assist in the study by feeding the fish daily.

Cages were constructed of half-inch square galvanized hail screen. The dimensions of the cage were 46 inches wide, 66 inches long, and 46 inches deep. The cage was attached to a 2x4 wooden frame and floated with barrels at each end of the cage. A strip of window screen 18 inches wide was sewn around the top to prevent loss of floating food. The entire cage was then closed with a wooden cover. A six-inch hole was cut in the lid to permit feeding without opening it.

Each cage was placed in water five to seven feet deep. A walkway was built to the cage to permit feeding. It was necessary to keep two feet of water underneath the cage to let uneaten food and fecal waste pass out the bottom. This also offered some disease prevention since most bacteria thrives in bottom muds.

Both ponds were stocked late in April. The Fairbury pond was stocked with 492 channel catfish, while the Syracuse pond was stocked with 500 channel catfish. At stocking,-the fish ranged in length from 3 to 10 inches with most being 4 inches long. Total weight of the 500 fish in the Syracuse pond was 16.8 pounds, and total weight of the 492 fish in the Fairbury pond was 15.1 pounds.

The fish in the Fairbury pond were fed daily at sundown, while the fish at Syracuse were fed twice daily, early in the morning and again at sundown. The fish were fed a floating commercial catfish food in quarterinch, pellet form. Initially they consumed only two cups daily, but at the end of the growing season they ate six to eight pounds a day. The fish learned to feed on the floating pellets three to five days after stocking and fed actively throughout the summer.

Mortality was low. Three fish were removed from the Fairbury pond two days after stocking, their loss being attributed to natural mortality as a result of handling. This was the only mortality observed in the Fairbury pond.

In the Syracuse pond the story was not as good. A rainstorm in mid-June caused excessive, turbid runoff which collected in the pond. Because of the cloudiness of the water, sunlight could not penetrate as deep 32 NEBRASKAland into the water. This caused the death of an algae bloom which supplies the water with oxygen. This lack of oxygen caused the death of about 100 fish. The remainder cut down on feeding for two weeks with the result that they did not grow to be as large as the others by the end of the study period.

In late September the water cooled to a point where the fish stopped feeding. They eat best in 75 to 80-degree water.

At harvest time the lids were removed and the fish were lifted out with a dip net. The cages were found to be in good condition after harvest for future use.

Since this was a study to determine the growth rate and food conversion ratio, each fish was weighed and measured as it was removed from the cage. The fish were then divided equally between the pond owner and the state. The Game Commission's share was used to stock nearby lakes.

The Syracuse pond yielded 363 fish weighing a total of 179.3 pounds. During the 161 days the fish were in the cage, 162.5 additional pounds offish flesh were produced. At harvest, these fish averaged 10.8 inches in length and weighed an average of half a pound. The conversion ratio was 1.3 pounds of food to 1 pound of fish flesh. Mortality in this cage was 27 percent, or 137 fish. It should be remembered that this is the one where there was a lack of oxygen.

The Fairbury pond was a better producer. This cage yielded 463 fish weighing a total of 288.4 pounds, a production of 273.3 additional pounds. At harvest these fish averaged 11.2 inches in length and weighed an average of .6 pound each. The largest fish weighed two pounds. The conversion ratio in this pond was 1.2 pounds of food to 1 pound of gain. Mortality in this cage was 7 percent, or 37 fish.

The purpose of the study was to determine if channel catfish can be raised to harvestable size in one year, and the answer is yes, but there are many factors to consider before beginning commercial production.

Due to the severity of Nebraska winters, catfish cannot be kept in the cage through the cold seasons. Therefore a person must start with a fish large enough to produce a harvestable product in a 160-day growth period. Starting with a fish from 6 to 8 inches in length, 1 to lVk-pound fish can be produced in a single growing season. But to purchase 6 to 8-inch channel catfish locally costs from 30 to 50 cents apiece, whereas these same fish can be purchased in the southern states for approximately 10 cents each. One must determine if a buying trip to the south would be worthwhile.

The feed costs $8 to $10 per hundredweight. With a conversion ratio of 1.2 to 1, each fish consumes approximately IV2 pounds of food. The cost of the food per fish is about 12 cents.

With fish purchased locally at 40 cents each and fed throughout the summer, a fish farmer has 52 cents per fish invested, not counting the time it takes to feed them. Buying southern fish saves 30 cents apiece.

The marketable fish are sold either alive or dressed. Naturally, the price for dressed fish is much higher. In Nebraska, the market for such a product hasn't been opened yet, but the fish could be sold to individuals, restaurants, and supermarkets. The latter two would want them clean and ready for table preparation.

Another aspect for consideration is the number of cages to be placed in a one-acre pond. Approximately 1,000 caged fish can be raised per acre of water. These can be confined either in one large cage or a number of small ones. Overloading a pond can cause depletion of the oxygen supply and (Continued on page 58)

FESTIVAL of Color

PHOTOS... PHOTOS... PHOTOS! We've got lots and lots of photos. In fact, it sometimes seemed to be snowing photos.

NEBRASKAland's Festival of Color Photo Contest promoted such a tremendous response that the judging team was literally up to its elbows in excellent photography. And, the 1,300 entries from camera buffs proved both a joy and an agony.

"There were so many top-notch photos, with tremendous creativity and imagination, that we were really hard-pressed to pick a winner," commented Dick H. Schaffer, editor of the magazine and a member of the final judging panel.

But, a Grand Prize winner finally emerged. He is W. D. Walters of Lincoln, who captured the mystique of hunting with a mood shot of decoys on a mist-shrouded farm pond, 20 miles east of the capital city. Participating in the judging were Lou Ell, photography chief; Greg Beaumont, photo associate; jack Curran, art director; and Michele Angle, art associate. Entries came from all across Nebraska and as far away as California and Alaska.

For his effort, Grand Prize winner Walters wins a "perfect", 14-day, fly-drive vacation in Nebraska for himself and his family. First-place winners in the five categories garner spring or fall weekend holidays for themselves and their immediate families at the Nebraska state park of their choice. The five second place winners receive handsome, bound volumes of 1970 NEBRASKAland, while third-place winners receive two-year subscriptions to NEBRASKAland.

Prizes were contributed by the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission, Holiday Inn, Frontier Airlines, Hertz Capitol Rent-A-Car of Omaha, and BankAmericard.

NOTES ON NEBRASKA FAUNA. . . COYOTE

THE PROPER way to pronounce the name of Nebraska's most common wild canine is "ki-o-tee". The name came from the Aztec Indian word "coyotl", but was later reduced to the current Mexican-Spanish version. Canis latrans is the scientific name, and in Latin means "barking dog".

Coyotes are extremely dog-like and most closely resemble the domestic German shepherd. Some interbreeding of domestic dogs and coyotes occurs, and the resulting "coydogs" can be very difficult to separate from true coyotes. Some of the trouble encountered in identifying dogs from coyotes is due to the large variation in color within the species. Color ranges from nearly black to almost white. Sexes are colored alike and molting starts in early spring. The new fur is replaced gradually during the summer months, and the pelts are generally prime by the end of November.

The call of the coyote should be known to everyone who likes TV westerns or lives in rural Nebraska. It is a series of sharp barks or yipyaps which increases in power and pitch, then ends in a long squall. It is most commonly heard during the mating period and often builds from a single calling coyote to a full chorus. The sound carries two or three miles, and it is quite obvious that coyotes howl for pleasure as well as to communicate with others of their species.

Coyotes are travelers. The normal home range may be 25 to 30 miles in diameter throughout the year except when feeding young. During this period their territory usually does not exceed five miles. They are usually nocturnal but occasionally roam about during all hours. They can run up to 45 miles per hour for short distances and are good swimmers. Dens are used only during the period of raising young, and are usually remodeled from those dug by foxes, skunks, and badgers.

The height of the breeding season is late February and March. The gestation period varies from 58 to 63 days (domestic dogs take about 63 days), and the litters range from 2 to 12 with 5 to 7 being the average. The young are normally born in late April or May. They come out of the den for the first time at three weeks of age and are weaned when about eight weeks old. They learn to hunt between 8 and 12 weeks of age, and at this time the family leaves the den. Family ties are broken in late summer and early fall. Sexual maturity is generally reached during the second year in both sexes, although a few females breed when one year old.

Man is the most important predator of coyotes. Some are killed by dogs, deer, and other animals, but by and large, adult coyotes have few natural enemies.

Although coyotes kill some livestock and poultry, they are often blamed unjustly for the large amount of damage done to domestic stock by free-running dogs. It is generally believed from studies of stomach contents that damage to livestock is confined to individual coyotes which comprise about a quarter of the population. An extensive study in Nebraska that provided information from about 750 stomachs and 2,500 scats shows that coyotes depend mainly on rabbits, mice, and pocket gophers for most of their animal food. Surprisingly, wild plums, chokecherries, and sand cherries constituted a major food item in the summer and fall. The heaviest kill of domestic chickens occurred in loesstype land in the summer months. Cattle as a source of food was most important to coyotes in the Sand Hills. Although calves are reportedly killed by coyotes, most cow remains in stomachs and scats are probably carrion. Pheasants were an important food item in the loessial hills and plains but grouse were not noteworthy in the diet except in the severe winter of 1948 and 1949.

Aside from the conflict with man, the coyote is a valuable member of the wildlife community. It feeds on rodents and carrion and eats old, sick, or injured wild animals unfit to survive.

As a game animal, coyotes deserve special recognition. They are extremely smart and fast, and provide recreation that comes close to that provided by deer. Use of predator calls, dogs, and rifles from vehicles are aids used in the sport. Use of airplanes and snowmobiles give the hunters what should be called an "unfair advantage", and are frowned upon by more ethical sportsmen. Using all methods available, however, coyotes are next to impossible to exterminate. They can be held to a very low level but movement from one area to the next by the smart few maintains the population. The Indians used to pay the coyote a high compliment, saving coyotes would be the last animals alive after all else ceased to exist.

BIG WATER

This introductory article on fishing NEBRASKAland's big water is the first in a series of four being published in this March, and subsequent April, May, and June issues. The second deals with angling in the state's smaller reservoirs and larger natural lakes. The third takes sportsmen to smaller water bodies, farm ponds, and the Interstate lakes. The last includes tips for river and stream fishermen, all with the purpose of providing complete, up-to-date facts on this ever-popular sport in Nebraska, the state which offers some of the hottest inland action in the nation.

MIX LIBERALLY THE following ingredients: 4 1/2 pounds of scrappy smallmouth bass, 10 pounds of battling striped bass, 4 pounds of tasty crappie, a muskellunge pushing the 20-pound mark, 27 pounds of the toughest northern ever to hit a bait, two species of trout over the 11-pound mark, a 16-pound walleye, exotics like coho and Kokanee salmon, and 27 pounds of ancient sturgeon. Serve with a liberal limit on a year-round basis and you've got the recipe for 107,000 acres of the hottest fishing any state can offer-NEBRASK Aland's big waters.

To the piscator, big water connotes the big W's in fishing—white bass and walleye —but exotics like coho and Kokanee as well as the ever-popular and abundant catfish, bass, and panfish round out the bill of fare.

Fifteen reservoirs belong to the elite of Nebraska waters boasting 1,500 surface acres or more. In order, by decreasing size, these include: McConaughy, Lewis and Clark, Harlan County, Swanson, Sutherland, Johnson, Merritt, Sherman, Minatare, Medicine Creek, Branched Oak, Enders, Maloney, Red Willow, and Box Butte. This means well in excess of 100,000 acres for the boat-bound angler.

Say big water, say "dog day" bonanza, or say the gulls are in, and every ardent angler rigs up his white bass gear and heads for the state's leading producers of the prolific species. Nine of the 15 big waters are white-bass bonanzas, the fact being that this native fish has come into its own with the development of the large impoundments. A school fish offering fast action, the one-to-two-pound adults are good scrappers, excellent eating, and willing feeders much of the time.

During spring spawning runs, white bass are taken in large numbers at the upper ends of the major reservoirs and considerable distances up the feeder streams.

Trolling from boats is the name of the game to fish any part of the big waters for white bass. White Slabs, Kastmasters, and Spin-o-Kings are the artificials relied upon heavily by McConaughy anglers. Once schools are located, the boat merely drifts across the area repeatedly, reaping a rich harvest on each pass.

Spawning runs usually peak in early or mid-May and last only one or two weeks at the most. Hot imitations for fishing the feeder streams above the reservoirs are white or yellow jigs, silver spoons, and silver spinners. Once schools moving upstream are located, fish- ermen can usually work the group as it makes its gradual migration to fulfill its primeval urge. The action is often fast, with catches measured in hundreds of pounds.

From mid-June to October, admirers of this small bass gather at the reservoirs for the school, formed after their return from the spawning runs. The schools are now distributed over most of the lake. Trolling to locate the schools is standard procedure. Once located, spin-casting into the schools with any imitative artificial is productive. At Harlan County and McConaughy, the state's hot spots for white bass, anglers prefer the same lures used in trolling —the White Slab, Spin-o-King, and Kastmaster.

Generally, July and August are considered "dog days" for anglers. August white bass provide an exception to this generalization as the gulls begin their migration through to their destination south. Feeding heavily on gizzard shad congregated near the surface of the reservoirs, the gulls are the aerial counterpart of the white bass below, feeding on the shad in their own fashion. Following the Gull (see NEBRASKAland, December 1969) provides an accurate gauge of where the bass congregate. This productive form of fishing lasts as long as the gulls do their holdover stint on the reservoirs, usually ending in mid or late September. Yet, September and October provide some of the most productive white-bass fishing in the large impoundments for anglers who brave the cooling elements.

Lake McConaughy holds top honors in Nebraska as a white bass producer. In 1969 it came up with 23 of the 29 Master Angler Awards given for that species. Harlan County runs a close second, with Sutherland Reservoir and Lake Minatare also supporting large populations. The latter, along with Maloney, Swanson, Enders, Johnson, Box Butte, and Lewis and Clark reservoirs, are excellent white bass waters which receive comparatively little pressure, a boon to anglers who value that "away-from-it-all" atmosphere.

The second of the big W's, walleye, is perhaps the most consistently pursued fish on a year-round basis. While white bass are easy prey for even the greenest of anglers, the walleye is a quarry of the more sophisticated piscator. Walleye reward knowledgeable anglers with some of the best fishing and tastiest eating.

All 15 big-water impoundments contain walleye in substantial numbers, but 4 of the hottest spots for this tasty scrapper are McConaughy, Harlan County, Maloney, and Johnson reservoirs. Swanson and Medicine Creek impoundments are also consistently rewarding haunts for the wary walleye. Branched Oak Lake, the largest of the Salt Valley Lakes, was stocked in 1968 and should be a good provider of this species.

Trolling is the main method for taking walleye since the rig can be maintained at the desired depth while covering a great deal of water, an aid in locating the fish. Other techniques are drift fishing with minnows or using crayfish or minnows on a dropper rig cast from a boat, letting it fall to the bottom and leaving it there or crawling it along the bottom. Although the walleye is not ordinarily a worm feeder, the nightcrawler is a killer bait for it. Usually combined with a spinner or one or the popular flatfish, the crawler draped over the hooks is deadly. Casting is effective under special conditions. Walleye prefer to feed in water with temperatures ranging from 65 to 70 degrees. Warming water drives them to cooler areas.

Occasionally they sulk all day in deep, cool water, and then move into shallows at night to feed over sand and gravel. Casting spoons and plugs at that time provides rare sport.

Al Van Borkum, a concession operator at Lake McConaughy, recommends the following sequence of techniques, tackle, and territory for successful walleye anglers at that impoundment. "Beginning in early spring, about mid-April, large numbers of walleye are found spawning along the face of the dam or in other rocky areas. Spin-casting with jigs or spinners usually lures fish to creel. Fishing success with walleye reaches a peak shortly after spawning ends, about June 10. Boat fishing for walleye on Lake Mac starts at the west end of the lake, in Omaha Beach and Eagle Canyon areas. Spinners, Thin Fins, and color blades are effective artificials. Worms also bring results. As the season progresses, the walleye action moves eastward into the main part of the lake. By late July any part of the lake may be productive with Kelly Canyon a late-July and an early-August hot spot. Mid-September to mid-October provides excellent walleye fishing in the middle third of the lake using various jigs, spinners, and slabs."

For walleye at Harlan County Reservoir and the other big waters the pattern is the same as at McConaughy. Spawning begins at the dam when the water temperature reaches approximately 42 degrees. Spinning outfits rigged with Thin Fins and Rapalas yield large dividends. Two or three weeks after spawning, the walleye move to the middle of the lake. June is the prime month, and trolling in mid-lake is the best advice.

A close study of temperature, bottom contour, and daily fish movement in a given water area is of great importance for consistent walleye success.

Sauger, the look-alike and catch-alike cousin of the walleye, can be taken by employing the same means enlisted to get walleye. Sauger have a limited range in Nebraska. Their stronghold is the Missouri River, especially below Gavins Point Dam and in the impoundment above, Lewis and Clark Lake.

Sauger and walleye are probably the biggest attractions at Lewis and Clark, but they are not the only ones. From late March to the end of April, sauger are the centers of attention, especially in the upper portions of the lake. Minnows are the big guns for bait fishermen, while jigs are the preferred artificials. Boat fishing for sauger has distinct advantages, but shore fishing can prove equally productive. White jigs worked along rocky ledges and bottoms are deadly in the hands of experts, while the old reliable minnow is rewarding for tinhorn or angling ace alike.

Lunker-size rainbow trout in sizes unknown to stream fishermen await the rod enthusiasts at several big-water reservoirs. Far beyond all others is Big Mac. Of 508 Master Angler Awards given in 1969, 475 were for fish taken within the banks of Mac. That means 475 trout running five pounds or bigger. The state-record rainbow also comes from Nebraska's largest impoundment at a hefty 12 pounds, 8 ounces. Two other reservoirs are of interest to fishermen in pursuit of lakebound rainbow —Box Butte and Merritt reservoirs.

Fishing for lunker trout at these man-made lakes follows a similar game plan. Beginning in early spring just after the ice is gone, trolling is best. Thin Fins or pearl Flatfish are top artificials. Run these at various depths to locate the temperature zones the trout are frequenting. Beginning in June and extending to the end of August, the eastern third of the lakes near the dams are the places to hit. Fishing deep areas of cool water is the rule during summer. Use up to 13 ounces of weight or lead-core line to keep your offering down deep where the trout are cooling their fins. The period from Labor Day to mid-October offers some of the best trout fishing. Troll the middle of the lakes at high speed. Artificials to use include Thin Fins, Speed Shad, or other bait-fish imitations. Pearl, silver, and gold, or those closely imitating the naturals are the most productive.

While 85 to 90 percent of the fishing at Mac is from power boats, there is hope for the diligent bank fisherman. Ed Gregory, a resident of Ogallala and an avid trout enthusiast, fishes exclusively from the bank, and in just the past year or two has landed nine rainbows in the five-pound-plus class. Most were in the seven-to-eight-pound range, with his record at nine pounds, seven ounces. He expounds the virtues of late-fall fishing, beginning in November, and his record seems to 51 MARCH 1971   bear him out. His rigging is basic, consisting of a spinning outfit topped off with a Mepps or Thin Fin.

Fishing the shallow bays near the dam, Ed expressed the following views on McConaughy rainbows:

"I've seen a hundred or more trout swimming in the bay I fish that would top the state record. There are 20-pounders in there, I believe. I never eat any fish I catch, but it sure is sporty pulling those lunkers out of there, especially when on a retrieve you accidently hook one of those busters in the tail. They sure do kick up a storm/'

In the flurry of talk about trophy fish and hot spots, don't overlook some of the best fish these waters offer— the "whiskered wonder" or channel catfish. Each of Nebraska's 15 big-water impoundments contains large numbers of these scaleless scrappers. Like other fish species, the cats have fishing-success peaks. But unlike the others, catfish angling is productive almost anytime sportsmen can bear the weather. During sizzling hot weather or just after the ice melts, this denizen of the deep offers challenge.

All types of rigs and baits are used on catfish. Everything from a cane pole to the most elaborate outfits take them. Holing up in the deeper areas during daylight hours, the channel cat frequents the shallows to feed in the evening hours, and fishing techniques should be selected accordingly.

Catfish concentrations follow a pattern in most of the reservoirs. Best bet in March and April, just after the ice breaks, is the upper end. During May, the upper third of the lakes harbor the bulk of the cats. From June to early winter cats are more or less evenly distributed throughout the entire lake.

Baits vary and all are productive, but some of the favorites on these reservoirs are shad guts, shrimp, and worms. As the season progresses and the lake warms, whole shad, crayfish, toads, frogs, and prepared baits are good producers.

Late-fall fishing is excellent for catfish in most of these areas, but is often overlooked. Jug fishing is popular on many of the big waters.

Bass, both largemouth and smallmouth, are consistent challengers across the state. Available in the larger reservoirs, they are often passed over for more predictable game fish.

Artificial lures are extremely popular for bass fishing— spoons, spinners, and surface and underwater plugs. Pork rind and molded-plastic imitations can also be good bass-getters.

Live bait like minnows, worms, and crayfish are extremely good, and the fly fisherman armed with popping bugs is often successful.

Largemouths begin to frequent the shallows early in June when spawning begins. Shallow-running plugs, spinner-bucktail combinations, and weedless spoons are the ticket here.

For summer success, try this timetable. Daybreak finds a bass lying in the shallows in perhaps six inches of water. As the day warms, he works toward the protection of weed beds and deeper water, resting during the hottest part of the day in 10 to 15 feet of water, depending on the temperature. As evening nears, he returns to the shallows to feed. Tailor your choice of lures and baits to those areas and feeding habits.

The smallmouth bass is largely under-harvested in much of Nebraska. Jack Johnson, assistant recreation area manager at Lake McConaughy, recommends the lake's southeast corner for smallmouth bass and the first half mile west of the south end of Kingsley Dam is the habitat of these scrappy fighters when they are spawning in May. Spinners have proved most efficient on these aggressive feeders.

Merritt Reservoir 20 miles south of Valentine is a hot spot for bass. Boardman Bay on the south side is a dependable area. Submerged trees taunt anglers but reward those with patience and skill to maneuver their offerings among the obstacles. Rugged rigs with weedless hooks are a great aid in this area.

Two of the big waters which regularly contribute to the growing bulk of Master Angler Awards for bass are Red Willow and Medicine Creek reservoirs. Rubber worms, Mepps spinners, and Rapalas are the most common charmers.

Dave Lewis, a University of Nebraska agronomy instructor in Lincoln, has fished Branched Oak Reservoir near Raymond since it began to fill and has consistently succeeded on the lake's prospering population of bucketmouths. Most of his keepers average in the three-to-four-pound class. A young impoundment, Branched Oak promises to be one of eastern Nebraska's finest.

Dave has a special preference for the Lazy Ike lure, since on the nrst few times out with it he caught 21 bass. After it fell victim to weed patches, his second Ike produced 23 bass, and since then he has used this type almost exclusively.

An exception to most successful anglers, Dave offered specifics on his best areas. "My best fishing has come before the first of May. During this period I favor the south branch of the creek, where it widens into the reservoir. The narrow, but deep arm reaching south near the boat dock produces consistently."

Fishermen with a more exotic pursuit in mind can visit big Lake McConaughy to match wits with some of its newer residents. A Kendall, Kansas couple made one such excursion last summer and took home a new Nebraska fishing record. Hoisted from the lake was a 10-pound, 1-ounce striped bass, not to mention 3 slightly smaller members of the same species tipping the scales in the 5-pound-plus class. Just coming into its own in the big water, the striper will, this summer, chart its own course as it reaches reproductive age.

Coho and Kokanee salmon round out the bill of fare for exotics at McConaughy. Both these members of the trout family are usually taken by anglers in pursuit of rainbow trout but may soon come of age as game fish in numbers sufficient to receive individual attention.

Compensating in abundance for their lack of stature are the prolific panfish of the big-water res- ervoirs. Let it be said that panfish are plentiful and are taken annually in large numbers in shallow bays and inlets of the big waters.

The state record crappie, for example, was landed by Delmer Butler of Sidney at McConaughy, and tipped the scales at 3 pounds, 15 ounces. It takes a mighty big frying pan to hold almost four pounds of what used to be fighting fury.

Boatmen's paradise and Master Anglers' mecca, the big waters of Nebraska offer some of the most productive fishing areas anywhere. A mixed and heavy creel awaits anglers who take up the challenges of fishing in Nebraska.

Next month NEBRASKAland Magazine goes to the smaller reservoirs and Sand Hills lakes - the land of big bass and hefty northerns.

BUCKSKIN BUNNIES

commercial rigs available, but cost is frequently out of sight and authenticity is often questionable. So, making them at home is the ticket for these two. Ihm had made both weapons in use on their hunt and each hunter considered his Pennsylvania-Kentucky rifle a showpiece. Their practical use was the important thing in the field, though.

In good seasons, it isn't unusual to drive down a secluded trail and spook rabbits right and left. But as Bill and Dick headed into the back country on the north side of Wagon Train Lake, things looked bleak. There was neither hide nor hair of hare. The gloom of another unsuccessful jaunt settled over the hunters. Stopping in mid-trail near the end of the lake, they broke out their gear once again.

"Let's angle north, then swing west and sweep back through the draws to the edge of the lake," Dick offered. "That way, if we do spook a bunny, we'll get him into the open country on either side of the hollow."

"That's alright with me," Bill obliged as he planted his wig again. He had doffed the hairpiece for the trip and was getting back into character. He also got a mouthful of pigtail in the process.

Temperatures were barely into the mid-teens when the pair ambled off the high ground and began to work the winding erosion ditches. At first, things were about as exciting as a one-man town on Sunday night. Then Ihm, working the high ground, froze.

"There's one hopping along that fencerow above me," he called. "You move up here and I'll try to drive him down to you."

Dick complied and Bill moved off up the hill, his eyes glued to where he had last seen the longear. Alert to every move, he looked like his pioneer predecessors as he stalked his prey. Silently, he slipped along the rim of the hill, rifle at the ready. But if there were a bunny at all, he was long gone by the time the hunter got to his stomping grounds.

"I'd sure hate to live on what we shoot," Bill quipped as he rejoined his companion. "We might as well move on down the draw and swing back to the lake."

The rest of the drive was fruitless as the pair tromped through some of the roughest brush the entire area had to offer before emerging beside the frozen impoundment. But Ihm wasn't about to give up and as Dick stood gazing across the ice, he doubled back to the car and began shaking down a hedgerow above the vehicle.

There are a couple of bunnies in here and a heck of a lot of sign," his call echoed across the lowlands.

Dick, moving almost before the last words reached him, was poking around in the brush in a matter of moments. At first things were slow. Rabbit runs confirmed the tiny rodents' presence, but finding them was something else again 54 NEBRASKAland as Dick began working his way up the row, poking here and there, then moving on only to plunge into the thorn thicket once more. Bill was standing in a clearing behind his partner when the bunny broke and ran.

The twitchynose faltered for a moment, probably doubting that any human would have gall enough to disturb him, then took off like a shot.

"One coming out," Ihm yelled as he unlimbered his smoke pole and began to follow the blurred target. By the time he got the shot off, the bunny was almost on the muzzle and the ensuing cloud of smoke completely engulfed him as he tumbled in the bordering brome.

"That's one," Bill announced his success. Then, as proudly as a kid with his first kill, he stalked up to where Dick was standing. His take was a plump youngster, but the prospect of more bunnies in the bush put the damper on much jubilation. And, after the ceremony of priming his front-loader, Bill hustled off down the row, planning to drive any rabbits around into his waiting companion's sights.

On a cold morning there isn't much that slows a man down, and Ihm was cutting a pretty steady gait when the second cottontail hurtled from the row. Running straight away, down the path ahead of the hunter, the bobbing tail made a top target and Bill snapped off a shot. Ducking under the smoke, he saw the longear go down, rolling almost as fast as he had been running. But the puffball hardly hit the ground before he was running again, cutting back into the thicket.

A blast and Bill's, "That's two," caught Dick's attention, but through the maze of undergrowth it was hard to pinpoint the action. A plume of smoke rising in the east soon remedied his directional indecision and soon he was probing the brush on his side of the row.

"You sure you hit him?" he shouted to Ihm.

"Either that or he stumbled," came the surly reply.

Dick was combing the south side of the thicket when Bill let out with a yelp.

"He's coming through! Get him!"

Scratch! Pfffft! Bam! Dick's charcoalburner belched out a cloud of smoke and shot. Ducking under the haze so he could see his target, Hedges chalked up his kill amidst the stench of burning powder.

"Now THAT'S two," he yelled. "I don't know if he's the one you chased in here or not, but he made the fatal mistake of looking back as he came through from your side. He was so close that if it weren't for the shot in him, I bet he'd have suffocated in the powder smoke."

The hedgerow branched right and left from that point, so the pair divided and walked out each section, to no avail. Where there were two bunnies, though, there might be more, so they decided to stomp the brush on the way to the van.

Dick was working the north side on the way back and was edging out ahead of Bill when the latter announced another bunny with a blast.

"Get him?" Hedges queried as he backtracked to get in on the action. When he arrived at the spot, Ihm was beating the brush.

"Nope, but keep an eye open, he may be headed your way."

Dick waded into the thorns to head off the fleeing target, but when there was no sight of him by the time Bill finished reloading, they moved on up the row together.

Then it was Dick's turn to break the silence. Ihm was a few paces back and across the hedgerow when the call came.

"Back up," Dick commanded.

'What for?"

There's a bunny in there."

Where?"

"Right between us. Back up."

y.K. I'm clear."

"He's gone now, but he's coming your way," Dick directed.

Bill moved just in time to see the fuzzball drop over a small bank right into his sights. Blam!

"Get him?"

"That's three."

Bill's second bunny of the morning fell in the thick of the thorns and by the time the modern mountain man managed to retrieve him, the sun was nudging noon. When pushing out the rest of the growth proved a washout, the duo decided to break for lunch. Scorning the frontier tradition of eating what was shot, they opted for a meal in town rather than roast bunny on the range.

Over the table, Dick and Bill decided to return to Wagon Train Lake to work the other side. But by 2:30 they gave up the task, deciding to scour another Salt Valley Lake near Kramer, some 16 miles southwest of Wagon Train.

The drive to Teal Lake took some of the edge off the day's activities. Working heavy brush is hard work and when a hunter is wearing buckskins and battling temperatures, it's worse. Maybe that's why the last stop took on such a lackluster tone. And the absence of bunnies didn't help any. So, by late afternoon, the two packed their three bunnies, piled into the van, and headed for home.

A brilliant December sun was balanced on shadowed hills as they drove toward Lincoln. At the end of day, they settled back, smug in the fact that they had a secret. While the rest of the world went by, Dick Hedges and Bill Ihm had turned back time to an era when men lived by their wits and ate what they shot. That's satisfaction.

GRAPPLING CHAMPS

helm as head coach to guide the Indian matmen. Benning's success as wrestling commander at UNO has been nearly phenomenal. In his first season as chief, Benning coached his grapplers to a 5-6 season record and sent team member George Crenshaw to the NAIA 167- pound National Championship title. With a national champion wrestler, already a small beam of the country's limelight focused on the school. This beam was destined to grow and grow.

A native Omahan, Benning had a goal. Most all coaches share his goal, but few make the grade. Benning wanted, quite simply, to be No. 1. Putting his nose to the grindstone, he wasted little time in laying the foundation for a championship squad. He recruited top-notch highschool wrestlers and instilled in them a burning desire to win. Benning says that he was just lucky, but those in the business know better.

When the 1964-65 and 1965-66 seasons were completed, the Indian wrestlers were ahead of the game in wins. This in itself was a terrific accomplishment. Then, in the 1966-67 season, Coach Benning and his squad made their presence as a wrestling school felt nationally. That year, the Indians registered 10 wins, 3 losses, and 1 draw. The school has been (Continued on page 59)

Where to go

LEGENDS UPON legends have evolved from the mysterious circumstances which surrounded the death of Hiram Scott. No one knew for sure how he died. On the other hand, a few men may have known but didn't tell.

History has been so obscured in this particular instance that the only certain facts remaining are: 1, that Scott was part of a trapping expedition in 1828, the year he died; 2, that Scotts Bluff National Monument is named after him.

The Oregon Trail Museum at the base of the bluff houses records about Scott, but they are scant because he was a relatively insignificant person. In fact, his only real claim to fame is that his name remained. Many other men died alone in the western wilderness. The only difference is that there may have been a bit of skulduggery in Scott's case.

Whatever happened makes no difference to most tourists today. Scotts Bluff is a place of unusual, natural beauty, visited annually by thousands of scenery seekers who care little about legends. But for history buffs, material about Scott's mysterious death provides pleasant pastime.

Almost no two stories are identical, but the first published account was written by Washington Irving in 1837. His theory is a flashback contained in the adventure story of a captain on leave from the United States Army.

According to Irving, Scott was part of a trapping expedition traveling downstream on the North Platte River in 1828, when the canoes suddenly tipped. All powder the trappers carried was spoiled, leaving them with useless rifles on which they had depended for hunting game. They continued east, eating wild roots and fruits along the way. But then Scott took sick and the party came to a halt. While searching for food later that day they discovered a fresh trail apparently left by white men only a few hours before. What should they do? They might overtake the party and thus reach a settlement safely. Should they linger, they might all perish from starvation or exhaustion. Scott was incapable of moving, and his companions were too weak to carry him.

They determined, therefore, to abandon Scott to his fate. Accordingly, under pretence of seeking more food, they deserted him and took to the trail. They succeeded in overtaking the party, but concealed their faithless desertion of Scott, alleging that he had died of disease.

"The ensuing summer," Irving wrote, "these very individuals visiting these parts in company with others came suddenly upon the bleached bones and grinning skull of a human skeleton, which by certain signs they recognized for the remains of Scott. This was 60 miles from the place where they had abandoned him, and it appeared that the wretched man had crawled that immense distance before death put an end to his miseries." Ever since the discovery of those bones, Scotts Bluff has borne his name in memory of the misfortune.

Another account, told by Warren Ferris of the American Fur Company, included similar circumstances. But in this case, Scott —still sick— was placed in a bullhide boat. Two men were supposed to take him to safety from the wilderness in which they had been trapping.

Again the men ran out of food and their rifles were rendered useless in some mysterious way, and again poor Scott was left behind to die.

The legend is mentioned in almost every journal kept by pioneers who passed Scotts Bluff along the Oregon Trail, but there are many variations concerning the distance he crawled, if any, and whether he died of disease, starvation, drowning, exposure, or fell victim to Indians. Whether his death was premeditated has also become a matter for speculation.

And finally, there is always the possibility that the bones found there were not Scott's remains at all, and that the whole story is a hoax. A definite answer will never be known. But there is no doubt these melancholy tales add haunting beauty to the surrounding terrain. Scotts Bluff is a promontory rising 800 feet from the valley floor on the south bank of the North Platte River three miles west of Gering and five south of Scottsbluff. Mists often hover close to the ground, causing the bluff and other rock projections to pierce upward through the shroud.

The Visitor Center (museum) contains exhibits telling the story of westward migration along the Oregon Trail and recalls the bluff's importance as a trail 57 MARCH 1971   mark. Paintings by William Henry Jackson, pioneer photographer and artist, are on display, and in the Landmark Room, the area's geological formations are explained. In the Oregon Trail Room the difficulties pioneers faced come to life.

The Saddle Rock self-guiding nature trail extending one and three quarters of a mile from the Visitor Center up to the summit parking area offers the best way for understanding the monument's natural history. It is a firmly surfaced path, easy to walk because of its many switchbacks. You can hike it either way, but the easiest is to go down, since the summit can also be reached by paved road.

The north promontory of Scotts Bluff has an observation point which offers a panoramic view of the North Platte Valley. From there you are able to trace the Oregon Trail's route and see Chimney Rock 25 miles east if the weather is clear.

Other noteworthy sites within the area are Dome Rock, Eagle Rock, Crown Rock, Coyote Pass, Mitchell Pass, Sentinel Rock, and the Jackson Campsite, where Jackson first arrived in 1866.

Whatever your interest, be it history or scenery, a trip to this monument at the western end of the state, administered by the National Park Service of the U.S. Department of the Interior, is certainly worthwhile.

Another historical place, although it is reminiscent of an entirely different aspect in Nebraska's history is the Kennard House in Lincoln. It was the home of Thomas Perkins Kennard, Nebraska's first Secretary of State in 1867, who was largely responsible for choosing Lincoln as the site of the State Capitol rather than placing the seat of government in some other city.

This was one of the first problems facing the State of Nebraska Legislature when it was established in 1867. Meeting in Omaha, Nebraska's territorial capital from 1854 to 1867, the legisla- ture picked three men to make the decision - Governor David Butler, Auditor John Gillespie, and Kennard. These three commissioners, largely because of the persuasion of Kennard, selected Lincoln as the site on July 29 of that year.

The first State Capitol was completed in 1869. While Butler and Kennard lived in it, three other houses were built nearby for the three commissioners. Of these structures, only one remains. Kennard occupied it until 1887, when his wife died. Later it was used as a boarding house, fraternity house, and residence at various times. It is believed to be the oldest building within the original plan of Lincoln.

In 1965 the State Legislature designated the house as the "Nebraska Statehood Memorial", and instructed the State Historical Society to restore it. The house has been refurbished to represent the home of a moderately well-to-do family in the late 1870's. Furniture associated with leading state politicians has been used, and restoration has been designed not to honor any specific city, family, or individual, but to memorialize Nebraska's statehood.

Located at 1627 H Street, half a block southeast of the State Capitol, it is open Tuesday to Saturday each week from 9 a.m. to 1 p.m. and from 2 to 4 p.m. Sundays it is open from 2 to 5 p.m. Guided tours can be arranged by calling the State Historical Society.

Here, then, are two attractions in NEBRASKAland located at opposite ends of the state, one for scenery buffs, the other for political-history enthusiasts, both for the enjoyment of all who take time to see them.

CATFISH FARMER

a fish kill results. Oxygen depletion and disease are the two biggest problems one must contend with.

In stocking, the number of fish in a cage is also important. It has been proven by other studies that fish best survive when stocked at a density of 100 to 150 fish per cubic yard. Less than that leads to territorial instincts and peck orders, two factors which cause mortality.

Based on 1,000 fish in a cage, a profit estimate is possible. Harvest under normal conditions is at least 900 fish averaging VA pounds live weight. Selling the fish live yields 60 cents a pound. These fish represent a cash value of $810. To purchase 1,000 fish and feed for one season costs approximately $500. This leaves a margin of roughly $300 for labor. If these fish are purchased in a southern state the investment is only $230, not counting travel expenses. This leaves a profit margin of $580 per acre of water.

These dollar figures sound very impressive, but there are a few things to remember. During the 160-day growing season it is imperative that the fish be fed every day. This means no free weekends or vacations without finding someone to take care of the feeding responsibility. To the novice, disease is a hazard. He must be able to recognize disease characteristics and know what treatment steps to take. Undetected disease in a cage can eliminate the entire crop.

To sell the fish requires a private hatchery permit from the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission at a cost of $20 a year. The permit need not be purchased until sale time.

These are the findings. They point to an entirely new area of production where the possibilities have yet to be fully explored in Nebraska. So, at some time in the future when you ask a person what his occupation is, don't stop when he tells you he's a farmer. Investigate further. He might be a catfish farmer.

Outdoor Calendar

GRAPPLING CHAMPS

improving to the point where they now stand as National Champions.

Winning seasons, as can only be expected, are accomplished by outstanding personnel. UNO is no exception to the rule. In the past three seasons, the Indians have produced an incredible seven National Champions. UNO wrestler Roy Washington earned national championships in 1968, 1969, and 1970. And, Roy's younger brother Mel is also a champion grappler, having won his 177-pound divisional championship in 1969 and has been a great competitor and a real crowd pleaser this season. Bernie Hospodka garnered national championship distinction in 1970 and Wendell Hakanson in 1968. The list goes on to include Curlee Alexander who captured first place nationally in 1969 and is now a graduate assistant to coach Benning.

In molding UNO's wrestling program into champion status, Coach Benning has garnered a number of outstanding recognitions himself. In 1969, his fellow wrestling coaches selected Benning as NAIA Wrestling Coach of the Year. Then, in 1970, more laurels drifted over to the bench side of the fieldhouse when Benning was selected by the Omaha World-Herald and Lincoln Journal-Star newspapers as the Nebraska "Coach of the Year." Benning is also past president of the NAIA Wrestling Coaches Association.

Wrestling is an exciting athletic sport that draws enthusiasm from all walks of life. Girls, too, are included in UNO's wrestling program. The gals have organized a female counterpart to the wrestling squad. The "Pin-Ops" as they call themselves, number about 20 and are an officially organized wrestling auxiliary formed to promote interest in wrestling and to promote the sport throughout the Omaha community. The charm-laden girls are always on hand to cheer the team on, clad in brilliant red uniforms. Membership is open to all interested coeds.

Fans are an exceptional asset to the Omaha matmen. Devoted, to say the least, the cheering segment of the wrestling picture follows the team faithfully, which includes a journey to far-away North Carolina. Once there, the fans will try to boost the UNO Indians to another NAIA National Championship.

A quiet, reserved, and sturdily constructed man, Coach Benning knows wrestling and unquestionably knows how to put together a winning squad.

"He works the boys hard. He demands an awful lot from them," says UNO Sports Information Director Fred Gerardi. Fred goes on to explain that "Coach Benning has a training program all his own. It's a plenty hard one, too. But, the kids have super respect for him. Takedowns and wrestling from stand-up starts are probably Don's team's best known and feared qualities. Don always shoots his kids a square deal. They all work hard and when the time comes for the referee to start a match, you can just see the desire to win in each boy's eyes. And, usually they put it all together for those wins."

Wrestling is a booming sport across the nation. Long thought of as a very secondary competitive athletic sport, it is coming on like "gang busters". High schools and colleges, not only in Nebraska but throughout the country, are tak- ing an increased interest in the sport.

Modern-day amateur wrestling, however, is to be in no way confused or even remotely compared with today's professional wrestling, or "rassling", as sports writers have dubbed the slam-bang sport. Amateur wrestling differs from rassling in so many ways that the two are about as comparable as football and basketball. About every hold that contemporary pros apply to their opponents are barred from amateur wrestling, according to Fred.

Cost factors are important attention getters for high schools as well as colleges when instating wrestling on their athletic agendas. The cost is low. In comparison to football, where costs run comparatively high and even to basketball, another expensive sport, wrestling programs cost a school much less. Only limited space is required and equipment is nominal.

Often described as an "anybody" sport, wrestling (Continued on page 62)

Roundup and What to do

RIDING HIGH on the winds of March are many activities in Nebraska, ranging from the onset of horse racing in Grand Island to the close of hockey season in Omaha. Racing starts at Fonner Park March 19, and the Omaha Knights play their last game on home ice March 23. But within the range of these different spectator sports is a bountiful supply of fun to keep everyone happy.

Although NEBRASKAland Magazine's March hostess Susan Nelson, enjoys being a spectator, she has not forgotten the forthcoming joys of summer. During this in-between month, her favorite recreation — swimming — is confined to indoor pools.

Daughter of Mr. and Mrs. K. E. Nelson of 5041 Lake Street in Omaha, Susan is a music-major and psychology-minor student at Hastings College. Before transferring to Hastings, she was crowned Miss University of Nebraska at Omaha. She was also first runner-up in the Miss NEBRASKAland Pageant last summer, and third runner-up for Miss Nebraska. Her favorite hobbies, in addition to swimming, are skiing and playing the piano. She plans to teach music in the future.

One highlight for approximately 3,500 Lincoln junior and senior-high-school students will be the Youth Festival of the Arts in Pershing Auditorium March 19 and 20. The event's twofold purpose is to acquaint adults with the musical program in Lincoln schools and to give young people an opportunity to enjoy group participation. Friday the emphasis will be on orchestral work; Saturday on choral singing.

With the Omaha Knights' hockey season ending, the team will play five games during the month, including their March 23 closer against the Kansas City Blues. These will be versus the Oklahoma City Blazers March 7, the Amarillo Wranglers March 14, the Dallas Blackhawks March 17, and the Tulsa Oilers March 20.

In basketball, the inter-city semifinals will take place in Lincoln's Pershing Auditorium March 3 to 6, and the State Basketball Tournament will be on tap March 11 to 13 in the University of Nebraska's Coliseum.

The Cornhusker Cagers meet Kansas State March 2 then end their regular season against Colorado March 6. Both games will be in Lincoln.

In addition to major stage productions in larger cities, the world of theater will extend to Nebraska's heartland as well. "Cactus Flower" will be presented March 11 to 13 by Norfolk's community theatrical group in the City Auditorium, and "Waiting for Godot" will be staged by the Hastings College drama department in the college's theater March 19 and 20.

The Lincoln Community Playhouse production in March will be "Under the Yum Yum Tree" (see listing for dates) with performances beginning at 8:30 p.m. Fridays and Saturdays, and 7:30 p.m. Sundays. The box office at 18th and L streets will open for reservations March 8. Tickets should be picked up the night of performance at least half an hour before curtain time.

In the field of music, baritone William Walker, backed by the Omaha Symphony Orchestra, will perform at Joslyn Art Museum March 8 and 9. A different type of sound will be heard March 13 when Blood, Sweat, and Tears will appear at Pershing Auditorium in Lincoln. The group's performance is part of their national tour. Tickets may be obtained at the auditorium box office.

While the annual Centennial Gun and Coin Show at Red Cloud March 20 and 21 is primarily designed for display of firearms, there will also be rock, Indianartifact, and antique collections on hand. Dealers are invited to set up booths for the two-day show, and a lot of buying and trading goes on. Anyone interested in guns should make it a point to attend this function.

March is the in-between period for hunters and fishermen, with most seasons closed. Some small species, however, will still be fair game at a time when spring breaks forth in the great outdoors. (See Outdoor Calendar, this issue for complete listing of hunting and fishing dates.)

For fishermen, renewed activity of some species begins in eastern lakes and rivers in March, although action on most fish does not peak until later in spring.

While hunting outdoors will not be in full swing, trap shooting will. The Annual Rocky Mountain Oyster Shoot at Bellevue will take place March 13 and 14, with approximately 250 sharpshooters expected for the event. The shoot offers all classes from A to D, both open and handicap.

And finally, who could ever forget that this is the month when Saint Patrick is honored. On March 17 green beer will flow and shamrocks will shimmer throughout the state wherever there is Irish blood. In O'Neill, Nebraska's Irish Capital, celebrations will start early so that residents and visitors alike will be in a mood befitting their culture to properly toast the old Father when the time comes. Bob Devaney, without a doubt Nebraska's most popular Irishman, will be the guest March 17, a fitting climax to several days of shenanigans beginning March 13.

With spring breaking forth, March will be the month of anticipation, but even though the summer schedule is still a few months away, there is a wide range of adventure and fun to be found in NEBRASKAland.

GRAPPLING CHAMPS

deals with 10 different weight categories; wrestling participants can tip the scales at 118 pounds or less. From there the sky is the limit. Wrestlers come in all shapes and sizes. They don't have to be particularly tall nor need they be hefty. The main requirements are enthusiasm and the desire to learn and win.

Wrestling is now a permanent "thing" at UNO and a rapidly growing sport in Nebraska. Everyone seems to love a winner, and winning definitely plays a leading role in the UNO Indians' wrestling picture. And, there's little doubt in anyone's mind that Coach Benning and his doggedly determined Indian matmen won't always be exerting 100-percent-plus effort to produce the win.

TWIN LAKES JONAH

outer edges. It was covered with a second growth of elm, cottonwood, and willow. There was a strong under story of lush, prairie grass beneath the trees and I guessed the place was a mosquito haven.

Twin Lakes are relatively shallow, so I was surprised at the clarity of the water and the absence of extensive weed growth. Only a few patches of moss and smartweed dotted the surface, and I could see why the lake was popular with fishermen who were tired of battling the underwater growth of the other Salt Valley lakes. The shoreline was jagged with little bays and coves. By studying the surrounding terrain, I got a pretty good idea of the lake's bottom topography.

Dick and C. W. had almost directly opposite personalities. The Emerald man was big and bluff and possessed great optimism, while C. W. was smaller, a bit more reserved, and had a droll sense of humor that was delightful. Both men shared a great love for fishing and had been friends for years.

I was about to ask a question when I noticed Dick studying his rod tip. He had left the rod propped against the gunwale, but his hands weren't very far from the butt as he waited. The tip danced a couple of times and then bowed in a sharp arc. The big fisherman pounced like a cougar after a chipmunk. His huge hands swept up the rod and swished it sideways with enough force to rock the boat.

"Got him," the Emerald farmer grunted, lifting his rod high. C. W. was already reaching for the net as his companion pulled the fish in fast to keep him out of the submerged brush. Dick held the fish up until C. W. had the net just right underneath, and then lowered the cat into its gaping maw.

"How's that?" the successful angler grinned, extracting a 21/2-pound cat from the entangled mesh. "Your hoodoo is slipping."

"You've still got six empty loops on that stringer. Fill them, then we'll see," I said.

While Dick strung the fish, I studied his rig. His rod was almost as heavy as a surf-casting rod and carried an openface spinning reel filled with 15-pound- test line. Two small hooks were suspended at right angles from a wire leader below a flat one-ounce, non-fouling sinker.

"I used to use one big hook but I lost a lot of fish, so I came up with this two-hook rig. Works, too, and keeps the bait on better," Dick explained, noting my interest in his tackle.

He rebaited and cast back to the same spot. A few minutes later he got a second strike and reeled in another channel cat, practically a twin to the first. Now, the two old-timers got after me.

"Thirty minutes and two fish. Where's that hoodoo?" C. W. wanted to know.

I had a quick defense. "I was studying the scenery and wasn't concentrating. Just wait!"

Four hours later, my companions were almost true believers. We tried a dozen different areas, many of them proven producers in the past, and never got even a bump. But Dick and C. W. aren't the type to give up easily.

"Can you go out tomorrow evening?" Dick asked as we stowed away our gear.

"No, but why don't you and your part- ner fish anyway and see if you catch anything? I'll see you the night after next," I countered.

The two lost no time telling me of their success of the night before when I rejoined them two evenings later. They had taken four fine cats in less than two hours.

We put everything we had into it that night and came up with one catfish and 62 NEBRASKAland he would have had to swallow a sash weight to make two pounds. After five hours of trying, even Dick was convinced there was something to my hoodoo business, but he wouldn't give up. To make matters worse, several other fishermen had had pretty good luck and most of them who knew my companions couldn't understand why we hadn't scored.

"Tomorrow?" Dick questioned as we came ashore.

"You bet," I promised

My jinx was a little tired that night. It relented just a bit and let the boys catch four nice cats, one a four-pound beauty the retired railroader took from the edge of the weed bed.

I'll always remember that night as the night of the mayflies. We had suspended a gasoline lantern from the gunwale and it attracted bugs by the dozens, but they were the ordinary night flyers that pester every fisherman. Then something must have triggered the mayflies. They came by the hordes, attracted to the death dealing light. Hundreds slammed into the hot globe and dropped into the water below but others settled on us, on the rods, and on every other bit of gear.

My rod was propped against the gunwale and scads of the big, soft-bodied insects landed on it. Its outlines were soon lost in the clinging mass and it became a grotesque scepter that pulsed and fluttered with eerie life. Finally, we couldn't take the onslaught any longer and headed in. Swarms of the big, whitewinged mayflies followed us like an ethereal pennant.

I figured that was it, but my companions were tough cookies. "Tomorrow is Sunday," Dick announced. "Let's test that hoodoo in the daytime."

I agreed on one condition. I knew that both men felt their angling reputations were at stake, and although it was illogical as all get out, I knew they were half convinced that there actually was something to this hoodoo bit.

My proposition was simple: "I'll scrounge up another boat and follow you, but I'm not going to ruin your sport any longer."

Then I caught myself. Heck, I was just about believing this hoodoo business myself. But I stuck to my earlier suggestion. Bright and early the next morning I was at the launching site, ready to follow the other two in another craft.

This was an all-out effort. Besides shrimp and smelt, we had chicken livers, night crawlers, big minnows, small minnows, and even some crayfish. We fished deep, we fished shallow, we fished weeds above, below, and beside. We fished coves, bays, points, rocks, and backwaters. We fished old spots and new. We fished and fished. We caught 1 fish in 11 hours. Again, other fishermen seemed to be having good luck.

Sunburned, half angry, dehydrated to the limit, and hungry as bears, we finally gave it up and came in.

"When you hoodoo, you hoodoo," Dick muttered, dragging our one bedraggled cat ashore.

I wanted to come back with the classic I-told-you-so rejoinder, but somehow it didn't seem appropriate. Dick is a heck of a lot bigger than I am.

INDIAN INCANTATIONS

their ceremonies in the best of faith. So, their costuming befitted their position. They usually wore distinctive dress of a buffalo robe with the hair cut off, a bear's claw necklace, and a beaver-skin cap. Charms or amulets consisted of tail and claws of a wildcat, badger, or bear, bear's ears, miniature pipes, and downy feathers attached to a bandolier of beads or seeds. Some were a gaming ring on their arm in place of the bandolier. A medicine bag completed the apparel.

The bag was usually made from a whole, tanned animal, and contained roots, paint, white clay, and other objects used in cures. These varied, but were often deer tails, leg bones and claws of eagles, human bones, dried fingers, and frequently the maw of a buffalo. The latter supposedly contained the life and soul of the buffalo and was considered quite valuable.

Methods of working cures varied with the nature of disease and the customs of the individual medicine man. One called for sucking a small stone from a patient—a feather or blood also worked. The object was then thrown into a fire to keep it from re-entering the patient's or anyone else's body. All the while, the medicine man shook his rattle over the patient. There are no records to indicate how often the remedy was successful, but most of today's medical men do not recommend it.

Whether the "cure" worked or not, the patient was expected to pay for the effort. Payment varied, depending on the wealth of the patient, but it might be a buffalo robe or fried meat. More often, though, it was a sack of corn or a few strands of dried, braided pumpkin.

With such a guaranteed income, many members of the tribe wanted to cash in on the business. But, there was a prescribed way to break into the ranks of the medicine man.

Each male was believed to be under the protection of some supernatural being. This was discovered when, as a youth, he fell ill. Several medicine men were called in, all of whom already knew their benefactors. The guardian of the medicine man who cured the youth was identified as the spiritual guardian. Then, if on reaching manhood, the patient wanted to become a medicine man, he had to seek to acquire the powers from his spiritual guardian. His avenues to becoming a medicine man were few. First, such powers might be granted directly from his guardian. On the other hand, and this was much more common, he applied to an established medicine man for training.

If the medicine man believed the request was sincere and he was willing to accept the gifts which accompanied it, he took the pupil to the next meeting of the medicine lodge. Far from being as simple as it sounds, the medicine lodge might last up to two months and the student was instructed in the secrets of his chosen profession throughout the time. Should the applicant be married, that was so much the better. The medicine man in charge took freely of the pupil's wife as part of his payment. And, if he felt so disposed, he could confer powers on her too. As time went on, though, the student began to learn the secrets of the medicine man's position.

Among his lessons were three basic supernatural powers. First, and most important, was the power to cure the ill. Next was the power to perform feats of magic. But probably the most feared and mysterious was the power of Pikawin. There is no English translation for this power, but it gave the medicine man the ability to subjugate the will of another to his own. Pikawin was likened to a bullet or arrow and the medicine man was supposedly able to throw this power into an enemy. The stricken foe was then under his attacker's power until another medicine man who knew the power was able to draw the spell off. This power was particularly prevalent in one class of the Pawnee. Recruited from the lower strata of the tribe, these were not true medicine men, yet they possessed the power of Pikawin and used it for evil. Little is known of these people, but they were disliked and scorned by the rest of the nation.

Supposedly, the training and function of the medicine man changed little from tribe to tribe and nation to nation. They were healers, and they were contacts with the supernatural world. Their works among the Omahas were much the same as those of their counterparts among the Pawnees.

Omaha medicine men were direct links with the supernatural. They could not, however, commune with the great spirit unless they withdrew from every- day life. They frequently secluded them- selves in the solitary silence of the desert or wandered about in the mountains and forests. There they listened to the voice of the mysterious one in the sighing of the wind through the trees and in the natural sounds of the region. They tried to fathom the secrets of nature which surrounded them, and they watched the sun, moon, and stars for signs which could be interpreted. At these times, his visions, thoughts, and dreams became sacred.

The learning process played a major role among the preparations of the Omaha medicine man as it did among the Pawnee. Requisites for one who would deal with the mysteries of the rites and ceremonies of the tribe had to be met before the medicine man coukl be allowed to perform them. First, and most important, was that he had to recognize the sanctity of human life. The man who was to mediate between the people and the supreme being had to stand before his tribesmen and the great spirit with hands unstained by the blood of his fellow men. He also had to be a man of truth. The great spirit manifested the value placed on truth in the regular movements of the heavenly bodies and in the ever-recurring day and night, summer and winter. His anger had to come slowly, for the patience of the great spirit was shown in his forebearance with man's waywardness. And, he had to deliberate and be prudent of speech. By haste, he might profane his trust through thoughtless utterances. So rigid were these requirements that among the Omahas, fathers sometimes refused to instruct their sons in the sacred rights because the boy's character lacked some of the essential parts. The honor and sanctity of office were paramount to mere paternal feeling. Once the character of a dedicated pupil was revealed, however, he was accepted into the fraternity of the medicine man and his duties to the tribe became among the most important of any tribal member.

Omaha medicine men dedicated children to the great spirit, much as modern ministers and priests baptize infants. He was the one to conduct the installation of chiefs. He called leaders to councils of war and conferred military honors on warriors. He appointed officers and en- forced order during the tribal buffalo hunts. And, in his all-seeing wisdom, he designated the time to plant maize. Despite his position, knowledge, and skill, the medicine man's life was not one of particular pleasure.

He was shrewd, crafty, and devoid of scruples. He held no public office in the tribe because his vocation often led him to stretching the truth. Although it was forbidden to lie in his efforts to become a medicine man, his cures and incantations frequently hinged on bending the truth at least a little. Intelligent classes held the medicine man in contempt and the ignorant feared him. He was a healer, he knew of human nature, and he wielded great power. But, all too often, he used his acumen solely for his own benefit.

Modern man knows little of the medicine man, for his day is gone. He no longer calls councils of war, nor do his remedies bring solace to the sick. But he is a mysterious reminder of the past — one whom men will always ponder and strive to define.

TRADING POST

OUTDOOR NEBRASKAland of the Air

Outdoor Elsewhere

Thwarted Escape. While failing to keep his rod in hand all the while, a California angler just happened to notice his fishing rig being pulled into the drink. The angler took immediate action, diving into the surf after the pole without bothering to remove his hat, pipe, or dark glasses. Before long the fellow surfaced with his rod, his pipe still clenched in his teeth, his dark glasses still in place, and a 24-pound corbina. His hat was floating nearby. — California

Trail Troubles. About 10 years ago, the St. Louis Order of the Arrow Boy Scouts developed a 26-mile hiking trail from Elephant Rocks near Graniteville to Johnson Shut-Ins State Park. Now, part of the trail has been closed in a cloud of exhaust fumes. Several miles of the trail cross private property and will be lost because of trail bike riders using the hiking road. The owners of the property have put up high fences and signs prohibiting entry, as a result of depredations to the property by the bike riders. — Missouri

Litter Compensation. Littering has taken on an all new beneficial aspect in Michigan. Under a new law, litterers can be sentenced up to three days of hard labor-picking up litter!{-Michigan

Quick Pollution Test. In what might first appear to be quite funny, but actually has little or no humor at all, the League of Ohio Sportsmen has figured how to get a quick reading of local water-pollution problems. The formula is to simply take a dime store goldfish and plop him in a bowl filled with water from your favorite fishing hole. If the goldfish dies within 12 hours you've got a problem. If it dies within 24 hours you've got a lesser problem. And, if it lives, you've got water from another planet. - Ohio