For the Record... NOISE ABOUT NOISE

The first wheel, it has been said, probably squeaked, and that was the beginning of noise pollution. Unwanted sound can be a pollutant. Like other pollutants, it makes the world we live in not only unpleasant, but also unhealthy.

We don't know what the per capita noise production is. But we do know it's going up. A widely quoted "intelligent guess" says that in United States cities, noise has increased about one decibel (db) each year for the past 25 years. (A decibel is the unit used to measure loudness.) The lowest sound that the best human ear can hear is one db. Leaves rustling in the wind measure about 10 db.

Dishwashers, air conditioners, drills, blaring car horns, and screaming sirens fill our homes and streets with noise. There is no escape. Even the once-silent wilderness now echoes to the noise of mini-bikes and snowmobiles. And, these noises are likely to mushroom if the SST (Supersonic Transport) goes into wide use. The controversial plane will fly faster than sound, and so will drag behind it that trail of ear-splitting, glass-shattering noise we call the sonic boom.

Most of us know that a sudden, very loud noise can cause temporary or permanent deafness. But until recently, few people realized that repeated exposure to noise at lower levels has the same effect. Studies show that spending 8 hours daily at an 85-db rate leads to hearing damage. It has been shown that citizens of noisy, industrial nations have far poorer hearing than those living in less-advanced and quieter countries.

Tests show that many American teens have a great deal of hearing loss. In some cases their hearing is no better than that of a 65-year-old. One of the causes may be amplified rock music, which has been metered at a thundering 120 db.

Noise doesn't affect just ears. A sudden loud noise makes the heart beat faster, increases blood pressure, and causes the pupils in the eyes to dilate. It can lead to heart attacks in persons who already have heart ailments.

In short, there is no doubt that noise can cause deafness, and there is some concern that it may lead to other physical damage. It is also costly when it reduces worker efficiency, or in the case of sonic booms, cracks windows and walls.

It is possible, though sometimes expensive, to reduce noise. (Someone already has invented a quiet jackhammer.) Getting co-operation is another matter. Laws can help, but so far there are very few laws about noise. And where there are laws, they are often ignored. New York City has laws against sounding auto horns and rules limiting city noise to 88 db. But these are rarely enforced, as any noise-frazzled New Yorker knows.

It seems that people will have to make noise about noise if we are to lower the decibel rate. But many still think of noise (as they used to think of air pollution) as a part of progress.

If the decibel level keeps going up at today's rate, we are told, we'll all be deaf by the year 2000. That's something of a scare statement. But there is a need to educate people, and to let them know that noise may be dangerous. That's what this is all about.

But can you hear me?

Speak up

THANK YOU - "Please convey my thanks and my congratulations to Carol Nelson of Wahoo for her poem on the inside back cover of the May NEBRASKAland.

"I read it the day the magazine came, and have read it several times since. In fact, I have just finished copying it into my notebook of poems I want to keep.

"I am a great-grandmother and can visualize the things Carol mentioned because my mother was a small girl living in Indian country. She told of Indians around her Sidney home peering through windows and wanting something to eat.

"I could never put thoughts into words as Carol has done, so I want my grandchildren to read this poem. I think it is part of their heritage." —Mrs. Ruth L. Buettner, Grand Island.

FANTASTIC PHOTOGRAPHY - "Felicitations for your article Chronicle of Change in the February 1971 issue of NEBRASKAland.

"As a Frenchman who is a western writer, I appreciate articles about the Old West.

"I like the photos which illustrate the article. The old ones made by William H. Jackson and the new ones by Lou Ell are fantastic. I like the comparison and illustration of the change of nature." — George Fronval, Paris, France.

WRONG CITY-"The photo on pages 38 and 39 of the April issue of NEBRASKAland (Electric Elusion) is printed backward and is not a picture of the Omaha horizon, but is a shot of the combination bridge between Sioux City, Iowa, and South Sioux City. The picture was taken from the Iowa side of the Missouri River facing southeast." —William P. Hamann, Jr., Winnebago.

The photo was printed in reverse for technical and visual reasons. There are no excuses for the inaccurate caption save the slip of the typewriter, however. — Editor.

NOT FOR ME —"Please do not renew my subscription. I find that NEBRASKAland slants too much toward hunting and fishing and to the western end of Nebraska.

"Having lived in the eastern end of the state, I would have appreciated stories and pictures about Omaha, its business, history, parks, etc; the capitol and University of Nebraska; Arbor Lodge, of nation-wide fame; farms and towns of eastern Nebraska. Most all of your stories and pictures had a way of ending up in western Nebraska, not that I didn't enjoy them — but why not eastern Nebraska?

"A large percentage of your stories, pictures, etc., featured hunters and fishermen. I prefer to look at living animals and fish and birds that live in Nebraska. I very much dislike viewing the trophies of hunters and fishermen.

"As you can see, the magazine is not for me — not for the present time at least." —Emily J. Johnson, Seattle, Washington.

GUNNING FOR GUNS- I'm tired of reading and hearing some people complaining about United States' citizens' possession of guns. There are plenty of us with our normal quantity of horse sense who are well aware that there is a minority in our country that would like to see our nation disarmed for a very easily seen reason.

"Part of this faction may think the rest of the citizens are a bunch of idiots, but we are smart enough to know propaganda when we hear it. Of course, it is possible that some of these complainers are not conspirators, only uninformed do-gooders.

"As for the number of deaths caused by guns, Bruce B. Johnson of East Lansing, Michigan, whose letter appeared in the May Speak Up, mentioned 20,000 deaths and 200,000 injuries. He did not, however, mention how many of these deaths were of innocents and which were those of criminals or would-be criminals. He also ignored the fact that those who are criminally inclined use guns since they are available, but, lacking guns, would commit their deeds with other weapons

"The writer also failed to mention the fact that (Continued on page 12)

NEBRASKAland

DAREDEVIL HERO

ROARING POWER BOATS knifed the mirror-like surface of Crystal Lake while picnickers, Sunday strollers, and loafers flocked together on the shore. The myriad outdoor activities during this particular June Sunday in 1970 typified those of any warm, summer day at the lake four miles west of South Sioux City.

About 3 o'clock that afternoon, boat traffic was heavy on the 60-acre lake, and Wally Beerman of Dakota City pointed his rugged, inboard craft toward Lik-U-Wanta Beach. A celebrity of the water set, Wally is extremely aware of water safety. Whenever boat traffic is heavy, he beaches his craft in favor of shoreline activities until things quiet down. One of a rare and courageous breed, Wally is a daredevil. His specialty is soaring through the air, swinging from a flying kite. The scary looking rig, which takes him as high as 150 feet above the water, is 16 feet long and 12 feet wide, and made of paper-thin material.

Thousands have witnessed his extraordinary aerial feats. Each summer he thrills spectators at the Rivercade Celebration between South Sioux City and Sioux City, Iowa, on the bulling Missouri River.

This time, Wally was just boating and plunged into a vigorous volleyball game minutes after beaching his craft. Several water skiers were skimming across the lake when suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, Wally saw one of them hit the surf. There was, of course, nothing unusual about a skier taking a fall, but this one slammed the surface hard. Wally focused full attention on the mishap and, as the wake died, noticed the victim motionless in the water —floating face downward. He raced to the water's edge for a closer look.

By this time, the tow boat was bobbing about 80 yards from where the skier had fallen. The driver yelled to his friend, but, getting no response, dove into the chilly water and began swimming to the rescue.

Wally realized the fellow had panicked and would never make it to the downed skier in time. He hollered to Bill Haafke of South Sioux City, who had also been playing volleyball, and the two swung into action. Together, they pushed Wally's boat off the sand. A whir of the power-packed inboard sent the vessel lurching toward the immobilized skier.

Seconds later, Wally and Bill pulled 20-year-old Rena Barker of South Sioux City into the boat. Wally began mouth-to-mouth resuscitation while Bill headed the craft 8 NEBRASKAland back to the beach, showing no mercy on the throttle. Meanwhile, Wally's wife found a telephone and called for a rescue unit. Wally worked feverishly to revive Rena as she lay limp and unconscious in the boat.

An old-timer with the uncertain, Wally refused to abandon hope where another person might have called it quits. Before long, his dogged determination paid off. Rena began responding to his expert efforts, and recovery was incredibly rapid. The danger was past. Rena was safe!

In her own reconstruction of the mishap, the girl remembers losing balance and striking her head on a ski as she went down. The blow knocked her unconscious and out of breath.

By the time the rescue squad arrived, Rena was ready to ski again, but after a thorough examination, she was advised to rest the remainder of the day.

It was business as usual at Crystal Lake. The threat of tragedy was gone. A young woman's life was saved. And, the credit was given where due — to the fast and effective action of a brave man, a daredevil at heart, and, in this case, a quick-thinking hero.

THE HIKER'S MOTTO is "travel light". But say you are going to be out all day, trekking the Sand Hills or exploring the Pine Ridge. Rain gear, a lunch, and extra film, if you're a photographer, are necessities; not enough to bother with a knapsack but too much bulk for pockets. How do you carry these few, but essential items?

Many people have found the belt (or "fanny") pack an ideal solution. Originated for skiers, this small but versatile pack will quickly become a necessity for any outing. It carries the load —usually more bulk than weight — out of the way at the small of the back, does not hamper sitting or climbing, and its contents can be reached without removing the pack.

Materials include a yard of army duck or similar durable, water-resistant material (nylon is also excellent), a piece of soft cloth for lining if desired, a heavy, 12-inch zipper, belt webbing and buckle, and a spool of medium-weight thread.

Begin by drawing and cutting the pattern, then pin it to the fabric and cut out the pieces. If your waist is smaller than 24 inches, take out the difference from the pack itself, deducting equal amounts from the top, bottom, side, back, zipper, and optional lining.

Cut an opening in the side, fold back the edges, and stitch in the zipper (a No. 9 is used here) close to the folded edges. Reinforce the seam by restitching along the zipper's outer edges.

Next, center the belt along the back piece and sew them together.

Stitch the diagonals of the side and back together first, then the straight edges of the bottom and top pieces to the straight edges of the back.

If you wish to install a lining, it should be attached at this point. The material used is 10-ounce, single-filled duck, washed in hot water to make it soft and flexible. Place the lining with the right side against the wrong side of the top and stitch it into the straight seam of the top, leaving five-eighths of an inch free at each end.

Stretch the lining across the back, top, and side and stitch it into the straight seams between the bottom and back, again leaving five-eighths of an inch free at each end. Turn the lining right-side-out, then tuck in 10 NEBRASKAland the ends of the lining and stitch them to the back across the belt. Do this on both ends.

The pack is now turned right-side-out. Slip the belt out through the ends. Fold back a quarter of an inch at each end where the side and back join and stitch the folded ends to the belt.

The final step is to install the buckle by lapping the webbing over the buckle post and sewing them together. The tongue of the belt is then turned back upon itself an inch or so and sewn.

Check all seams and reinforce any that appear weak. Depending upon the fabric, you may wish to waterproof the pack. Commercial sprays are available for this purpose.

The finished pack can be worn several ways. The belt can be slipped through your trousers' belt loops or worn lower on the hips. Some people prefer to wear it on their stomachs, permitting even easier access. Wearing it bandolier-fashion over the back of the shoulder is also reasonably comfortable.

Use this handy little pack just once, then see if you ever go hiking without it again.

HOW TO: by Greg Beaumont MAKE A "FANNY" PACK

SPEAK UP

the population of the United States is about 3 72 times larger than Great Britain's and 25 times larger than Sweden's. Also, some acts committed here are not considered crimes when they occur elsewhere." --Grace Baldwin, Newport.

SMART BIRD-"My neighbor, Ray White, has a sparrow which, for three years, has nested in the tractor he uses every day. She has raised her brood successfully every year, despite the difficulties involved. There is a cranny behind the battery box, fairly close to the motor, which is warm, well concealed, and seemingly suitable for a nest. The sparrow sits on her eggs until Ray goes to the field, but she leaves when he starts the engine. When he comes in, she goes back to the nest until he leaves again. Evidently, the motor keeps the eggs warm while she is not on the nest. After the birds are hatched, she and the male feed them.

"Farming readers may wonder what happens when Ray changes work with a neighbor and doesn't come in at noon. That doesn't disturb the sparrow family one bit. Both birds are right there when the tractor stops in the neighbor's yard and the babies are fed on schedule. In fact, the mother seems to know where the tractor is all of the time, because once or twice Ray has left the tractor in the field and she is right there to attend to her young." - Harold Jeffery, Martinsburg.

In a later letter, Mr. Jeffery added a postscript to his bird tale. It seems a cat got the mother sparrow, leaving both families in desolation. — Editor.

"I know Lorene Moranville of Bayard (SOS-SELL OUR STATE, Speak Up, April 1971) was speaking figuratively. I took it literally! Next to Nebraska itself, I love NEBRASKAland - the best magazine in the country." —Mrs. Vilma Toufar, Columbus.

prairie doctors

HE WAS A healer, but often all he could do was look professional and watch people die. The bitter irony of death was a doctor's daily bread in early Nebraska when amputation and bleeding were among the most frequently used means for "saving" lives.

Any serious injury to a limb was a double hazard in the mid to late 1800's, for modern antibiotics were not available to halt the decay of flesh. Blood poisoning was a scourge, and amputation of the injured limb was most often the safest course of action.

The germ theory was still undeveloped, and sterilization was unknown. Doctors rinsed their instruments before using them —to remove the dust —and washed their hands only after the operation or examination. Instruments were stuffed in pockets, and catgut for sewing up surgical incisions hung from lapels where it was handy.

There were no vaccinations or inoculations, and epidemics spread unchecked. As wagon trains moved west across Nebraska, cholera stalked the trail. In June of 1849, as many as 200 emigrants had already died east of Fort Kearny.

Cholera made a mixed imprint on Dr. David Maynard. A fugitive from his sharp-tongued wife, and $30,000 in debt, he headed west with a mule, a buffalo robe, a gun, some books, and his instruments. He treated cholera until he came down with it himself, but he recovered because, as he said: "Nobody meddled with me."

Later he stopped to help a family struck by cholera. Before morning the husband, son, and mother of Mrs. Israel Brashears died. Dr. Maynard tossed his belongings in the back of the Brashear's wagon and they started down the trail together. When they reached the coast they were married.

Today's doctors would shudder at the everyday conditions under which wagon-train doctors functioned. There were no lights except candles which could blow out in the middle of a delicate nighttime operation, and wagon beds were the only "work tables".

While wagon-train doctors were fighting cholera, military surgeons were busy patching up troops wounded in various skirmishes, and fighting diet-related diseases. Scurvy, for example, rivaled cholera with its lethal attacks. Gradually, doctors came to realize that diet was the cause, and military surgeons began scouring the countryside in search of wild fruits and vegetables to ward off the disease. Dr. William S. Latta, surgeon of the 2nd Nebraska Cavalry, had his men gather wild gooseberries to make a lifesaving stew. Wild onions, too, provided dietary balance in the early years.

The doctor was many things in a fort besides physician and surgeon. Captain John Summers, a surgeon, was the commanding officer of Fort Kearny in 1861. Sometimes the doctor was a negotiator with the Indians. Dr. McGillycuddy successfully treated Crazy Horse's wife and the chief became his friend. Later, Crazy Horse came to Fort Robinson to make (Continued on page 54)

WARMING UP FOR DEER

GARBED IN FULL camouflage suit, complete with mesh hood covering all but his eyes, the archer silently slipped from tree to tree, cautiously and carefully scrutinizing the woods ahead. Any second, a white-tailed buck could go bounding, startled by some sound or movement. Or, perhaps the deer would be calmly nibbling leaves or taking his ease in the afternoon sun.

Stalking deer or waiting in a tree blind for one to stroll by calls for quiet and caution. Movements must be slow and minimal. When stalking, a few steps are taken, then a long pause with careful examination of terrain ahead. A deer has keen senses — far greater than man's — and is always using them for his own well being and protection.

There! Just to the right of that tree ahead —a buck. Maybe 40, maybe 50 yards away. Can't get any closer without being spotted. Have to try a shot from here.

Being an experienced bow hunter, the last pause was made leaving ample clearance from brush for a full draw of the broadhead. But, a half step to the right is necessary to clear the line of fire from intervening branches.

"Now we'll see, Mr. Buck. Your time just may have come; if you'll just hold steady."

In seconds, the arrow is on its way. A solid "thunk" signals a hit. But, the deer does not dash away. It stands immobile and unfeeling, for the deer is actually a three-dimensional, foam target wrapped with painted burlap. It does, however, sport a real set of antlers, saved from a white-tailed buck taken the previous season and mounted for realistic appearance. The rack is that added touch which makes the unreal come alive.

A simulated deer hunt is not so unusual, at least for some bow hunters of the Omaha Archery Club. At their field range south of Papillion, OAC members have installed two "legs" of 14 targets each. As a shooter runs the course, he is faced with animal targets at various, unmarked distances which he must estimate. They range from 15 to 80 yards in 5-yard increments. Realism is the keynote. Animal targets in natural woodland settings with trees and downed logs, and even elevated platforms from which hunters shoot, JULY 1971 17   give the entire facility a scenic but practical function.

Much time, effort, and money have gone into developing the range. A line of conventional targets near the entrance is lighted for night shooting, and several times each summer it really draws a crowd. A fireplace, adjacent to a roofed shelterhouse, is under construction.

But, it is the remainder of the 22-acre plot that is most interesting to the club's serious hunters. A tractor and mower keep the green swaths between target and shooter tidy and attractive. These paths are laid out as scientifically as any golf course, utilizing the land area to the utmost advantage while also giving every combination of shot likely to be encountered in the field. Some go sharply uphill, others steeply down, and some are virtually narrow corridors through dense woods. All appear to have green carpets between shooter and target.

Perhaps only serious archery-deer hunters devote much time to extensive workouts before the season. At any rate, members of the Omaha club did very well during the 1970 season, chalking up about a 40-percent success. Comparing this to the statewide archery success of 19 percent hints that the field range paid off. In many cases, it is difficult for Omaha archers to get into the outdoors because of the distances involved. Some smaller towns have deer munching in fields just a few yards away from the city limits, or at least within a few miles. Such is not the case for metropolitan Omahans, who may spend nearly as much time commuting to and from their hunting sites as they do hunting.

Each year since the archery season opened in Nebraska, a greater number of sportsmen have taken up the challenge. Last year more than 4,800 permits were issued for deer alone, making big-game hunting with a bow very popular indeed.

Interest in hunting runs high among the more than 40 member families of the Omaha club. At one session prior to last year's deer season, over 60 archers, club members and friends, put in a "warming-up" session by running the 28 field positions. An estimated total of 125 different hunters made the rounds sometime before deer season.

Late in April, members of the Omaha Archery Club started to put in leisure hours fixing the area up for the busy months ahead. Backstops had to be erected again (after cattle worked them over), target faces put on, wind-blown branches cleared away, and grass mowed.

Eventually, many of the paper animal targets will be replaced with 3-D stryofoam types, making a round of shooting as near the real thing as could be desired.

"These new critters are great," agreed three shooters making the rounds one afternoon. Bob Dinslage, secretary of the club, Noel Miller, a member who downed the best deer during the 1970 season, and (Continued on page 55)

A thing about BEES & WASPS

MEMBRANE-WINGED insects, or Hymenoptera as entomologists call them, represent the world's wasps, bees, and ants.

Watch a solitary wasp sometime. Never having known its parents and never having learned from others of its kind, it selects a nesting site and excavates or constructs a mud or paper nest identical to those its species have been building for countless millenia. This task completed, the wasp flies off in search of prey with which to stock its larder —not just any insect, but usually of the same spider or caterpillar species its ancestors sought. After inserting its stinger in the precise spot to paralyze but not kill its prey, the wasp carries its victim back to the nest and secures it inside. Laying a single egg on the immobilized insect, it seals the chamber.

The digger wasp goes a step further. After she has immobilized the live insect and dragged it to the hole, she lays a solitary egg and closes the mouth of the den with soil, tamping it firm with a pebble.

Some social wasps, like the paper wasp, build elaborate nests of papier-mache-like materials. Collecting fiber from rotten wood, plant stems, or even man-made paper or cardboard, the female wasp chews the materials, mixing them with a salivary secretion to produce a pulpy mass which dries firm and gray.

Perhaps the best known of the social insects and the real workhorses of pollination are the honeybees. Eons of genetic adaptation have Paper wasp mixes salivary secretion with chewed fibers to build its nest molded the bees and the flowers into symbiontic forms that benefit each other. Densely-haired bodies of the insects efficiently convey pollen from flower to flower while fragrant, colorful blossoms, sometimes imitating female insects, are attractive lures to the nectar-seeking bees.

Foremost among all insect pollinators are the honeybees, since their whole economy is based solely upon collection of nectar and pollen. The importance of the honeybee as a pollinator has been somewhat exaggerated, though. It has been claimed that were it not for honeybees, no flowers would bloom, no fruits would produce, and numerous familiar plants wTould disappear. Such is not the case. When the first European settlers arrived in North America they found an abundance of fruits, flowers, and vegetables, but no honeybees. They were not brought to the New World until the 17th Century. Before that time, an abundance of native insects handled pollination tasks quite well.

It is a common fallacy concerning beehive organization that each insect is a specialist — worker, nurse, forager, or other —but this has not been proven. Each bee passes through a series of jobs within the hive; nurse —bringing JULY 1971 23   honey and pollen from storage areas to feed the queen; comb worker — molding wax into the complex hexagonal units; comb cleaners and guards; and finally, at about three weeks of age, the bee enters old age, with the last duty the most hazardous — foraging outside the hive.

Locating nectar sources and relaying the information to other workers in the comb is an interesting procedure as well as an indication of their behavior development. If a nectar source is within 100 yards of the hive, the returning scout enters the hive, runs through the combs, disgorges a drop of nectar, and begins its dance. The "round dance", as entomologists have labeled it, is performed in a circular pattern, telling other foraging bees that the source is close. The scent of pollen on the hind legs of the scout tells others what type of plant to seek out.

If the nectar source is more than 100 yards from the hive, more detailed instructions are given by the scout, indicating both direction and distance. This dance assumes a figure-eight form. The speed of the dance plus the rate of abdomen wagging suggest the distance. Positioning of the figure eight points in the direction of the flowers. The "tail-wagging dance", as it is called, is one of the insect world's most fascinating and elaborate displays.

Higher on the social scale are the bumblebees. Only the queen survives the winter months. Emerging in the spring, she seeks out an abandoned rodent burrow or similar underground structure, exuding a wax with which she constructs a honey pot. After filling the honey pot with nectar, the queen lays one egg on it and repeats the procedure with numerous other structures. Finally, she sits on the eggs and later on the larvae, protecting them from the cold. If an experimenter removes the eggs, the queen utilizes any nearby object to fulfill her genetically programmed need to brood, sitting on a pebble or other handy substitute. The first bumblebee brood develops into a handful of diminutive worker bees which assist the queen in future egg laying. Bumblebee colonies never attain the size of bustling honeybee cities, although a thriving colony may have from one to two thousand individuals by summer's end.

Solitary or social, parasites or pollinators, harmful or harmless, bees and wasps are a part of our past, our present, and our future. Stinging marauding youngsters who threaten their homes, pollinating our field and orchard crops, keeping other insect populations in check, or providing us with nature's own swTeetener, they are a necessary part of the overall scheme of things. With life patterns rivaling man's own in complexity, they serve as a constant source of wonderment and a necessary link in the complex chain of life.

PLANNED PLANTHOOD

TREELESS NEBRASKA is coming of age. Woodland green is claiming the grasslands which sweeping prairie fires maintained for countless ages. Poplars, willows, and junipers lead the advance. An irregular legion supports their forays. Pecans, persimmons, chestnuts, baldcypresses, creeping and weeping junipers, and other strange forms bolster their conquering ranks.

Aiding and abetting this purge of grassland dominance, the Resource Services Division of the Game and Parks Commission has lent comfort to the invading force. Producing thousands of trees and distributing them throughout the state, their role in this conspiracy to green up Nebraska was initiated in the spring of 1969.

With the creation of the Interstate Chain of Lakes came the need for development of recreational areas near them. Designed to furnish Nebraska's pleasure seekers with shelter from the blistering summer sun and prevalent winds, as well as to please the eye, these plantings are enlarged seasonally. While many of the lake areas are the responsibility of the Resource Services Division of the Commission, others are handled by the Parks Division and the Department of Roads.

What sets Resource Services' programs apart from other contemporary tree-planting projects or those before it? For a starter, they have launched their own plant-propagation operation-complete with greenhouse, nursery, and an experienced horticulturist. If that were not enough, they have experimented with and used species usually not thought of as Nebraska plants - those which many doubted could survive the rigors of winter. Mutant forms of native plants have been selected for desired characteristics or ornamental value as well as hardiness in our climatic area. A program to use dense clumps of native wildflowers on appropriate sites rounds out the division's "new thinking" on landscaping of public areas.

And so, the State of Nebraska, in a small way, has entered the nursery business. Designed in the beginning to handle commercial nursery stock and to propagate plant materials not available through regular sources or available at a cost prohibitive to the state, the project has expanded in the last three years to new horizons in horticulture for Nebraska.

Designed to unveil the policy of the Game and Parks Commission, herbaceous and woody plantings on the Interstate - and later on other state areas -were initiated. Much of the Commission's philosophy has solidified around the ideas of Hans Burchardt. While still relatively (Continued on page 63)

the girls went canoeing

WE WERE FLOATING quietly down the Platte River, feeling agile as Indians, when suddenly I saw a barbed-wire fence coming up fast. Almost instinctively, I stuck out a hand to grab it, hoping to keep us away from the barbs. But the stern of the canoe, caught in the current, swung around and slammed into the wire.

Rusty strands grated over the side of the boat and were about to either cut Nan and me in half or push us over, swamping the canoe. I bailed out, wondering what Nan said as I went over the side. When I came up, dripping and grabbing for the errant canoe, I found her doing the same. We discovered there was no danger of losing our transportation. The loss of our combined weight raised our canoe higher in the water and it was hung up on the fence. But a paddle was floating merrily downstream, seemingly elated at its early escape.

The whole episode began one busy afternoon in the Game and Parks Commission's Information and Tourism office. I was answering some correspondence when one of our artists, Michele Angle, came by and asked—half in jest and half seriously, if I would like to do a canoeing story for NEBRASKAland.

A male canoeing story had bombed for lack of subjects who could get away from their jobs long enough, so the assigned writer was looking for alternatives. He had suggested off-handedly an all-girl trip, and Michele, Nan Lee, and I had agreed it was a great idea.

Nan, NEBRASKAland Magazine's secretary, had some canoeing and camping experience and assured us there was nothing to canoeing. I had been camping time after time with my parents before my high school graduation, so I asserted there was nothing to it.

So, battle lines were drawn. We needed photo illustration as well as art, which Michele planned to do. But NEBRASKAland has no female photographers, and the men in the office began telling the photographers what a trip with four women would be like.

To be fair, the men weren't against women in the field. They were against inexperienced women in the field, and comments ran from, "I sure wouldn't want to babysit four girls on this trip," to "I can see the headlines now, Tour Women Drown While Photographer Looks On,'" to "I see a mini-fiasco in the making."

The guys were ready with advice, too. "You're doing too much planning," and "You'd better get organized and prepare for any eventuality."

There was considerable kidding, but with the fellows' expert advice and chiding admonitions, we laid our plans. We had one experienced canoeist, Nan, and one girl with life-saving training, me. Michele was game to learn it all. We decided to take two canoes, so we needed another experienced canoeist to man (woman) the stern of the second canoe. Michele provided the help from among her acquaintances — Rose Chamberlain from Storm Lake, Iowa, who had spent a large portion of her life in and on the water.

Living in Lincoln with her husband of eight months, and working for the University of Nebraska, she was willing to break her routine. Her husband, Dave, didn't protest too loudly. I was to get a two-night break from the kids, the cooking, and the dishes, and Michele and Nan were going to get three days with nature instead of paper.

Bob Grier was assigned as our photographer, and he needed someone to paddle his canoe while he snapped pictures. With a little encouragement, my husband, Marv, agreed to help us out. We were to be out three days. Bob and Marv would go the first day, then leave after photos were taken in camp that night. Bob was then to pick us up at the Overton bridge on the third day and restage any excitement for illustration.

So we went our separate ways Saturday, April 24, gathering supplies and personal gear. Marv and I drove to Blue Hill to leave our two youngsters with my parents during the three-day excursion. We were to meet the two cars with the three canoes at Grand Island at 8 a.m. the next day.

At 9:30 a.m. they finally pulled in with some vague explanation about forgetting daylight savings time. Marv and I left our car at Mormon Island State Wayside Area, and climbed in with the troops. We proceeded to the Interstate 80 exit at Brady.

We stopped at Dale Fattig's place where we had arranged to get into the river. Off we went under overcast skies, thinking of some of the sunlit, springlike days we had seen the week before. Surely the haze would burn off. We unloaded the canoes, carried them dowm to the riverside, and stowed what seemed to be tons of gear. Finally, we were ready to shove off.

Nan, with bare feet and rolled-up blue jeans, was the official shover-off. She was the only one to get her feet wet —at the start. Nan and I took the lead canoe, with me in the bow. Michele, with Rose in the stern, followed, and Bob and Marv brought up the rear. But before we had traversed our first mile, we met up with that first fence.

After the impact and dive for safety, I made a futile reach for the retreating paddle, ran a few slow steps in the thigh-deep water, then gave up, hoping it would snag farther on. Anyway, we had extra paddles. Nan and I, already drenched, eased our canoe under the fence, then helped everyone else under —with no more near-drownings.

From there on, things went swimmingly. There was about one fence per mile for the remaining seven miles we covered along the south channel. We reached the diversion dam below Brady about 3 p.m. Most of our travel time was spent looking for and struggling under fences. Meanwhile, we had probably passed the wildest stretch. The river was almost completely screened by trees and the channel was relatively narrow. But the stream was slow-moving and comfortable for beginners. We needed that learning stretch to initiate Michele, Marv, Bob, and me.

As I learned to paddle, I thought about office discussions and warnings that the part of the Platte we planned to attack might be dry —as it is through large portions of the summer.

This slow channel was part of an early water diversion, similar to a Mid-State project now planned by the Bureau of Reclamation for an area farther downstream. The channel was narrow here, with most of the water six inches deep or less. It was an area where migratory birds are scarce — even during their most active season. The Platte, once a great corridor, a stopping place for migratory waterfowl, is gradually being civilized. Diversion of water in 1941 made the section we were floating very different from the rest of the river. The planned project would change the historic face of another great stretch of the river.

Once an almost insurmountable boundary across (Continued on page 58)

VALLEY OF THE MISTS

MAN HAS OCCUPIED the lower Platte River Valley for centuries. The region is one of rich soils, numerous pure-water springs, and many rivulets and creeks. This vast, rich valley was the domain of the Otoes before white men came to Nebraska Territory.

U.S. Highway 6 runs across the heart of this broad valley. As a motorist approaches the town of Ashland, driving from Lincoln to Omaha on U.S. 6, he sees a small and picturesque U-shaped valley to the right. Laced with young willows and rimmed by a winding country road, a small, spring-fed stream meanders gently through the peaceful vale to join Salt Creek farther on. This scenic spot has intriguing legends woven into its history. In 1967, it was the place where a UFO was reportedly sighted by Herb Schirmer, an Ashland policeman.

But this valley of the mists had special significance for both Indian tribesmen of centuries past and white men who traveled overland on the old Oxbow Trail about a hundred years ago. While Indians had one explanation for the rising mists in the small valley, overland freighters who came to the rocky ford on Salt Creek dubbed the vale "Ghost Hollow".

The Otoes were convinced that some supernatural power prevailed in the mists. On the crown of the hills surrounding the U-shaped valley, the Indians held ceremonial dances and rites to petition the Great Spirit.

Fog rises from the spring-fed rivulets that converge on the valley floor. On a cool evening, particularly in the fall, these wisps of mist drift across the valley through the willows and cottonwoods.

When the Indians held a ceremonial dance in preparation for a buffalo hunt, they believed the Great Spirit was pleased with their sacrifices if the mists of the valley rose into the sky. But if the mists scattered low over the valley floor or clung to the nearby knolls, the Indians believed the Great Spirit was unhappy with them. Then the red men often called off the hunt until a new ritual dance could be held at some: later, more promising date.

Other ritualistic dances were staged on the sacred ceremonial hills, too. Any unusual happening, planned tribal project, or change of season, called for an Indian powwow. If disaster or disease came to the villages, these, too, called for ritualistic dances to dispel the misfortune. Some early missionaries—those who came in 1834 and 1844—believed that under extreme provocation the Indians would make human sacrifices to have the curse of smallpox or hunger lifted from their people.

White travelers and overland freighters were indifferent to the superstitions of the Indians and used the springs to water horses and oxen before crossing Salt Creek on their many westward journeys along the Oxbow Trail.

A few years before the Civil War, during the days of massive overland freighting, a number of town sites were staked out near the rocky crossing of Salt Creek, which had come to be known as Salina Ford (now Ashland). Two of those old town companies put forth vigorous campaigns to have their sites become the main city at the rocky crossing. Salina promoters in the west part of Ashland, near 22nd and Birch streets, bragged about their beautiful location overlooking the wide Salt Valley. Parallel City, near the Rodeo Grounds, took its name from the land surveyors' correction line that is now the county line. It was advertised 110 years ago that it would be the metropolitan area of the lower Platte Valley. In advertising why their town should be chosen over other townsites, Parallel City promoters told a gruesome story about Salina. Freighters took the promoters' story and retold it with relish.

It seems that in earlier days, four white men rode into an Indian camp near Salt Creek. The Indian braves were away on a Hunt, so the white men assaulted the women in the village. When the Indian braves returned to their village and found the havoc wrought by the white men, they were outraged. The Indians tracked and soon caught the four horsemen. The white men were taken to the hill near the village overlooking the valley. There they were tortured and burned to death over a great bonfire, but not before their screams of agony filled the valley.

Promoters of the Parallel City site said the mists rising from the springs were the ghosts of the burned men haunting the valley because they had never been buried. The whine of the wind in the knolls and through the treetops were the ghosts' moans of agony. Around the evening campfire, the old bullwhackers and wagonmen told and retold the gruesome yarn, pointing out the natural phenomena of the countryside, especially for the benefit of tenderfeet who happened to be along. The freighters took advantage of every rising wisp of fog during quiet evenings to imagine they saw the ghosts.

The story died after a while because the freighters moved on, and the many settlers who came after the Civil War had no interest in haunted valleys or moaning trees. Even now, though, if a traveler looks to the rising moon on a still evening and sees ghost-like mist beckoning in the'pale light, he may ponder the campfire legend of yesteryear. The eerie moonlight reflects from glossy cottonwood leaves, and the chatter of the trees amplifies the sounds of night. A century later, the whine of tires on pavement and the glowing movement of headlights adds another dimension to the mists of Ghost Hollow.

IN THE MIDDLE OF EVERYTHING

NOT SO LONG ago, Nebraska was labeled as being in the middle of nowhere. Quite to the contrary, NEBRASKAland is smack in the middle of everywhere. It has always been that way and will always remain.

"A desert!" That's what Captain John C. Fremont, American explorer, called Nebraska. Clearly, he was a man of little vision, for he could see neither the beauty of this land nor its tremendous potential. Here, in the heartland of America — in the middle of it all —man was destined to establish the beginning of the real West across the bulling Missouri River.

Skies drenched in blue and prairies alive with tall, dancing grasses greeted those who first ventured beyond the Missouri River. But, the white man was a Johnny-come-lately in discovering the magic of NEBRASKAland. Indians of many tribes, wild and free as the land itself, called Nebraska home long before. Millions of shaggy buffalo roamed the plains and fur-bearing critters filled the rivers and streams.

Trappers, strangers to fear, first opened the land. It was big country, JULY 1971 35  

The westward incursion of America grew by leaps and bounds. By the thousands, settlers pushed up the twisting Platte River toward the fabled land of the setting sun. But many forgot the Pacific's siren call. These visionaries saw a future on the prairie, and planted their roots. This land, right in the heart of America, soon became their land and their children's heritage. Thus the settlement of the West began. The Wild Bill Hickoks, the Buffalo Bills, the George Armstrong Custers, and the Red Clouds stepped from reality into legend. The red man and the soldier, the trapper and the buffalo hunter, the sodbuster and the cattle baron all played important roles.

The smoke-belching iron horse of the Union Pacific rumbled across the frontier, linking the nation with the first transcontinental railroad. And, while the clickety-clack of wheels on rails echoed over the plains, the automobile was on the drawing boards. Roisterous river towns, lonesome frontier forts, and wild and woolly ends-o'-track came and went, each crucial to the total development of NEBRASKAland.

Today, huge herds of cattle bred to refinement roam the prairie beside superhighways that lace the lush, green countryside. Concrete ribbons have replaced the ruts of the Oregon Trail, and sleek convertibles now cruise the paths once hardened by Conestogas.

As mankind pioneered the heavens, supersonic jets were destined to blaze trails of peace across Nebraska skies. The mighty Strategic Air Command, nucleus of the nation's defense system, fulfilled that destiny when it was headquartered in the middle of America.

Fishing means year-round sport here. It means sun-tanned boys with willow poles and squirming worms. It means the most modern in casting equipment. And, for each angler it means fighting lunkers and generous limits. Wetting a line in NEBRASKAland means action for young and old alike.

NEBRASKAland hunting is among the best. Billed the nation's "Mixed-Bag Capital", there's action aplenty from the wily ringneck to the elusive, pronghorn antelope. Nebraska is truly a sportsman's delightful paradise.

In the middle of nowhere? Not on your tintype! The facts bear witness. It was here where man arrived with faith and courage and built a state that became the envy of many. With strong hands and determined spirit, he carved a niche in the center of a continent, for few places in this mammoth nation outdo the all-around greatness of NEBRASKAland. From coast to coast and border to border, Nebraska sits astride America. This is our land... a proud and beautiful land...our NEBRASKAland... in the middle of everywhere.

Egg-sack Trout

AS I FLIPPED the bail of my new spinning reel, I thought to myself: "At least it's new line." A second later, the splash of my sack of trout eggs smacking the surface of Pumpkin Creek was barely audible over the murmur of water. An early morning sun turned steam to a golden mist as it rose from the stream. Silhouetted some 50 yards downstream, my informal fishing guide, Al Robertson of Bridgeport, worked a pool.

It was spring and good to be standing at the water's edge in the morning stillness. Early April had not yet brought green to the Sand Hills, but a certain softness in the breeze and the quacking of mallards in a lower pool testified to the season.

All seemed right, but I couldn't help remembering Al's comment: "Six-pound-test line may be alright, but I use heavier. When I latch on to one of those big ones I don't want to lose him."

All my previous trout-fishing experience had been in the high mountain streams of Utah and Idaho where two-pound fish were considered trophies. The thought of tying into a big spawner on light tackle had me a bit worried, but I was ready. Six-pound-test line was all I had and I figured it would have to suffice.

"I fish Pumpkin quite a lot because it's close," Al had explained on the drive from his home.

At the water's edge, I rigged quickly. A No. 5 hook baited with a sack of trout eggs and a heavy split shot about a foot up the line put me in business.

I could feel the split shot bumping bottom after I cast to the riffle at the head of the pool and let the bait drift down slowly. As I fished, I studied Al. He approached each small pool carefully, not allowing his shadow to fall on the water. Standing well back from the stream's edge, he dropped the egg sack near the top of the pool and followed it down. He worked carefully but quickly, allowing about a dozen casts per pool before moving on to the next. Within minutes, he was out of sight around a bend. Rather than fish the same water, I headed upstream. An hour later Al reappeared.

"They're just not in here this morning," he said. "Let's drive over and try Nine Mile."

As we headed north, Al explained it is usually possible to spot big spawning trout if they are sunning in a stream. When the (Continued on page 50)

BOATS FOR HIRE

BOATS, BOATS, and more boats. Nebraska, often mistakenly stereotyped as a landlubber's paradise, has boats and water on which to use them to spare. Boatmen can enjoy their particular brand of fun and excitement on much of the state's 11,000 miles of streams and rivers and 3,300 lakes.

But you don't have to own a boat to enjoy Nebraska's watery bounty. Exciting excursion trips are available on several unusual vessels which ply the Missouri River. Those with a yen to captain a boat themselves can choose from a number of craft of all shapes and sizes that may be rented throughout the state.

From rowboats to houseboats, the amateur skipper can rent a vessel to match his dreams. At many city parks, the would-be boatman can latch onto canoes, rowboats, small sailboats, and paddleboats. Larger, more-powerful boats are available for hire at many of the state's lakes and impoundments.

But not everybody likes the responsibility of piloting a boat, no matter what the size. For these people, there are other options. An assortment of pleasure boats ply Nebraska's waterways, offering a unique variety of aquatic adventure.

One boat which doesn't travel far in terms of distance, but transports passengers to the inaccessible, submerged world, is the glass-bottom boat at the Fort Kearney Museum. This unusual 24-foot, battery-operated vessel takes regular voyages across the 3 1/2-acre, spring-fed lake located behind the museum at the Kearney interchange on Interstate 80. Sparkling, clear water permits easy viewing of the lake's diversity of underwater life.

Animals which inhabit the lake's depths carry on their lives without interruption. Trout laze in the cool shadows, catfish follow along beneath the quietly cruising craft, and bluegill seek morsels from the slender reeds of aquatic vegetation. Myriad plants and animals open their homes for inspection. Turtles, crayfish, and even snails carry on their normal activities, all unaware of man's silent intrusion into their domain.

A half-hour ride in this, the only glass-bottom boat in the Midwest, is like a flight through space. Passengers can look down on the varied terrain and see miniature mountains and valleys loom beneath the glass. Only rising air bubbles betray the watery environment. Travelers take a trip to nowhere, except to the natural world of a lake, a world often overlooked.

A boat which does go somewhere, but in a style little seen in this modern day, is one of the last ferries on the Missouri River, the side-wheeled Sally Ann. This storied vestige of yesteryear makes numerous daily crossings of the river from just east of Niobrara to South Dakota Highway 37 on the other side, a distance of IV2 miles.

Even if visitors don't have a reason for crossing the river, many go along just for the experience of riding with their cars on the perky little barge. The Sally Ann operates on demand, not by a schedule. If you want to cross, you hoist a small red flag alongside the dock. Out comes the operator, who supervises the loading, climbs the stairs to the small pilothouse, and heads the 70-foot ferry toward the opposite dock.

Operating from 8 a.m. till 8 p.m. between April 1 and November 1, the Sally Ann provides a needed service for people in the area, as well as serving as a tourist attraction for visitors to Lewis and Clark land. Since the nearest bridge is almost 40 miles away atop Gavins Point Dam, the ferry has proven its worth many

times, especially in emergencies. The Sally Ann has carried ambulances, buses, and a great assortment of trucks. It has helped rush expectant mothers to the hospital and has carried hearses, too.

For area natives, the neat little boat is an accepted part of everyday life, but for visitors it becomes much more. Despite its small size and the brevity of its journey, the Sally Ann serves as a reminder that at one time this was the only way to cross the Big Muddy. A ticket to ride on her small deck is a chance to relive some of the excitement that always accompanied any trip on this mighty river.

Farther down the river at Ponca State Park, other boats head out into the Missouri's strong current. Stardust River Cruises, Inc., operating out of Ponca and South Sioux City, offer several different types of Missouri River excursions. Now in its third season of operation, the Ponca Chief, a 19-foot, 9-passenger speed hull, gives its riders a 30-minute zip on one of the finest stretches of the Missouri. Stardust's other boat is an all-new excursion vessel, the Sioux Chief. This luxurious 49-passenger boat makes runs from both Ponca State Park and South Sioux City.

Trips from the state park at Ponca are sight-seeing cruises and all are fully narrated. Factual commentary includes notes about the surrounding country, the area's history, and information about the fascinating Missouri. Occasionally, wildlife along the mainstream gives lucky passengers a special thrill, a reminder of the time when all of the Missouri was wild and free.

Excursions from South Sioux City are also mostly the sight-seeing variety, but, of course, they feature more of man's creations along the river. The facilities of the 50-foot Sioux Chief include stereo music, three observation decks, restrooms, and plenty of room to roam. There are also special 22-mile Sunday cruises which originate at South Sioux City and end at Ponca; a similar trip, billed a "dinner cruise", goes in the other direction. Either of the Stardust boats may be hired for private charters. The deck of the spacious Sioux Chief has been the unique setting for floating occasions of all sorts —family parties, club outings, and business meetings.

All Stardust cruises emphasize the natural beauty of the Missouri River and offer a chance for escape from the everyday world. The river isn't quite the way Lewis and Clark knew it, but the chance for individuals to discover themselves remains.

Decorated to resemble a 19th-century steamboat, the River Belle calls Omaha its home port. Operated by Missouri River Passenger Excursions, Inc., the River Belle offers complete excursion and entertainment facilities. The little stern-wheeler is available for charter service, but there are also regularly scheduled trips open to the public. If desired, dance music, bar facilities, tables, and catered dinners can be included.

A cruise on the River Belle gives passengers a close look at sights that were unknown in the days of the original steamboats. Massive bridges which now span the wide Missouri, Omaha's soaring skyline, and the towboats pushing strings of barges can be viewed close up in a way possible only from a boat on the river.

Highlighting the River Belle's season is a special excursion from Sioux City to Omaha. It is an all-day trip, and covers 116 miles of Nebraska's scenic river country.

The latest addition to the river's pleasure-boat fleet is also the largest excursion boat on the Missouri. The Belle of Brownville, now in its second year of operation, boasts a length of 65 feet. Capable of carrying 300 passengers, the Belle brings back to the Missouri a style of travel that has been unknown since Brownville's heyday more than half a century ago.

The third boat to bear the name, the Belle of Brownville was originally an excursion boat at Greenville, Mississippi and Houston, Texas. Last year, her purchasers, Brownville Development, Inc., brought her up the Mississippi and Missouri rivers from Texas and immediately began a schedule of pleasure excursions.

This spring, the Belle was completely refurbished. Now looking like a specter from the pages of a 19th-century photo album, the broad craft works her way up and down the river, pushed not by a traditional paddle wheel, but by powerful diesel engines.

With the bottom deck completely enclosed, the Belle provides comfort despite inclement weather. Other facilities include restrooms, a refreshment bar, and, if desired, a dance band. The Belle has already been chartered this season for fraternity and sorority parties, high school proms, and dinners and dances for civic and social clubs.

Regularly scheduled excursions are open to the public every Sunday afternoon, and romantic moonlight cruises are run on Saturday nights during July and August. Special dinner cruises are planned during the July and August theater season. Theatergoers will enjoy a pleasant meal aboard the Belle and then conclude the evening's excitement with the theater performance.

Sunday afternoon cruises are narrated, and river sightseers are treated to views of river landmarks, including the new Cooper Nuclear Station. River history is also given. Both young and old with imagination can easily feature themselves as river pilots or belles of the ball.

The Belle of Brownville is a link with the past, but all of Nebraska's pleasure boats are here to enjoy today. From skiffs to scows, the variety of boats available to the state's natives and tourists is unlimited. From city-park dinghies to the majesty of the Belle of Brownville plowing upriver, NEBRASKAland has much to offer afloat.

Editor's Note: Further information about Nebraska's major pleasure boats, including printed schedules of runs and rates, can be obtained from, operators listed below:

EGG-SACK TROUT

water is clear, you'll find them lying in their spawning beds or in deep pools. If the water is murky, you have to watch shallow riffles where you can see them running between pools.

"That's half the fun of this kind of fishing," he said. "You never know whether you'll find an empty stream or one chockfull of big trout. But, I'm afraid the run is about over."

I knew what Al was talking about, having checked with Game Commission fisheries biologists before leaving Lincoln. The number of trout in the streams which feed into the North Platte River depends on the spawning migration from Lake McConaughy. Trout instinctively return to spawn in the stream where they were hatched. After spawning, the fish return to Lake Mac. Young fish remain in the stream for about a year, then they also move down to the lake. Heavy migrations run in three-year cycles according to the age classes of the fish.

"Next year should be good," biologists had reported, "but the best you can hope for now is to catch the tail end of a mediocre run."

I couldn't say I hadn't been warned, but the fishing bug bit hard and the lakes around Lincoln were still too cold to produce. So, I was optimistic as we approached Nine Mile.

Our first fish came about an hour later. Several pools near the mouth of the stream were unproductive and we were working a deep hole below a constriction where a culvert crossed the water. Al's line suddenly went taut as a 12-inch rainbow broke water, thrashed momentarily, then dove deep. Seconds later, Al wet his hand and released the fish, admonishing it to grow up and put on a little weight.

"Maybe that's what we needed to get started," Al said as he rebaited with a fresh egg sack.

In the next five minutes, he hooked and released a sucker and one more small trout.

"I guess they don't like my new outfit," I commented as Al rebaited.

"These little ones aren't worth messing with," Al kidded. "Save it for a good one.

Moss choked the fast water between pilings at the head of the pool. Fully expecting a snag, I dropped the eggs into the current and waited. Suddenly, I felt a strike and set the hook. Nothing happened and I mentally confirmed my concern about a snag. Then the "snag" shot downstream and a big rainbow catapulted from the water directly in front of me.

"I've got a good one!" I whooped.

"Don't try to horse him," Al warned as he scrambled down the bank with the landing net.

For a few seconds I felt a complete loss of control. The fish apparently didn't know there was a drag on my reel. Ripping off line, he went deep, then jumped again at the far edge of the pool.

"Let him run," Al cautioned. "Wear him out."

"I don't have much choice," I answered, "He's going pretty much where he wants." After several passes the fish tired "And what, may I ask, was wrong with the old sign?" quickly, and soon Al was slipping the net under it.

"A nice big female," he said. "Should go about four pounds."

Figuring I would never find out without asking, I inquired how he could immediately tell it was a female. He explained that the females have a smooth rounded nose. Males, or "jacks" as he called them, develop a protruding, hooked, lower jaw during the spawning run.

Al, who seemed just as happy about the fish as I was, beamed, "I guess that six-pound test is good enough."

"I don't know," I replied. "If that's what a four pounder can do, I'm not so sure I want to tie into one of those six or seven pounders you've been talking about."

"But I'll bet you'd give it a try, wouldn't you?" he quipped with a quick smile.

In the next hour we worked on up Nine Mile with no luck, and finally decided to take a break for lunch. As we devoured our sandwiches I asked about the sacks of trout eggs.

"I put my own together," Al replied. "Some fellows use material from a nylon stocking, but I prefer a good grade of cheesecloth. I cut it into 21/2-inch squares, drop in about a teaspoonful of eggs, tie it off with heavy thread, and then trim the excess material. The secret is to get the sacks smooth and circular, about an inch in diameter."

He went on to explain that he made up a number of sacks at one time and froze them in small, glass jars. When he plans to fish, he simply takes out a jar of eggs the night before and lets them thaw.

"I've tried worms, minnows, and lures," Al added, "but, during the spawning run I've always had my best luck with eggs. Years back, before anyone thought of sacking, some fishermen used tiny wire hooks and tried to thread on two or three eggs. Sacks sure have simplified things."

We spent the afternoon fishing both Stuckenhole and Red Willow creeks but couldn't raise a fish.

"They just weren't running today," Al said as we drove back to Bridgeport, "but maybe tomorrow...."

The next day dawned sunny and warm, and as we headed back to Pumpkin Creek I asked Al about access to streams in the area.

"Most of them are on private land, but the landowners are pretty good about letting fishermen in if they ask permission. I've been fishing these streams for about 20 years, so I don't have any problem."

Minutes after we arrived at the creek we knew the trout were there. Al pointed out several new spawning beds — gravel-bottomed depressions about four feet long and two feet wide — in the fast-water portions of the stream.

In the next two hours we spotted more beds and saw several fish, but none seemed interested in biting. Finally, Al located three fish lying in slow water 50 NEBRASKAland about three feet from the bank. Time after time, he worked the egg sack past the fish.

"Sometimes you just have to keep running it by them until they get mad enough to bite," he prompted as I watched in anticipation.

The water was murky and we finally began to suspect the fish were carp. Then a 3Vi-pound rainbow changed our minds. Al's rod came alive as the fish danced across the surface and then dove. Working the fish expertly, Al eased the trout toward shore and I slid the net under it.

"A pretty fair jack," he commented as I studied the fish's hooked jaw.

Trout normally die quickly after being caught, but as an experiment I had brought along a styrofoam ice chest and a small, battery-operated air pump to see if I could keep a fish alive. After placing Al's trout in the cooler and turning on the pump, we went back to fishing.

About an hour later, while working my egg sack along an undercut bank, I felt a strike. Hoping for the best, I set the hook firmly and unceremoniously dumped a Impounder out onto the bank. I was considering returning it to the water when I noticed its aluminum jaw tag, so I decided to add it to the cooler. A later check revealed that the fish had been tagged at the Game Commission's Lewellen fish trap on November 12 the previous year.

Al had been fishing the same water where he caught the jack. Deciding to take a breather, I sat on the bank and watched as he repeatedly flipped the egg sack upstream, then let it drift down. The sun was warm and I lay back to watch the clouds roll by. A sudden shout startled me. Sitting upright I saw a huge trout jump in midstream, and then saw Al's line go limp.

"Now that was a good trout," Al smiled as he rebaited. Later in the afternoon we found out just how good it probably was. Another fisherman, working the same water, landed a six-pound female; very likely the same fish.

For the remainder of the day, action was slow. Late in the afternoon I hooked a large fish only to see it jump twice and then disappear for good. Reluctantly, I decided it was time to head back to Lincoln. As we neared the pickup, I noticed that the lid was off the cooler. I had placed the chest at the stream's edge and when we arrived we discovered it onty contained one fish —the small, tagged female I had caught.

"Now I've really got a story about the one that got away," Al said with a chuckle. Further inspection showed that the batteries in the air pump had run down and we speculated that the bigger trout had made one last-ditch lunge and flopped out. A couple of wiggles and he was back in the stream.

"You'll have to come back in October," Al said as I prepared to leave. "The fishing is really good then."

He didn't have to worry. He had given me a taste of the action.

NOTES ON NEBRASKA FLORA. . . LATE GOLDENROD

AS THE CROCUS is the sign of , coming spring, so the goldenrod predicts autumn's arrival. With bright, generous blossom, its dense golden flowers take on many forms: cascading fountains, long, wavy plumes, or sword-like spikes. Like sparkling gems, they adorn late summer's fading greens.

More than 120 species of goldenrod are indigenous to the continental United States. Nebraska alone hosts a dozen or more. Even novice botanists can tell a goldenrod from other wildflowers, but to distinguish the various species is quite another matter. Their numerous similarities and the perplexing array of hybrids bewilder even trained taxonomists.

The botanical name of the late goldenrod, Nebraska's state flower, is Solidago gigantea serotina. A literal interpretation of this Latin version is "I make whole", meaning to heal, an allusion to the plant's reputed healing qualities. Each of Nebraska's 15 species has its own characteristic form, each varying from our state flower in different ways. The tall, erect plumes of the late, Canada, and gray goldenrods, the spreading sweep of the elm-leaf goldenrod; the erect stand of the flat-topped goldenrod; and a host of other forms set the autumn landscape aflame with color.

Late goldenrod, like most, is a deep-rooted perennial forb. Thick, woody rootstocks are the nucleus of a tangled maze of twisting roots. Creeping rhizomes spread in every direction from solitary plants, creating dense, ever-widening clumps.

Goldenrods are found across the entire state as they are throughout most of eastern and central United States. Our state flower has a more restricted range, occurring naturally in the eastern third of the state and fingering westward along the various river systems.

Almost no soil is too dry or hard to reject them; moist lowlands encourage dense rank growths. Seek out the late goldenrod in extensive colonies along the border of damp woods and thickets. Moist, rich soil supports healthy growths. Railroad rights-of-way, roadsides, and abandoned pastures are natural sites for this native Nebraskan. Communally or singly, they adorn unmolested areas, struggling to survive and reproduce on pasture or prairie.

Hay-fever victims find the goldenrod's eruption of blossoms less than a joyous occasion. Its reputation may be well justified, but goldenrod also bears the brunt ofthe blame for many other unnamed pollen producers.

Mowing machines and 2-4-D spray have been used in attempts to eradicate it, but both have failed. Control of goldenrod, wherever it has become overabundant, can usually be resolved with the initiation of good management practices, such as the prevention of overgrazing by livestock.

Wildlife and livestock feed on goldenrods to some extent. Basal leaves are commonly eaten during early spring or late fall. Songbirds and some upland game birds feed on the seed when it ripens in fall. Dense clumps provide excellent escape and protective cover for fowl and small mammals since they remain standing during most of the harsh winter months.

History tells us that the goldenrod served as a sign for the Omaha Indians that their corn was beginning to ripen. They called the plant Zhasage-zi, or hard, yellow weed. When away from their encampments on summer buffalo hunts along the Platte or Republican rivers, the sight of goldenrod in bloom beckoned them homeward to harvest their ripening maize.

Goldenrod was once highly regarded for its medicinal uses. The American Indians employed this common herb as a cure for sore throat and for pain in general, but today it is equally recommended by herbalists as a diaphoretic for colds or coughs, and as a means of relief from rheumatism.

Leaves, dried and powdered, may be prepared to yield a salt substitute with which to season warm or cooked food. The herb is cut and powdered with a coffee mill or similar grinder and sifted through a sieve or layers of cheese cloth, thus removing the coarse stems and stubborn leaf portions.

At least one species of goldenrod was known to make a suitable tea substitute. Dr. Johann D. Schoepf in 1788 said of the brew: "Here we were introduced to still another domestic tea plant, a variety of Solidago. The leaves were gathered and dried over a slow fire. It was said that in the eastern United States, many 100-pound packages of this Bohea-tea, as they called it, had been made for as long as the Chinese tea was scarce." His praise for the mixture was not ofthe highest order, though. He continued, "Our hostess praised its good taste, but this was not conspicuous in what she brewed."

Neither threatened or threatening, goldenrod's pleasing rays of gold should continue to fire Nebraska with beauty despite repeated mowing and application of deadly sprays. Many autumns yet will be greeted by these nodding heads of gold adorning the muted browns of late summer.

PRAIRIE DOCTOR

peace. There he was set upon and mortally wounded by vengeful soldiers. The doctor administered morphine to ease the pain, then watched over him until his death. That night, the chief's old uncle slept before the door of Dr. McGillycuddy, guarding the man who had been Crazy Horse's friend. Soon the Indian Wars ended, and the military doctor, who remembered humanity even in war, was replaced by civilian doctors.

Soddies weren't much better than forts. Drafty and unsanitary, the old earthen houses made mockery of the word cleanliness. But, as Dr. Francis A. Long remarked, "Where boiled water can be obtained it is possible to do an operation with reasonable probability of successful result."

As the West was gradually settled, railroads began to follow lonely homesteaders into the sunset. Railroad doctors had their own unique problems. Derailed trains left passengers in shock even if no other injury was sustained. Sometimes a train left the rails with such force that passengers could not stand for hours after the wreck. Patients in shock were wrapped in warm blankets, and heat and friction were applied to their limbs. They were treated with morphia. Doctors amputated fingers, or even limbs crushed by couplings, and removed cinders from eyes.

During the building of the railroads, Indians caused troubles that needed doctor's care. One such problem was a case of lost scalp. When the line west of Plum Creek went dead on August 6,1867, telegraph operator William Thompson and four other men set out to fix the break. With a large stick placed on the tracks, Indians derailed the handcar and shot and knifed the crew. Thompson was wounded in the arm. Then an Indian leaped on him and wrenched his scalp from his head. The railroad man, brought back from a swoon by the pain of scalping, started up and snatched the hair from the Indian who was too surprised to argue with him.

When rescue finally arrived, Thompson was rushed to Dr. Richard C. Moore, who began treatment. He dressed the wound with gauze saturated in pure olive oil. Gradually the wound healed and Thompson went back to work for the railroad. Dr. Moore put the scalp in a glass case, now in the Boys and Girls' Room of the Omaha Public Library.

Those who remember the good old days with nostalgia seem to recall that people were healthier then. But doctors differ. Their accounts enumerate poor diet, poor housing, and insufficient facilities for cleanliness as reasons for paleness and lack of vigor in most of the pioneer population. A greenhorn, they said, could be distinguished not by his clothes, but by his healthy complexion and animated expression.

Pioneer diets, with few fruits and vegetables, lacked the nutrients to make people really healthy. Without refrigeration, pioneer housewives were forced to serve meat and dairy products that were not altogether fresh.

One-to-three-room homes were cramped with five to nine or more people who slept two to three in a bed. Flies were a perpetual plague, and mosquitoes, too, carried disease. Water was not always pure and everyone drank from a common cup.

Extremes of temperature in drafty homes contributed to severe, early arthritis attacks. Almost annual childbearing and grueling work aged the women 'Now there's a word you don't hear very often." rapidly. Frequently, a pioneer man survived two or three wives.

Cold and fever were not attributed to illness. They were common, and considered to be part of life. The doctor was the last to be called to attend an ailing family member. Everyone else tried his hand before finally turning the hapless invalid over to good old Doc.

Doctors, on the other hand, often operated on the theory that a disease could be cured by a remedy that produced the opposite effect to the disease symptoms. Or, they thought, the disease could be transferred to another organ. Some even tried curing an illness by substituting a stronger one.

There were, of course, no anesthetics at first. When surgery or amputation was necessary, Doc used several strong men or a length of good rope, to keep the patient from "flinching" as he worked.

Pioneer ignorance added considerably to the doctor's burden. One Nebraska homesteader, a hard-working, conscientious man, asked Dr. F. A. Long the cause of typhoid fever which had struck his family. Dr. Long suggested that it was a water-borne disease and probably resulted from a contaminated well. No, the farmer told him, that could not be true. But after the epidemic had passed he cleaned his well, bringing up rotten corn cobs and corn husks, dead rats and mice, and a dead rabbit.

In the 1880's, one organization had a provision in its bylaws requiring members to take turns sitting up with the sick. Thus, a person ill with some contagious disease could infect the whole community as his neighbors took their turns caring for him.

Dr. Long tells of a time when he was called five miles into the country to treat a baby for pneumonia. The parents said that because the baby would take no nourishment they had shot a snow bird and made soup of which the baby ate.

"I never did know," the doctor recollects, "whether my treatment or the snow-bird soup cured the child."

Another Nebraska patient, suffering an attack of pneumonia, found he could not sleep. He asked for a sleeping potion which the doctor supplied. Next morning the patient had rested no better, but confessed that he had not taken the medicine. Again the following morning the story was the same. Further inquiry revealed that the patient was afraid he was going to die, and he wanted to be awake when he passed on.

When a doctor was called, even though the illness might be pneumonia or diphtheria, homesteaders often expected him to leave sufficient medicine for the cure. They would say, "We will let you know how we get along," then dismiss him. It took much persuasion for the doctor to be allowed to administer daily care.

But despite the disadvantages suffered by the western doctor —or perhaps because of them — he was a dedicated man, a healer in the truest sense of the word. He never refused to take a case, and always came with all haste when called.

Dr. George Remy recalled Dr. William B. Loomis' travels as follows:

"As soon as the doctor's weight was on the stirrup, the spunky pony was off. If 54 NEBRASKAland the doctor hit the saddle, O.K. If not, he had to climb into position on the run.

"When you saw them coming, it always looked like a race with death or the stork. The mare running, the doctor pulling, his saddle bags straight out to the sides, and his long overcoat flying back over the pony's tail."

Doctors made sacrifices above and beyond the call of duty. Fremont doctor Leonard Smith covered a new-born baby with his own shirt when he discovered there was no clean cloth around.

Dr. Brunner of Fremont wrote a prescription for a patient, sending her to the general store to pick it up. It consisted of fresh fruits and vegetables, paid for by the doctor.

Doctors often had to ride all day and all night. It was not uncommon for the weather to change from sun to blizzard within that day-and-night journey. Frequently, doctors were stranded, either at the home of a patient or somewhere on the road, until the storm subsided.

Blizzards were a minor risk, though. A greater danger was diphtheria, a dreaded scourge in the days before inoculation. A common operation in the case of laryngeal diphtheria, when the throat filled with fluid and the patient was unable to breathe, was a tracheotomy. If the patient failed to breathe when the windpipe was opened, the doctor laid a handkerchief over the wound in the trachea and, with the lips, sucked mucus from the larynx.

As contagious as diphtheria is, such an operation was suicidal for a doctor. But an Omaha surgeon tells of doing it. On the way home he thought about what he had done and begged a chew of tobacco from the driver's plug. Then on reaching town he indulged freely in alcohol as an antidote.

The doctor's wife was almost as dedicated as the doctor. She waited up for him, and often acted as a makeshift nurse. Mrs. Luther Abbott often stayed up all night waiting for her doctor husband, keeping something warm for him to eat when he arrived. She went along to help on obstetric cases. Once the good doctor even brought home a smallpox victim for her to nurse because there was no one else to care for him. She never protested.

The doctor's wife had to live within a limited budget, too. The fee for a house call in the 1880's was one dollar, day or night. The doctor charged 50 cents a mile for country calls. Childbirth was worth a fiat rate of $10, town or country — but country calls were seldom made unless there was some trouble.

All these fees, of course, were charged provided the patient had the means and the inclination to pay them. In early Nebraska, few did. Sometimes the doctor would take his fee in trade for goods he needed. But with or without fees, the doctor never quibbled. He risked life and health daily, treating the ill with untiring devotion.

Those early-day doctors, like their patients, were pioneers in a new land. Not only did they face the hardships common in frontier areas, they found the courage to experiment with new methods and new potions. Under difficult circumstances, they performed medical feats that would have dismayed practitioners in the East. Sometimes the doctors failed, but the attempt to save a life always meant the difference between hope and despair.

WARMING UP FOR DEER

Jim Smith, who participated in his first archery-deer hunt last fall, put the targets to good use.

Thus far, full-size, colored bodies of a deer, mountain lion, mountain sheep, and Canada goose have been constructed by Larry Wysuph. The mountain lion has a tongue, ivory teeth, removable tail, and life-like eyes. All the models have eyes and other realistic features, making them almost too neat to shoot full of holes.

But, punch them full of holes the archers will. Suiting their placement with natural habitat, the deer is located in the woods, the mountain sheep is on a ridge atop a hill, and the goose is suspended from a tree branch by rope.

"This should increase hunter interest," Bob Dinslage observed, "as well as making shooters more conscious of a good hit. With a target, a bowman feels good just hitting paper, but with a body to shoot at, winging a leg is not good enough —and a near miss doesn't look good because there is no backstop for the arrow to stick into."

Prior to deer season, few of the avid hunters shoot regular targets any more. Noel Miller, who can be classed as a top hunter on the basis of his success on deer every season, confines his practice to animal targets on the field range.

"I think target shooting is important, but the conditions are just not the same as in the field. Usually, archers are shooting down from a tree blind, and so practice should be from a tree. The tendency is to overshoot when angling downward, and all the flat-field target work in the world won't demonstrate that. And, the range also improves chances of success stalking deer because the bowman faces the same unknowns as in the field."

Estimating distances accurately is another critical factor for archers. Extremely powerful bows shoot fairly flat, but not like a rifle. Only on very close shots is arrow drop not appreciable. On moving targets, arrow speed necessitates a sizable lead. Normally a solid hit at a running deer is uncommon because of the difficulty in computing the proper lead in a split second. That's why most archers prefer to use a blind —so they get standing, not running, shots.

"We have tried to make the range a workable training ground for those wanting to prepare themselves for the majority of hunting situations," Dinslage explained. "We think it works, and it certainly has been well received. In fact, most of our hunters expect even better success next year as they plan to take fuller advantage of the setup to perfect their techniques."

Jim Smith, who went afield for the first time during the 1970 deer season, got only one "decent" shot at a deer, but muffed it. His shooting ability now is more than ample. "I suppose it was more a case of buck fever than anything," he claims. "Next year, that won't happen."

Bow hunting, especially for that ever-alert and downright sneaky creature, the whitetail, is seldom an easy matter. But, the Omaha Archery Club and other organizations around the state are giving bowmen the chance to better their odds. When archers can afford to pass up shots at does and lesser bucks waiting for "old grandad", they have confidence. And, they are sportsmen, which is even more important.

Where to go

MENTION SUMMER IN Nebraska and the first thing that pops into many minds is water. Across the state, thousands will turn out to partake of a bounty of wet stuff which offers everything from swimming to boating for the multitudes in search of adventure. And, nowhere is there more demand for aqua-recreation than in the southeastern portion of the state.

With more than half of the population inhabiting about one-third of Nebraska, pressure on existing lakes and streams in the east is tremendous. Yet, one outlet stands ready to satisfy all urges for summer fun. The Fremont Lakes State Recreation Area, located just three miles west of Fremont on U.S. Highway 30, provides something for everyone in

the recreational realm; be they casual camper or avid angler. The recreation area, often simply called Fremont Lakes, consists of some 20 lakes situated on 800 acres of cottonwood, ash, and evergreen-studded Platte River Valley bottomland. Eight lakes lie north of the highway, with 12 more located south across the Union Pacific Railroad tracks which run through the area. Those with an eye on camping will find their best bets north of the highway since most of that acreage is given over to outdoor living. Boaters and vehicle campers should head south for peak pleasures. Whatever the decision or desire, though, there is plenty of room for fun at the Fremont Lakes.

A good weekend at the lakes will see thousands of visitors hitting the beaches and campgrounds. Anglers are sure to be on hand as they try for catches in several well-stocked waters. Such piscatorial diversity is available that many anglers may have trouble deciding on prey. Bluegill, channel catfish, redear sunfish, largemouth and smallmouth bass, rock bass, bullhead, and northern pike abound in several of the lakes. And, the everpresent carp promises healthy battles in the rough-fish ranks. These throwbacks to a bygone era may even end up in the pan with more and more anglers exploring cooking methods and recipes. Line wetters who converge on Fremont Lakes must, however, have a valid fishing license on their person at all times. Campers, on the other hand, are restricted only by the zeal with which they approach their sport.

Types of camping at Fremont range from the pitch-a-tent type to the house-on-wheels variety. Access to the area is easy indeed, with more than 10 miles of rock and gravel roads offering mobility that is hard to beat anywhere. Campers who tow boats into the south section will also find a pleasant surprise in the convenience of eight boat ramps which dot the lake. Be they muscle, wind, or motorpowered craft, there is a wide range of exploring at hand. Three lakes are interconnected , posing great possibilities for water skiing or simply taking a relaxing voyage circa 1890. Whatever your style, there is plenty of latitude since all types of craft are allowed on the lakes.

Ranking among the state's best-located areas, the Fremont Lakes provide the essentials of home life for those who don't cart them along, even though it is ranked as a primitive camping area. Picnic tables, drinking water, fireplaces, sanitary facilities, shelter houses, and special trailer parking are all on tap. Boats may be rented on the premises, and concession stands are provided for those more inclined to purchase than pack their lunches. While this may be a big factor in the asset column, the spectrum of optional activities really brings the place to life. This year, the main camping area will undergo considerable construction. Prospective visitors should check with area personnel prior to heading out.

Swimmers abound at Fremont. However, care must be taken since there is no supervision. Knowledgeable aquanauts will find the area supreme, though. Clear water and a marked absence of current can create the illusion of a gigantic swimming pool. Therein lies the danger, however, and safety cannot be stressed too heavily.

If Fremont has a forte, it is camping. One of the more striking areas the state has to offer, the recreation area abounds with trees. Providing refreshing shade, they are also a paradise for bird watchers and those interested in the state's wildlife. Hunters also get into the act with their sport sanctioned during designated seasons.

While the Fremont Lakes State Recreation Area is among the most heavily JULY 1971 57   used spots in the populous east, it is by no means Nebraska's only water haven. Long fabled for its mysterious implications, Walgren Lake is an ideal get-away-from-it-all spot, nestled in the broad expanses of the Sand Hills.

Hay Springs residents have long known of Walgren Lake, located 5 miles southeast of their Panhandle community on U.S. Highway 20 or Nebraska Highway 87. The lake yields channel catfish, white perch, Sacramento perch, and bullheads. The best angling ranges through spring and summer, with drifting and still fishing throughout the entire lake productive. Locals have known all that for years. What they aren't too sure about is the legend of Walgren Lake.

They say that the usually placid impoundment can suddenly turn choppy. And, as heavy clouds and roiling mist roll over its surface, its resident monster, Giganticus Brutervious, stalks the land. Those who have reportedly seen him say Giganticus is 300 feet long from the tip of his fire-breathing nostrils to the end of his forked tail. The monster of Walgren Lake is a shy fellow at times, rousing from the depths of slumber only after considerable prodding. As the sun disappears and thunder rends the air, townspeople recall the days when Giganticus last appeared.

As the early years of the 20th Century slid by, Giganticus' fame spread far and near. There were disbelievers who heard of him, however, and they could not let a sleeping monster lie. One particularly adventurous fellow (some say he hailed from Omaha) announced he would spend a night camping on the lake's edge to disprove the growing legend. So, after a considerable journey, he settled down beside the water on a clear evening and proceeded to make his point. Soon, though, he was jolted by the rattle of thunder and the flash of lightning. Gazing above the fog, he saw the blazing eyes and flicking tongue of Giganticus bearing down on him. There the story ends, for the next morning a white-haired babbling wretch stumbled into Hay Springs and that was all the tale he could bear to tell.

Of late, the monster has deemed it inadvisable to appear. Some say that he may have moved on, displaced by the constant march of progress. Others, though, maintain that he is lying at the bottom of Walgren Lake, simply awaiting the right time to reappear. Probably only time will tell whether Giganticus still lurks in the lake. Meanwhile, visitors need have no fear, for if he exists, they will find Giganticus has turned a tranquil visage to their presence.

Walgren Lake State Recreation Area boasts picnic tables, drinking water, and fireplaces. Sanitary facilities and shelter houses are also at hand, and swimming is permitted, although it is unsupervised. Boaters with power rigs are prohibited on the lake, but its waters are open to non-power craft. Hunting is not allowed at Walgren Lake.

So, whether in search of facilities in the populous east or the more open reaches of the west, those who seek their pleasure in the out-of-doors will find just what the doctor ordered in Nebraska, from the Fremont Lakes to Walgren Lake.

GIRLS WENT CANOEING

Nebraska, the Platte has been so tamed that it has become a wide, flat water, not a rushing torrent. But it's still a corridor of wildlife habitat.

Cranes stop over to the east and west of our canoeing area. There is speculation that the early diversion of the Platte's water in that region is the reason for the crane's selectivity — but there's no proof yet. There is only speculation on the effects of the new project, but guesses are educated.

The diversion dam we had reached was the second in a series of water-control units built in 1941, and below it the river widened. But, the channel stayed narrow and the sandbars got shallower.

At the dam, Bob, who had been soaked swimming after our snagged paddle and a lost life jacket, Nan, and I walked the boats to the edge of the spillway. We all helped drag them, loaded, to the top of the dike, then took a break. Later, we dragged them down the other side and under another fence.

We pulled into the north channel of the Platte at about 3:30 p.m., calculating from memory that we had three miles to go by river before reaching the Gothenburg bridge where we were to rendezvous with a conservation officer, who would take the guys back to our state rigs.

We paddled at leisure, in no hurry to reach our destination since we had plenty of daylight left. The silence was broken by an occasional, hushed, "Look, there's a mallard," or "Did you see that beaver?" Comparing notes later, we discovered we had seen a beaver, a pair of mallards, a few teal, quite a number of blue herons, a deer, a mud hen or two, and hundreds of sundry songbirds.

As dusk began to settle behind the grey haze which still hung over us, we saw two large cream-colored birds with black-bordered wings and long legs. They flew like herons, swooping near the water close to our canoe. Taking our description back to the office at the end of our trip, we found no bird that fit the exact specifications of our pair and could only conclude they were great blue herons, their colors disguised by the late afternoon sun which made their lighter parts look white rather than blue-grey.

We noticed a red-winged blackbird perched in the rushes, taking note of our passing. The banks were a profusion of growing things from willows to cattails. Spring's hand was evident in the green lace of just-budding branches —but still no sun.

The wildlife and plant growth I was seeing turned my thoughts to the Midstate project. While our stretch of river would not be affected directly by the planned diversion of the Platte's water, I had heard concern expressed that a considerable stretch downriver might be irreversibly changed.

Over the years, I had been told, the pulsing flows of the river maintained 58 NEBRASKAland unstable, exposed sandbars. Our Research Division speculated that as these flows are reduced and in some years completely eliminated, a chain reaction could be expected. First, wind-blown seeds such as willow and cottonwood will find a base on which to germinate and take root. Then as these plants grow, the once-mobile sandbar may erupt into a wooded island. While all animal life dependent upon water will be affected, the biggest concern is about the project's potential impact on sandhill cranes. The cranes, which I had seen by the thousands earlier in the spring, would no longer use the sandbars of the lower Platte for roosting areas during their spring stopover. Courtship dances there would be a thing of the past. And the upper stretch couldn't support the entire crane population.

The Platte, historically, is known as one of America's great waterfowl-hunting areas. But ducks and geese migrating through Nebraska might learn to overpass the familiar river. Habitat being as scarce as it is now, a great change in the river could seriously affect the waterfowl population.

Both bald and golden eagles winter along the Platte, but with no fish on which to feed, they'll either have to relocate or starve. Deer, beaver, muskrats, and any other wild animals supported by that section of the river would have to compete with wildlife already entrenched in new habitat areas.

I was startled from my reverie by a shouted, "Let's stop here! I'm starving!"

Gradually, as day waned, we had begun wondering what had happened to the Gothenburg bridge, and by this time everyone was willing to forget it and set up camp. We also began thinking about creature comforts — like warm food, dry clothes, fireside luxury, sleeping bags, and tents.

Finally at about 7 p.m. we pulled in to set up camp. As soon as the canoes were secure on the banks we started bustling around after firewood, and digging through our equipment looking for the evening meal. Dinner consisted of a kind of hash made by combining hamburger, shredded potatoes, and chopped onion. This had been packaged in meal-size aluminum wrappers and baked, cooled, and frozen. I dragged the plastic food containers out of my duffle bag, pulled out the now-thawed packages, and threw them on a thriving fire. We wrapped biscuits, frozen before we started, in aluminum foil and threw them in the coals. We had carrots and radishes, cookies and punch.

While the coals took care of the food, Nan and I busied ourselves setting up our two pup tents. As a novice with tents — my family never used them —I staked out the sides, crawled inside and erected the poles, then drove the stake for the one guy wire which held up the front pole. Nan, experienced in tenting matters, took one step I hadn't. She laid a ground cloth before starting, a precaution she was to rue.

Our tents erected, we set about hanging out wet garments. When the nearest tree was (Continued on page 62)

Roundup and What to do

JULY SAILS INTO Nebraska with a wise word of caution from Governor J. J. Exon, who has proclaimed July 4 to 10 Safe Boating Week.

The month begins with the conclusion of Bellevue's Arrows-to-Aerospace celebration featuring Softball, street dancing, kiddie rides, and riverboat cruises. The Bellevue Little Theater performs its Chautauqua while merchants offer their Krazy Daze bargains. Polka dancing is also part of the fun, as well as a diversity of activities — horse shows, horseshoe pitching, and a concert by the Omaha Can Do singers.

And speaking of "can do" Nancy Sahs' activities calendar looks like a what's what list of present events. She is a college board member for "Mademoiselle", Home Economics advisory board member, an ASUN student senator, and a member of the U of N design club.

Daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Warren Sahs of Lincoln, Nancy is a graduate of Lincoln Northeast High. She lists waterskiing, skiing, sewing and designing clothes, reading, and bicycle riding among her hobbies.

Her titles include Miss E-Week, Miss University of Nebraska finalist, and Sport magazine's Campus Queen finalist.

Another kind of title is awarded at McCook's sailing regatta July 3 to July 5. Trophies go to sailors with the best time in four out of five races during the three-day competition.

Rodeos are in full swing during the month with a contest July 3 and 4 at Bridgeport. Perhaps the most unique contest is the Little Britches Rodeo at Chadron July 16 and 17. Events there are planned for contenders from 8 to 17 years of age.

Many community rodeos are part and parcel of July 4 celebrations. Other festivities include baseball, pancake feeds, centennials, and oldtime celebrations. Performances of the Village Theater in Brownville begin July 4 and run through August 22.

At the other end of both the state and the entertainment spectrum are Oregon Trail Days at Gering. Events during the two days include registration of pioneers Thursday morning, honoring pioneer courage and fortitude. The 50th anniversary of the Oregon Trail festivities continues with a kiddie parade featuring youngsters in various types of costumes —pioneer, western, and many more.

In Red Cloud, citizens set aside time to honor families of the area's original homesteaders during Homestead Weekend. Entertainment for the event is furnished by the local mellerdrammers in the city park, weather permitting.

Czech celebrations begin in Dwight July 23 and run to July 25 with old-world music and dancing, plus out-of-this-world food.

At Fairbury, the annual Crystal Springs Camp-In draws about 200 camping families. Rigs include everything from tents, trailers, and trucks to sleeping bags under the stars. There is dancing two nights, drawings for prizes, and a twilight theater.

Across Nebraska, county fairs provide 4-H competition, carnivals, tractor-pulling contests, horse-shoe-pitching contests, three-legged races, and other unique entertainment opportunities.

At the end of the month, Red Cloud is again the scene of action with the Centennial Swim Meet.

From festivals, barbecues, picnics, and rodeos to unplanned activities like an impromptu canoe float down an inviting river, NEBRASKAland is the place to be in July.

What to do

GIRLS WENT CANOEING

draped with our soaked clothing, we set our tennis shoes by the campfire.

Dinner over, we discussed the best way to get the guys back to civilization, since we had missed our connections and had no idea how far the Gothenburg bridge was. Obviously, some walking was in order, either back to Brady or forward to Gothenburg. Marv opted for Brady and Brady it was.

After a little fireside discussion, tooth brushing, face washing, and creaming weather-dried skin, we crawled into our respective cocoons and drifted off into a deep sleep.

The next thing I heard was a splattering of rain on canvas. I drowsed again, then heard small hailstones bouncing off the tent. Next I heard Nan, bunked in the other tent, standing at the door of ours, "Our tent leaked and we're soaked ..." then a disappointed, "Well, there's nothing you can do about it anyway..." and a sloshing back into the darkness. Only semi-conscious, I fell back to sleep and awoke to the refreshing sound of thousands of songbirds, filling what I thought was the grey dawn.

It turned out to be 8 a.m., raining, and the grey was clouds covering the long-risen sun. I sat up and reached for the cut-offs I had laid carefully in my sleeping bag the night before. Rumaging around, I finally located them in the bottom of my over-size bag which, for lack of room, had been sticking out the door of the tent. Water had soaked through the zipper to them.

"Well, I've got dry socks anyway," I thought, then reached for my shoes. But I had kicked them out of the tent during the night and they drew an inch of water. It seemed too cold to go barefoot, so I put my dry socks in my poured-out shoes and squished to the still-hot coals of the night's campfire. Then I started looking for relatively dry wood —we hadn't laid in a supply the night before. All we had room for under the big rain poncho was the few remaining dry clothes we had and our provisions. I found a fallen tree with branches standing up above the ground. As I attacked these with a hatchet, I found my right hand was too cold and tired to grip. Using both hands, I finally got some likely pieces.

Back at camp, everyone else was stirring, mostly looking with chagrin at the clothes that were supposed to dry overnight by the fire. We poured most of a can of charcoal lighter on our damp wood, lit a couple of matches and voila. We tried to dry out a bit. Nan hung her sleeping bag on a rack of lashed-together paddles, and water ran out of it like out of a sponge. She bemoaned her forgetfulness as she explained that when she laid the ground cloth she forgot to tuck the ends under the tent. Rain fell on the outcroppings of plastic and ran under the tent where it formed a little lake in which Nan and Rose spent the night.

Whenever someone would get an extra garment dry by our now-blazing fire, it 62 NEBRASKAland was up for grabs. "Who needs dry socks? Anybody need a dry jacket? I've got an extra dry shirt here! How about a sweater?" Nan set her tennis shoes afire twice. Everyone ended up wearing at least a few garments belonging to someone else.

Finally, with no hope of clearing, and sporadic showers that drove us back to the tents all morning, we gave up, slipped into rain slickers, and started breakfast. Hot canned ham, scrambled eggs, and sand helped raise spirits. We broke camp in a steady downpour and climbed into cold canoes, wishing we had gloves. There could be no accidents like the day before, and we had to stay together, because anyone falling overboard would probably freeze to death before she drowned. We would all have to help her ashore and get her warm. We paddled against the bitter wind at every clearing, with icy rain stinging our faces and hands. Twice we got caught on sandbars and had to work our way painfully off by shoving against the sand until we finally pulled free. Rose commented that we would probably wear our paddles to the handles before we reached civilization.

We had just worked our way off one of those sandbars when I heard Rose shout, "Look! There's a wolf!" But try as I might, I could see nothing but trees and overgrowth. Since wolves are scarce in Nebraska, I assumed what she had seen was either a coyote or a German shepherd belonging to one of the landowners along the river.

After three hours, we pulled up under the Interstate bridge just west of the Gothenburg interchange. Nan and Michele, who shared a canoe the second day, moored on the near side, but Rose and I couldn't get turned in time and ran under the bridge before we could? find a stopping place.

There was no way to walk under the bridge for a conference, so Rose crossed the Interstate and had a short confab with the two other girls. The upshot was that Nan took their canoe under the bridge alone —a near mistake. The current caught her immediately and nearly shoved her into one of the pilings of the bridge.

After the perilous crossing, Michele and Rose started hoofing it across 1-80 again. As they reached the north side, a Department of Roads emergency pickup wheeled up. They flagged it down and explained our mission, then asked how far to Gothenburg. About half a mile, he said, on the right fork of the river. So we sent Michele ahead with him to arrange to bring our canoes onto property belonging to a service station. We also wanted to take shelter in the office until help could arrive from Lincoln.

We lashed the two canoes together with Nan and I to paddle the first and Rose in the second and proceeded the last half mile, catching on more snags and sandbars than during the entire previous portion of the trip.

At last we landed, to be handed out of our canoes by a helpful gas-station attendant and the Department of Roads man. We dragged the craft up to secure resting places and abandoned them for hot coffee and the warmth of the station.

I called Lincoln and explained our problem —a 2 p.m. temperature of 36 degrees. I told them we were calling the whole thing off and asked that they send someone to pick us up a day early. They assured me help was on the way.

Meanwhile, we rode up to Brady with the Department of Roads man to pick up the second vehicle, left the night before, and drove it down to Gothenburg. Finally, three hours after we got off the river, our Lincoln agent arrived, and helped us lash the canoes on the cars and stow our gear. We were off, after a hot meal in a fine Gothenburg restaurant.

Conversation on the way back turned to our expectations and the way the trip turned out. All of us were eager to get back on the river. With warm weather, we all agreed, our trip could have been fun throughout. We had done some things wrong, and hadn't prepared for the cold. But still, we counted the expedition a success. That's why, if you would like to find any of us this summer from mid-May to late June, we'll be in canoes, lazing in the warmth of the sun on the meandering Platte River. That is, we will unless the temperature drops to 36 degrees at 2 p.m.

PLANNED PLANTHOOD

new to the organization, he has brought "Old-World" techniques and excellence to Nebraska's horticultural green-up program.

One of the basic concepts developed and implemented is that of "pioneer plantings." Initial plantings of fast-growing trees like poplars, willows, and junipers create a microclimate conducive to the survival of more delicate and demanding species otherwise unacceptable as far north and west as Nebraska. Inexpensive to raise from cuttings or seeds and convenient to handle, they are attractive plantings by themselves while providing necessary protection for less-hardy species.

A fresh approach to landscaping is the "island" plan of planting. Plants are set in tight island-like clumps around a nucleus of pioneer species, thus affording the protection of numbers. Islands are woven into intricate complexes forming peninsulas and pockets with park-like openings. Formal-type plantings are out. Landscapes closely imitating nature's style are the rule. Hastening and enhancing nature's slower pace is the goal.

Mixed plantings of several species are the preferred landscaping scheme. Should disease or insect pests infect a certain tree type, the group as a whole is not greatly affected. Massive tree kills, like those occurring from Dutch elm disease, are thus avoided.

Rigorous standards dictate plant selection. Vigor, or hardiness under the extremes of western climate, is a primary consideration. Only plants resistant to diseases and pests are acceptable. Harmony among other plant types is an important factor in selection JULY 1971 63   of trees to be used in mixed associations. Woody and herbaceous plants must not be hazardous to livestock or man and cannot interfere with farming operations. Plants with a high life stamina, which are able to hold their own with a minimum of care, are desired selections. Only plants that are sexually productive are used. That they multiply themselves in the wild is desired. Plants native to Nebraska are preferred over those from other parts of the country. Those adapted to Nebraska's climate and soil types are selected for their genetic qualities. Native plants are preferred for stock that will ultimately be returned to the wild since commercial varieties would find it difficult to compete. Plants are used to preserve and improve the original landscape— not cover or mask it. Those used by wildlife, such as fruiting plants and good cover plants, are selected.

Island-like plantings of hardy, adaptable, fast-growing plants were established along the Interstate the first spring. Future plantings will expand these clumps and additional trees and shrubs will be interwoven into protected pockets formed by the pioneer plants. In the future, the lakes will be dressed with a blending of ornamental trees, shrubs, and wildflowers.

Two state-owned nurseries are now assuming a major role in supplying plant needs for the various divisions within the Game and Parks Commission. The first was established on the Cornhusker Management Area west of Grand Island. Located on level, fertile farmland, it is five acres in size. An overhead sprinkler system keeps tender, delicate plants in prime condition, eliminates the need to rely on spotty rains, and facilitates some nursery operations requiring strict moisture conditions.

Plant species so expensive as to be prohibitive, or those not available from regular sources, form the bulk of the plants found here. Providing special plant quality, the nursery permits more effective transplanting of plants to the wild. Strong, vigorous root systems are stressed rather than above-ground parts, for the strength of the root system dictates the survivability of plants in the wild.

One of the greatest assets of the Commission nursery comes from the opportunity to propagate plant species which are rare or not available commercially. Plants can be propagated in quantity and selected for variations. Plants such as poplars and willows, which are easily produced from cuttings, are available at no cost. Another economic advantage lies in the fact that young planting stock can be purchased through commercial nurseries, lined out in the nursery for a year or two, and then transplanted to state areas. High quality plants at a minimal cost are the end results. Another big plus for a state-owned-and-operated nursery is that workloads can be better distributed on a moment's notice when stock is available. A heavy fall planting now helps to ease pressure on the customary spring planting schedule.

Approximately 6,400 seedlings were placed in the nursery at Grand Island during the first spring. Use of a tree planter —which cuts a furrow and reseals it after personnel have placed a young seedling in the soil —greatly increases the rate of planting. Of this total, 2,800 plants were of a size and quality to be set out in the spring of 1970. The remainder will be held another year.

A collective nursery was established on Game and Parks Commission land at Branched Oak Lake near Lincoln the same year. Two acres in size, this site is used primarily for seeding nut and acorn crops and wildflowers as well as nurturing delicately grafted junipers and pines.

A plant collection arboretum, to hold new plants and provide a propagation source, was also established at Branched Oak Lake. Holding representative species of many Nebraska plants and rare varieties, it is now an acre in size but is expanded every spring. Many of Nebraska's wildflowers are represented on the area. The sidehill pasture erupts in a blending of orange, yellow, and blue as various flowers emerge in their own seasons. Unusual and uncommon mutant forms of junipers have been set out and are just beginning to assume a notable size.

North of the collection arboretum lies a small plantation of mixed pine species that ultimately may cover 30 or more acres. Also started on the same area is a nut orchard containing all varieties of native nut and acorn trees as well as some formerly believed not rugged enough to survive this far north. Buckeye, chestnut, pecan, hazel, hickory, and varieties of walnuts are being used. Other tree types will also be represented on the area, including hawthorn, baldcypress, and persimmon.

Baldcypresses are being used on some lake areas where rising water tables may ultimately inundate the trees. These water-loving, southern trees will not only tolerate high water, but thrive in it. A deciduous conifer, they make for an unusual lakeside setting as well as being havens for waterfowl and aquatic life.

Assorted other plantings of common, as well as unusual tree and shrub types, are being used in clump, block, and peninsula plantings around Branched Oak Lake. Selected varieties of poplars are being used to ring one of the creeks feeding Branched Oak Lake where fallen elms have left a void. Peninsulas of walnuts and ornamental shrubs will finger from this meandering line of softwoods. Small water bodies on the area are fringed by clumps of willows —arctic, basket, golden, and corkscrew.

But nursery plants do not just grow on their own; many hours of work and care are involved before they are lined out. Most plants of local varieties or of rare types that cannot be obtained commercially have their beginning in the greenhouse. A small, rented greenhouse has served the Commission in this capacity for the past three years. Literally thousands of plants have passed through its door.

Wildflower seeds, collected in autumn, are sown (Continued on page 66)

OUTDOOR NEBRASKAland of the Air

PLANNED PLANTHOOD

in January and February in the greenhouse. Galvanized trays filled with a mixture of soil, peat moss, and sand serve as germination beds. Most young plants sprout in a month or less. Dense, grass-like carpets of hundreds of wildflowers soon cover the flat. At the appropriate age they are transplanted singly into three-inch-deep, plastic pots, held in the greenhouse, and later either lined out directly in the field or sunk in at ground level in shade or in a lathe house for the summer.

The real utility of the greenhouse, though, is that deciduous shrubs and evergreens, unavailable from commercial nurseries, may be propagated in modest numbers from cuttings or graftings.

Evergreen shrubs of commercial quality and mutant forms of wild types are started from cuttings in the heated beds. Creeping junipers that were discovered forming dense carpets on canyon walls north of Valentine and a similar plant found along the highway east of Sutton have been transplanted to other sites around the state. These circular carpets of juniper will soon provide attractive landscaping, as well as being unusual ground cover to hold the soil and provide protection for wildlife.

Grafting of various evergreens is the main line of business in the early winter for Hans Burchardt. Included in the plants that the Game and Parks Commission has been working with are Scotch and white pines that grow in compact upright postures rather than like the usual forest types, plus weeping junipers, and other highly ornamental varieties.

Later in August or early September, the plant propagators begin their bud grafting of deciduous plants. Tiny buds from desired species or varieties are inserted in T-cuts just under the bark of a related species. Wrapped tightly with rubber, the buds remain dormant over winter and open in the spring. Removing the branch above the new bud later that summer or the following spring allows the new addition to sprout. The original plant, called the understock, is then cut away above the bud and the desired plant is on its way to maturity.

Using this technique, trees that can not reproduce any other way are propagated in needed numbers and fruit types or special varieties are put on disease or pest-resistant understock. Special types of trees, like cutleaf maple, can be budded on inexpensive understock of soft maple or blue and one-leaf ash budded on green ash.

So next time you visit one of those Interstate lakes or stop at a district office of the Commission, pause a moment. Take a closer look at those red plastic flags. Probably they mark a baldcypress or persimmon or other exotic in Nebraska. They also represent hours of searching, caring, and nurturing. They are more than just trees —they are part of our state's future.

Outdoor Elsewhere

The Backfire. While duck hunting last fall, a New York sportsman accidentally soaked the tail of his jacket while wading into the lake for a downed duck. After the hunter returned with the duck to his blind on the lake's frozen edge, he squatted on the ice to wait for a second shot. Soon a pair of ducks circled overhead. The sportsman readied to shoot. However, when he tried to jump up and shoot, the wet tail of his coat had frozen to the ice. He succeeded only in snapping his suspenders loose. His pants fell down, and he fell backwards on his rump. Meanwhile, the ducks unexcitedly winged along their way. —New York

No More Wondering. Because his wife was continually wondering what in the world could be so exciting about goose hunting, a Denver sportsman invited his spouse along as an observer to his goose pit. Immediately after they were situated in the pit, she began to needle him about how exciting it was to climb into the pit. Just then, a flock of geese swung overhead. The hunter raised up and hit a Canada goose that plummeted straight for the pit and hit his wife in the face, shattering her eyeglasses, cutting the bridge of her nose, and ultimately blackening both of her eyes. Needless to say, her question was answered! — Colorado

Liars Never Win. There is an old theory that if you tell a big enough story, it will be believed, or at worst, it will win enough sympathy to get you out of trouble. But, the problem with this theory, like several others, is that it doesn't always work out. A case in point: two young Missouri fellows were recently arrested by a game warden for spotlighting. The fellows pleaded to the judge that they weren't really out to spotlight a deer, but were just taking their pet cat for a final ride. They went on to explain that the cat had escaped and that they were looking for him in the dark woods with the lights and rifles. The judge listened sympathetically to the young outdoorsmen, but had heard it all before. He explained to the fellows that they should dispose of their unwanted cats in a different manner, or at least they should be more careful about this type of mission. His gavel fell and he fined them. —Missouri

Even Stephen. Needless to say, in most cases the fisherman far outweighs his finny opponents. However, a New York youngster who stands 5 feet, 4 inches tall, and tips the scales at 104 pounds, recently met his exact match while fishing off the coast of Florida. The young angler hooked and landed, after a gruelling 35-minute duel, an amberjack that measured 5 feet 4 inches long and weighed 104 pounds.— New York

Wildlife Mishap. Tragedy struck a flock of mallard ducks last fall in a most unusual and deadly manner. The ducks were feeding on dry soybeans in an Arkansas field, and after eating their fill, they made the crucial mistake of going directly back to water and drinking their fill. The water then expanded the soybeans to the extent where the ducks were literally exploded. In all, some 6,000 mallards were killed in this extraordinary, tragic mishap.— Arkansas

High Cost of Living. According to a recent report from the Michigan Highway Department, empty beer cans now cost more than full ones in their state. Why? It's simple. Beer cans that are discarded along the state's roadsides cost about 32 cents each to be cleaned up. And, 32 cents for an empty can is more than a full one. It doesn't make sense does it? That's the whole point. Litter is senseless, and extremely costly. — Michigan

Man's Best Friend. Just as their names imply, retrievers are trained to fetch objects for their masters. However, a Maine conservation officer's two retrievers go much farther than what is normally expected of them. While visiting with an ice fisherman on Embden Pond, one of the angler's trap flags popped up. The two retrievers immediately dashed into action. They raced to the flag, grabbed the line and galloped off with it. Out swooshed a 4 1/2-pound lake trout. Then, to make a perfect showing, the dogs dragged the trout over to the fisherman.— Maine

Fishing Instructions. A lady in one of the general classes of the Chicago Tribune's free fishing schools recently broke up the whole session when she so innocently asked: "Is it cheating to use live bait?"- Illinois