Speak Up

WOW — "As a native of Nebraska, I look forward with much anticipation and pleasure to receiving NEBRASKAland. Your May 1971 issue is one of the best. Congratulations on Cry Spring, Cry Wild. The bird illustrations are simply beautiful, as well as informative. The printing is excellent, and the whole thing is an issue to be preserved for reference." — Clarence B. Noelting, Evansville, Indiana.

PAPER DECOYS - "Please send information on papier-mache for duck and goose decoys. How or what is used in the papier-mache?"- C. H. Branch, Norfolk.

Strips of newspaper are cemented to a chicken-wire frame with wallpaper paste. The decoy must be formed to the desired style before the paste sets. A flour paste can also be mixed, using baking flour and water to achieve a pastelike consistency. — Editor.

STAMPING OUT LITTER-"I have just read your article Lethal Litter (Speak Up, May 1971). In my community of Borrita, a very fine gentleman with a sizeable estate found a pile of litter along the roadside. He filtered through the mess and found enough papers to identify the sloppy joe. He boxed it up, took it to the man's home, and proceeded to dump it all over his front yard.

The story spread far and wide and probably stopped many individuals from doing the same inconsiderate thing. Near the city dump a few miles away there were piles of junk the sloppy owners had been too indifferent to take all the way.

On my own road allowance of 20 rods, I could pick up from 2 to 3 bushels of beer cans about twice a year.

I'd like to see a fine of $1,000 and 30 days in jail for the litterbug. These instances I have referred to are in one of the finest residential areas of San Diego." — Author Unknown, San Diego, California.

THINK IT OVER-"If Mr. Bruce B. Johnson, East Lansing, Michigan (Speak Up, May 1971) thinks taking the guns from all Americans is a cure for the 20,000 people shot to death and the 200,000 injured, I am sure he has not given the problem much thought. Guns don't kill people. People kill people. Anyone who has killing in mind will get a gun even if he has to steal it.

"I agree with Woodson D. Scott, president, National Rifle Association (For The Record, January 1971), that guns should not be taken from the American people just because some nut shoots someone. The Communists would like to see this since it is just what they do so people can't protect themselves. If the killing and maiming are primary points, let's take liquor away from people, too. It causes more deaths and accidents and property damage than a man who has a gun." —Richard H. Smidt, Juniata.

GOOD GUNNING-"Here is a picture taken in 1906. A flock of eight geese came in to me in a cornfield near Schuyler. Using a Model 97 Winchester, I brought down 5 birds with 6 shots, the fifth taking 2 loads. Four of the geese weighed 50 pounds —2 at 13 pounds each and 2 at 12 pounds each. The last bird weighed only 10 pounds." — C. E. Harshberger, Schuyler.

OWLHOOT-The centennial issue of NEBRASKAland (January 1967) caried an article entitled The Big Medicine Trail by Bess E. Day. In the last line of the first full paragraph on page 31, Miss Day mentions the 'owlhoots'. I would like to know who on the bull-team outfits were the owlhoots. I rather imagine they (Continued on page 5)

SPEAK-UP

were the night guards for the bulls when they were turned out to graze. I suppose they used the owl hoot to let one another know where they were, but this may be totally wrong." —Paul A. Roberts, Prescott, Arizona.

As used in the story, owlhoot is a synonym for outlaw. A check with the State Historical Society produced no other definition. — Editor.

ALL TOO TRUE-"Phil Agee's statement that the 'public's understanding of the environment dates back to Earth Day 1970, is just too true. Few, if any, of the multitudes that are consistently throwing unstudied bills concerning environmental ecology into the legislative hoppers were aware of the words two or three years ago.

"In the past two years, over 4,000 bills have been introduced into various legislative bodies that had previously received few or no bills relating to ecology. This vast number produced in so short a time cannot possibly have been studied thoroughly.

"Personally, I am all for ecology. I do believe that a measure of progress can be maintained without upsetting the ecology. I feel that the scare tactics employed by most ecologists will eventually backfire on them when people start to take the time to think." —R. Alien Coleman, Omaha.

DECIDE —"In this age of conservation awareness, I believe our actions have become somewhat inconsistent.

"One side says lakes aren't being fished enough. Because of this, fish are being stunted and a majority of them are dying of old age. The other side catches fish only to return them to the water in the name of conservation.

"NEBRASKAland should either salute those conservationists who catch their fish and return them to the water, or, it should applaud those sportsmen who carry home 500 pounds of fish each year and those who grin from ear to ear about having 20 to 30 fish on a stringer at one time. I realize that these are probably the extremes, but we must decide which is right, instead of burning both ends and hoping to come out even at the end." — Jim Schriner, Lincoln.

There are, of course, two sides to every issue. To ignore either is to deny the perspective with which an aware public must view conservation programs. We do not condone waste by either faction, be it from avid fishermen or enthusiastic conservationists. We simply feel that it is our duty to present the facts to our readers, allowing them to make up their own minds. — Editor.

UPDATE —"Another communique about our neighbor's mobile sparrow (Smart Bird, Speak Up, July 1971). Either they were mistaken about the bird's death or the male got another mama. A female is still on the nest."—Harold Jeffrey, Martinsburg.

Ode To The Lone Goose

BOAT ON THE LOOSE

WE WERE A picnic party of 12, enjoying a magnificent day at the Bridgeport State Recreation Area. Dan, my brother, had brought his family from Kansas City, Missouri to visit our farm near Bridgeport. Today we were relaxing away from home.

It was midafternoon, July 3,1965. Anna May, my wife, and Wynona? Dan's wife, prepared lunch while Bradley and Faye —my kids —together with Linda, Darlene, and Laura —three of Dan's four children — romped on the grass. My mother was also with us.

Lucille, Dan's second-oldest girl (14 at the time) and I water-skied. Dan pulled us with my 14-foot boat powered by a 60-horsepower motor. I had explained to Dan that the torque of the propeller tilted the craft to port, and that the steering wheel was also on the left, making a sharp, lefthand turn hazardous.

Lucille and I skimmed across the lake's smooth surface until she signaled her father to take us to shore. He headed straight for the bank as she and I swung out to the left, anticipating that he would veer to the right in a few seconds.

We had just let go of the towropes when Dan unexpectedly veered left, cutting directly in front of us. He had forgotten my turn warning. The boat rolled up on its side, dumped Dan, then righted itself after turning 180 degrees. Barely missing Lucille and me in the water, it careened off toward the opposite shore where it struck the bank, bounced into the air, and crashed down 20 feet away from the water's edge.

Lucile and I were only 150 feet away from the nearest beach and 8 NEBRASKAland out of danger; both of us had on life preservers.

But Dan was in trouble. Not a swimmer, and still recuperating from minor injuries he had suffered in an auto accident 10 days earlier, he went under. Still worse, he wore no life jacket.

I told Lucille to get to shore, then swam to within a few feet of Dan who bobbed up for air, sputtering water. I didn't dare go closer for fear he would grab me and take us both under, but I unbuckled my preserver and pushed it to him. In his eagerness, he knocked it 10 feet out, then went under again. I retrieved the jacket and again passed it to him as soon as he came up. This time he took hold and managed to strap it on, assuring me that he was all right.

Then I was in trouble.

Also a poor swimmer, I doubted whether I could make it even the short distance to safety. I managed as best I could for what seemed an eternity until I finally discovered that I had reached water less than three feet deep. I stood there, panting, until I regained enough strength to wade ashore.

Dan, in a terrible state, arrived several minutes later. He was as scared as the rest of us standing on the hot sand — not talking, just uttering silent prayers of thanks.

We realized it could have been a triple tragedy, and it soured our fun. We packed up our lunch, drove around to the other side of the lake, loaded my boat onto its trailer, and headed for home.

I learned the importance of watersafety regulations the hard way that day. For one thing, I should have moved the boat's steering wheel to the other side to offset the torque. I also realized the importance of wearing life preservers both in and out of a boat while on water. Dan, in his condition, could have drowned, even that close to shore.

I'm not as keen on water-skiing now as I used to be; neither is my family —except Anna May, who still enjoys it occasionally. Every time we relax beside a lake I think of that day and thank my lucky stars that it wasn't more serious.

HOW TO: EXOTIC FISH COOKERY

EVER HEARD THIS? "Going fishing again! We already have a freezer full of fish. I'm sick of frying and eating them. Why do we need more?"

Why not break the pattern? Let hubby go fishing, and then, when your larder is stocked to the brim, try some of these recipes to turn your angler's highlights into gourmet delights. There are thousands of exotic recipes for preparing fish, each more delicious than the last. NEBRASKAland can't possibly print all of them, so we will attempt to present a selection of the more interesting ones. Just remember that when you are about to say "bland old fish", it's the way the fish is prepared that makes the difference.

One truly tasty way to prepare a trout is by stuffing it with crab meat:

Wash trout, pat dry. Sprinkle cavities lightly with salt. Combine next five ingredients. Toss to mix. Stuff fish. Skewer or sew up trout. Mix butter and lemon. Grill fish, basting frequently with butter mixture.

Another novel way to prepare trout is by bluing it:

Your fish must be cooked in "live" condition, that is, killed and gutted just seconds before bluing. The ideal-size trout is about 10 inches long. The first step in making blue trout is to brew a good white wine court bouillon.

Bring all ingredients but the vinegar to a boil. Simmer the liquid for 30 minutes. In the meantime, dilute some tarragon vinegar in another kettle at the ratio of two-thirds vinegar to one-third water and bring to a boil. When the bouillon is fragrant, strain off the vegetables, and you are ready to blue your trout. With large kitchen tongs, grasp each trout firmly by the jaw and lower it into the hot vinegar solution. When properly blue, place it in the fast-boiling court bouillon. The bouillon will cease bubbling for a few minutes, but when it comes to a boil again wait another 3 minutes, then remove the pot from the fire and cover. Let this stand for about 15 minutes, and your trout are cooked. The fish should be removed carefully with a spatula and drained. Classically, blue trout are smothered in hollandaise sauce and served with marble-size new potatoes bathed in butter and garnished with parsley.

There are exotic ways to prepare walleye for the table, too. Here is one:

Combine parsley, garlic, and shallot, and add to the bread crumbs. Soak in a little milk. Then add the butter. Apply salt and pepper and mix well. Add egg yolk for binding. The walleye is stuffed and cooked in a shallow baking dish. The entire fish must rest on a bed of onions which you first chop and saute in butter. The onions should be yellowed but not browned. Lay the fish on the onions, and cover them with a dry white wine. Put the dish in a moderate oven for about 30 minutes, then remove the pan and pour off the juices into a saucepan. The juices must then be thickened by warming a lump or two of butter and a tablespoon of flour. You might also add another touch of wine at this point to stimulate the sauce. Put the liquid back over the fish and the fish back in a now very hot oven. Another 5 or 10 minutes should suffice.

This relatively simple variation, invented by Corky Thornton, will make fish fillets with a light, fluffy coating.

Cut fish fillets into small pieces and roll in flour; biuegill and perch are the best fillets for this recipe. Lay tne floured pieces on a paper towel for about 20 minutes. Then set the deep-fat fryer at 375 and preheat.

Mix pancake batter as usual, but substituting 7-Up for the liquid required in the pancake recipe. Make the batter thick enough to stick to the fish well. Dip fish pieces in batter and place them in deep-fat fryer for about two or three minutes or until light golden brown.

There's nothing to beat the flavor of a freshly caught fish cooked over a campfire. This recipe for planked, broiled fish will prove the point.

Split the fish down its back, leaving the belly skin intact. Remove entrails and dark material under backbone. Wash and wipe dry. Clean a plank of hardwood, or split a short log, and tack the fish, skin side down, to it. Prop the fish near the fire. While it is cooking, brush it with bacon fat or barbecue sauce. It may be necessary to adjust the plank before the fire occasionally to be sure the fish broils evenly. Then the flesh flakes from the skin. Add salt and pepper, and serve it from the plank, allowing most of the skin to remain adhered to the plank. The cooking time will be from 20 to 30 minutes.

Pickling can make a delicacy of an ordinary fish. Use either quite small fish or chunk larger species.

Pickled fish are sour and tangy. The fish can be prepared by skinning or fleecing. Scoring is not necessary because vinegar, being an acid, softens the bones. Cut in chunks small enough to be placed in canning jars. Soak overnight in half vinegar and half water. Different spices, such as cloves, allspice, mustard seed, salt, and pepper can be added. Lemon slices should also be added. Boil the fish until done, place the pieces in a sterilized jar, and cover with sliced onions. Boil the next batch, repeating the procedure. Then, put the boiling liquid into the jar and seal.

Smoked fish, too, are delicious. One of the best smoked fish is carp, and don't overlook catfish. The following is a basic recipe for smoked fish which can be changed to suit individual taste.

Beat the egg yolks until thick and lemon-colored. Add fish flakes, milk, rice, butter, and seasonings. Blend. Fold in carefully the stiff-beaten egg whites. Pour into a greased baking dish, set dish in a pan of hot water, and bake three-quarters of an hour at 350 degrees. Serve with or without a tasty fish sauce.

The above are samplings of the fantastic things that can be done with fish. Try them.

PROFILES of the PAST

Across state, local cemeteries hold more than earthly remains. They tell a story few people will come to know

I CAN REMEMBER sitting on the steps of our house, waiting for Dad to come home from work. It was Memorial Day (we called it Decoration Day), and I was just a sprout, though it really wasn't that long ago. My mother sat with me, and together we kept our vigil in anticipation of a trip to the local cemetery to look at flowers relatives left on their loved ones' graves. Each year we made our pilgrimage and each year I became more weary until, at last, I began to invent other diversions as the holiday rolled around. My lack of interest was far from contagious, though, and for years my parents continued their annual trek. Here and there they would notice the resting place of someone they had known in life, but whose face and background they could only dimly recall in death.

To me there was something dreadfully morbid about such visits. Graveyards were for the dead — dates and dances were for the living. I won't apologize for my errant ways. I'm sure they were much lighter than hours spent amongst the dearly departed. But slowly I came to realize that cemeteries hold more than earthly remains. They embrace a whole other world, one I am far too young ever to have known. Amidst massive marble monuments lie the keys to unlock the gates of history.

Death, they say, is certain. So too, then, is the discovery of a state's heritage. In Nebraska's graveyards, now avoided by only the most superstitious, intertwined incidents weave a fabric of ancient intrigue. Burial grounds such as the Bohemian National Cemetery at Wilber, the Fort McPherson National Cemetery near Maxwell, and the Mormon Cemetery at Omaha recall a rugged West. But tiny resting places are the true finds. In them, single stones may tell of murder and mayhem, or devotion and the eternal search for serenity. Whether scribed in stone or not, each has a tale to tell. Therein lies their appeal.

Nebraska was still young when Addison V. Harris died in Crawford, January 17, 1895. Harris, an area rancher, was not completely content with his lot, so he began to study law at home, eventually joining a local law firm. That last step was his undoing.

It seems that Addison V. Harris went to a barn belonging to one Arthur Morrison. The former's intent was to attach the latter's hay. Morrison, disturbed at the prospect, wouldn't let Addison in, and sent a man for his Winchester when the attorney threatened to force the door. Harris withdrew.

That was early in the afternoon. About 5:30 that evening, Morrison burst into a court proceeding and accused Harris of planning to burn his barn. Addison denied the charge, so Morrison decided to pistol whip a confession out of him. The barrister parried the first blow and the revolver discharged, the bullet striking a bystander. Vowing to get Harris, Morrison retreated, scooped up his rifle, and returned. He was some 35 feet from his victim when he fired. The bullet ripped through Harris' neck, killing him instantly.

It is relatively unimportant what happened to the murderer. Harris' survivors made sure no one forgot what happened that Thursday evening. His tombstone in the Crawford Cemetery still cries out for vengeance.

Harris was neither the first or the last to die in the new land. As settlers pushed westward, the Oregon Trail became their highway and sickness and death stalked their paths. All along the route, nameless pioneers lie buried beneath Nebraska sod. Sickness claimed most and hostiles took the rest, but no matter what the cause, those departed were buried almost where they lay. Their graves are almost too numerous and too obscure to mention, yet one area does stand out. In the shadow of Chimney Rock, pioneer cemeteries tell of early hardships which were a part of yesterday's Nebraska.

A. A. Jeffords and family were newcomers to the Bayard area when their infant son died. They buried him near the southeastern slope of what is now known as Castle Rock. In time, others followed him and the tiny burial site became known throughout the community as High Butte Cemetery.

Similarly, John and Martha Jane Hanna lost their daughter, Gracie, in September 1887. The child was the first of many to lie in what was to be called Hanna Cemetery. For some unknown reason, however, all but the first four bodies buried there were moved to a point on high ground about two miles west of the southern slope of Chimney Rock. Today, no evidence remains of the original burial site.

In 1890, William Johnston donated land for the Bayard Cemetery, a location that is still being used today. Almost at once, two lightning victims, a mother and daughter, were buried there. Little was done to care for the graves, however, until a cemetery association was formed in 1897. Through that original organization and the ones that followed, the Bayard Cemetery has become a landmark in the area.

Of approximately the same vintage, the Minatare Cemetery lies three miles north of that Panhandle community. Unlike many sites across the state, the grounds were surveyed, plotted, and fenced almost from the beginning. An advertisement in the local newspaper noted: "...anyone can help by purchasing a lot of their own selection for the small sum of one dollar."

While a good number of Nebraska's graveyards hold only lesser-known souls, some contain celebrities of sorts. Far south of Chimney Rock, the cemetery at Stockville is the final resting place of Ena Tegleka. Ena was the widow of Augustine Lucian, an Army interpreter during the Indian uprisings of the mid-1850's. It was he who reputedly caused the Gratton Massacre in Wyoming which touched off the bloody raids which settlers throughout Nebraska felt during 1854 and 1855. Some say Lucian was drunk at the time and his translations led to the massacre of Lieutenant Gratton, a West Point graduate, and his entire command. Whether the tale is true or not is a matter for argument. But Ena's claim to fame is based on fact. The interesting part of her tale lies in the date of her death. A stone carver who prepared her marker evidently made a slip of the chisel when he came to the date. He preserved 1884 as the date of her demise, though she didn't die until 1886. Needling from many townspeople over the incident undoubtedly kept the incident fresh in the unnamed carver's mind.

Stockville, today a village of some 90 persons, boasts another outstanding resident in its cemetery. There lies Sergeant George Grant. A member of Company E, 18th U.S. Infantry, Grant earned the Congressional Medal of Honor for his bravery in Indian country. Communications between Fort Phil Kearny and Fort C. F. Smith were neglected for more than two months. So, in February 1867, Grant set out for Fort Smith with the mail. Trudging through deep snow on foot, he reached his destination in four days. Well rested, he started back to Fort Kearny on February 10, but ran into Indian trouble (Continued on page 54)

NIGHT OF THE BULLHEADS

Despite cold and rain we journey to Smith Lake looking for fishing action, armed only with worms and determination

IT WAS UNUSUALLY bitter for mid-May that night, The mercury fell to the mid-30's and wind whipping out of the north coupled with the overcast sky to promise more showers. Gene Snyder, Rushville dentist and lab technician Ron, his younger brother, had teamed with their father Woody, and Game Commission Officer Marv Kampbell for a late-night shot at Smith Lake's reputed monsters.

"Big bullheads are hitting at Smith Lake." "Success has been good on one to two-pounders." "Hefty bullheads are hitting worms at Smith Lake." For a month the news releases had poured in. Smith Lake and two-pound bullheads had assumed a familiar ring, like "ham and eggs". Marv had organized the mid-week excursion to test the validity of the fishing reports.

Bullheads, or "bulls", as Woody chose to label them, and midnite expeditions are inseparable for anglers in the know. Marv broke the silence during the long drive south from Rushville. "Seven-thirty-we're early. They probably won't start hitting for another hour or so."

Daylight lasted long enough to rig up, pick a likely spot, and cast out. Traditional riggings of long-shanked, No. 6 hooks on the end of 10-pound-test monofilament anchored with weights a foot from the bait filled out the Snyders' gear. Marv tied on a pair of crappie rigs that held hooks out at right angles from the line, keeping them from tangling. A heavier weight on his outfit permitted casting farther out into the bay. Spinning reels were a unanimous choice, though closed and open-face outfits were both represented.

During a brief break in the cloud cover, the sun called it quits for the day.

"Poor night to be out for bulls," Woody complained. "Too cold and windy for much to happen tonight, unless they're (Continued on page 53)

Panhandle Vacation

Western Nebraska's diverse scenery holds the spotlight for the Fish family's week away from the doldrums of daily life

School has ended for another year and again it is vacation time. And so, diary, relief from the...artldgery and monotony of daily tasks is in store for the upcoming week. This year we'll discover NEBRASKAland,   foregoing a trip to the mountains or desert. "Panhandle vacation" will be the subject of my journal this week.

Last-minute preparations put us off schedule from the start and it is early afternoon before we accept the road's invitation. Timetables revised and three children loaded, along with what seems to include most of our belongings, we set off on our adventure.

Oliver Reservoir, one of our favorite camping and fishing areas, seems an appropriate choice for our first night's stay. By late afternoon our veteran trailer-tent is set up and dinner is in the planning stage. Jackie, content to soak up what sun remains on the sandy beach, looks after the more exuberant Jay and Beanie as they romp through the area's many coves. Turtles, mud puppies, and frogs occupy the day's fleeting hours for them. Jack and I are content and let the night claim its own. Tomorrow will be the first full day of our trip and there is much to see. Sunday, May 30:

Nebraska Highway 71 beckons us northward in the early morning. From the highest part of the state we wander past flat wheatlands and oil rigs that dot the smooth terrain. Pine-capped bluffs rise from the north horizon. We wind our way around the twisting roads that cover the aging bluffs of the Wildcat Hills. Campsites are sprinkled throughout the area, each commanding a striking vista of this unique bluff land. The children stalk the elk, buffalo, and turkey that wander unmolested just behind the tall, mesh fence. Lunch is a relaxing interlude from the bustling pace of highway travel. Stone and wood shelters complement the scenic splendor, teasing one to spread a tent nearby and roam the flower-capped hills. But there is much to view in our short week. There will be another time and meeting with the Wildcats.

A swing through the Cedar Valley oil fields brings us to Scotts Bluff National Monument. Towering above the North Platte River and vast tablelands to the southeast, the promontory invites further investigation. Our car winds along the paved trail that clings to the bluffs sheer edge. Footpaths leading to panoramic overlooks are lined with alpine-like flowers. The children choose to course the narrow trail to the monument's base while Jack and I take the conventional route down and tour the museum.

Chimney Rock receives but a passing glance, for the day is drawing to a close at a lamentable pace. Jail and Courthouse rocks demand more careful scrutiny, but they, too, will have to wait another day. Camp must be set and the evening meal prepared. Bridgeport State Recreation Area is our destination for the stopover after the first full day of our Panhandle vacation. Monday, May 31:

Pleasing lines of shadow created by a soft sun drape the rocky monoliths called Jail and Courthouse rocks. A dusty road leads us to these massive remnants of a once higher peneplain. A golden eagle glides effortlessly over the surrounding lowlands, undisputed master of all he surveys. Grassy ledges and well-worn footholds present innumerable escape routes for our tireless dynamos. The threatening heights entrance them. Relieved, Jack finally entices them down with promises of Lake Minatare's watery retreat.

Lunch seems an unnecessary formality for the youngsters, but offers a break in the accelerating schedule for Jack and me, content to rest in the shade as spectators of the water carnival. The meandering beginnings of the Niobrara River receive our family at the Agate Fossil beds. "A natural depository of an animal community that flourished 20 million years ago," a National Parks Service brochure states. Jack, a geologist by training, is lured away from the fossil beds only by the promise of scrappy trout. The rest of us make the long trek to the hill's top that holds history from another day. Jay, true to boyhood, is not interested in the ancient animal remains as long as horned toads scurry about on the dry bluff.

The day is warm and we are relieved to reach the shaded seclusion of the Gilbert-Baker campground for the night.

Tuesday, June 1:

An endless expanse of undulating hills welcomes us to the Oglala National Grassland. We stop at the first stretch of badland country and search for agates and other interesting rocks. Patches of yellow lupines, like spots of sun come to rest, cover rocky knolls. Jack and the children spend almost an hour crawling about, picking, scratching, licking, and polishing anything that, as Jack puts it, "looks out of place". Jay, in his impish way, prods every mound of harvest ants he encounters, causing massive armies to swarm out to attack their molester. Antelope dot many of the distant hills as we travel on to our rendezvous with Toadstool Park. Once, a band of eight came running blindly. A pair of golden eagles circling overhead probably ventured too near the flittery pronghorns, sending them into flight.

Pyramid-like formations of Toadstool jut skyward as we approach from the north. As we draw closer, grotesque pommels of precariously balanced rock can be seen hanging as if suspended in air. Sandwiches and soft drinks are hastily disposed of during our early lunch. Jay leads a formation, winding his way up the first ridge to investigate a tangled maze of eroded rock. Jack marvels at the extensive broken-agate beds.

Wednesday, June 2:

Dawn comes bright and early. The weather has been generous. It is midmorning before the family gathers and we are once again on the road.

The Crawford Buttes alert us to the upcoming town. Fort Robinson will occupy the remainder of our afternoon. The museum is the first order of business. Strolling through the historic fort, we slip back into years that witnessed the taming of the west. Pine Ridge country, productive trout streams, and many historic areas nag at us for more time but Chadron State Park is still more than 20 miles away and camp must be set up before dark.

The tiny, twisting road leading to the National Wildlife Refuge at Crescent Lake challenges our car. A profusion of lakes slips into view at every turn. Ducks, geese with their young, and shore birds are on every dab of water. Near headquarters, a herd of mule deer looks on in wonderment as if we are some unfamiliar forms that dare invade their domain. Time nags us, and again we must leave hastily —Oshkosh, Lewellen, and finally the historical park at Ash Hollow (our last campsite of the week) await us. Camp chores are flowing most smoothly now but it will be good to reach home again.

Thursday, June 3:

Our last day. Only a short distance separates us from familiar surroundings and routine tasks. We laze away the morning in the steep, walled valley. An early lunch, a short drive, and we are home in Sidney—Jack to his work, the children to their summer activities, and I to planning more weekend trips. New places and the promise of more to see and do were all part of our Panhandle vacation.

EARLY-DAY CON ARTIST

For years, crafty crook ruled roost Then a Nebraska lawman snapped the cuffs on his career

NO ONE TOOK notice when Henry Fisher stepped from the train in Dodge, Nebraska. He walked through the depot, up Main Street to the hotel, and registered, giving Albion as his hometown. No one knew why he was there that January 12,1910, and no one cared.

During the next few days, Fisher sauntered up and down the street, met farmers, chatted with them, and let it be known that he was interested in buying land.

Before long he met Ernest Leptine, who owned 80 acres not far from Dodge, and farmed the adjoining 80 for Reinhold Billerbeck, his father-in-law. Leptine was willing to sell his own quarter, so he and Fisher went to see it.

Their meeting led to serious business and culminated in setting a closure date. Fisher agreed to pay cash for the land, but would need $3,000 extra for some improvements. He asked Leptine if there were anyone who might lend him the money. The farmer referred him to John O'Connor in Fremont.

Before going to O'Connor, Fisher entered the Dodge bank and asked to see the notary public. Meeting A. J. Miller, Fisher explained that he had some documents he would like to have notarized, hinting he would be in the area often from then on. Looking him over, Miller guessed that Fisher was a retired German farmer, carrying himself with dignity and appearing to be an honest man. Miller obliged.

Little did the notary know that this man's name was not Fisher at all, that Albion residents had never set eyes on him, or that he was one of the best con artists in the country. He had no way of knowing that Fisher's only motive in coming to the bank was to get an impression of the notary public's seal.

Fisher visited O'Connor in Fremont the next day, explaining why he needed the money. O'Connor willingly agreed to make the necessary arrangements, but it would take several weeks because the money would have to come from an eastern firm.

That wasn't good enough. Fisher wanted the money right away to pay for the improvements in advance. O'Connor pondered the problem, then offered to let Fisher have $3,000 of his own savings, but the interest rate would be a bit higher. Fisher agreed.

When Leptine was called to Fremont to consummate the deal, a complication arose. Leptine's wife, co-owner of the land, had refused to sign the papers. Fisher didn't like it and told Leptine in no uncertain terms that a gentleman's agreement had been made. But, Leptine said, Billerbeck would sell the adjoining 80, so would that be all right? The improvements there would cost no more.

O'Connor heard all this and satisfied himself that the deal would probably go through with Billerbeck instead of Leptine, and told Fisher he could still have the money.

Fisher went again to look at the land. Yes, he would buy it, but he was less pleased with its location because it was farther from the country church. He liked the church and had already decided to contribute toward repairs he knew it needed.

Very casually, he asked to see Billerbeck's title to the land. Pretending to glance at it only as a matter of course, he turned aside and carefully studied Billerbeck's signature, memorizing it quickly and accurately. A short while later he guessed it was time for him to go.

That afternoon he went to Omaha and had a seal made from the impression obtained a few days earlier, claiming to be Miller and saying he had lost the original. That night he prepared the documents, forging both Miller's and Billerbeck's signatures and notarizing them with his fake seal.

Promptly the next morning he walked into O'Connor's office with the forged papers, apparently the new owner of Billerbeck's land. O'Connor wrote a check for $3,000 payable to Fisher, who then remarked that he wished to cash the check right away, and asked if O'Connor would be so kind as to take him to the bank so that the bank would not question his identity. O'Connor agreed and accompanied him to the teller's window.

Then, with $3,000 in cold cash stuffed into his wallet, Fisher made an excuse to leave quickly. He disappeared and never came back to Fremont a free man.

In fact, he would never have come back at all except for the dogged pursuit of Sheriff William C. Condit. It took 10 years, but Condit finally got his man. A deputy sheriff who had just been appointed the year before, this was his first serious case.

That same afternoon, O'Connor expressed his fears to Condit because Fisher had agreed to drop by his office to pay a commission O'Connor had coming to him. A phone call to Miller at the bank in Dodge revealed that he was not even aware of any land transfer, and he certainly had not notarized papers for any such deal. The truth hit home and O'Connor realized he had been outdone.

Condit took the case to heart. Investigation revealed that Fisher had pulled the same deal in numerous places throughout (Continued on page 52)

Snakes Alive

Unarmed, trio captures two rattlers to be displayed during State Fair in Lincoln

SCANNED the ground carefully, alert for the dry buzz of a rattlesnake. Off to my left, Gary Nickels and Rodney Dodge worked slowly along the rocky face of the farm-pond dam, their eyes glued to the ground. Most people go out of their way to avoid snakes, but we were looking for them. It was Memorial Day weekend and our mission was to collect as many species of snakes as possible for the Game and Parks Commission's display at the State Fair.

"Rod and I have caught seven massasaugas this spring," Gary told me as we left his home overlooking Homestead National Monument. Gary majored in art and biology in college and now teaches art in Beatrice; but biology still holds interest for him. Fourteen-year-old Rodney shares Gary's enthusiasm for biology in general and snakes in particular.

As we drove east toward Burchard Lake they filled me in on the massasauga, the only rattlesnake retaining its Indian name.

"It's a small snake," Rod said. "I think the biggest one we ever caught was only 20 inches long. Snakes aren't like most animals. They don't stop growing when they reach maturity, but continue at a slower rate, so it's hard to say just how large they can actually get to be."

"They live around water so we'll check the pond first and then have a look at Burchard Lake," Gary added.

Although Rod and Gary plied every snaky-looking spot, we drew a blank at both locations. When we left the lake, Gary commented that many people wouldn't fish or camp at Burchard if they knew there were rattlesnakes in the area.

"But they really don't have much to worry about," he added. "Massasaugas are nocturnal except in spring and fall when they sun a few hours each morning. They are not aggressive and under normal conditions won't strike at a person unless provoked."

Our next stop was at a rock quarry southeast of Burchard. Gary and Rod investigated rocky crevices along the bluff carefully, but again the rattlers eluded us. Atop the bluff we turned over logs and rocks. Flipping an old board, I spotted a small snake and made a quick grab for it.

"I got one," I yelled.

"What is it?" Gary asked.

"I haven't the slightest idea," I answered.

Examining it, Gary and Rod identified it as a DeKay's snake, a small species which feeds mainly on earthworms. Minutes later I turned over a log and collected another snake I couldn't identify. After a quick look, Rod announced it was a lined snake. I noticed that it had flattened its body.

"That's one of the defense mechanisms some non-poisonous snakes use," Gary said. "It makes the snake look larger."

Gary went on to say that most snakes try to escape when (Continued on page 59)

WHEN THE CHIPS ARE DOWN

NOT EVEN NEBRASKA has escaped the ubiquitous arm of pollution. This hydra-headed monster has reached America's heartland and caught once-clean, once-pure NEBRASKAland in its grasp. Though the state remains generally unsullied, compared to its more industrialized counterparts, it too feels pollution's infected hand as it touches city and countryside alike.

In rural Nebraska the problem of belching and vomiting factories and mills are replaced by a form of industrial pollution that is unique to the cattle-feeding areas ranging throughout the state, that of feedlot 34 NEBRASKAland wastes. The huge herds of cattle which roam the state's lush grasslands are brought from range to feedlot in order to fatten them for market. With the concentration of large numbers of animals in small lots, the problem of waste control becomes quite important. And, since many of these feedlots are located near a watercourse, the matter is compounded. Most of Nebraska's feeding operations are located along the Platte River and its tributaries in the western and central portions of the state, and in the eastern end beside tributaries within the drainage basins of the Elkhorn and Platte rivers.

Though the physical effects of feedlot operations are concentrated in the state's waterways, the financial consequences are far-reaching, extending into every corner of Nebraska's economy. The cattle industry, Nebraska's only billion-dollar business, is the direct or indirect means of support for many of the state's 1 1/2 million citizens. Likewise, the entire nation depends on the products of Nebraska's vast livestock operations. Thus, the pollution problem is complicated by factors which demand more serious study than the "close them down" and "stop the pollution" cries of weekend environmentalists.

Yet the problem exists and cannot be minimized. Cattle feedlots, and also the concentrations of animals at feeding operations for dairy cattle, swine, sheep, and poultry, produce large amounts of waste materials that must be handled in some way or another. In the past, when these operations were not as extensive and when there was less concern for the quality of the state's streams and rivers, the waste was literally flushed away by rainfall. The environment had the capacity to assimilate a certain amount of this waste. Now, however, nature is no longer able to directly absorb the large quantities of excrement which are discharged daily from hundreds of feedlots across the state. Indeed, the situation has become one of Nebraska's most important pollution problems, presenting a major threat to the state's valuable water resources from both the industrial and recreational use standpoints.

Often it doesn't take a biologist to judge the quality of water. It is readily apparent even to untrained observers that some of the state's brooks and streams are in an unsatisfactory condition because of feedlot wastes — for aesthetic reasons if nothing else. But the biologist is able to scientifically document the more subtle factors involved in the degradation of a waterway.

While floating debris is unsightly, the problem that is created by the decomposition of organic matter is much more serious. The decaying process uses up large quantities of the water's (Continued on page 64)

THE BLEEDING SUN

SLATE-GRAY CLOUDS hide the sun as sporadic showers come sprinkling across the face of the land. Soon they give way to an increasingly heavy downpour. Earthbound and helpless against the whims of nature, man must find shelter and wait out the storm. Billowing mist clings closer to earth as day drags on, driving the last workers away from their endeavors. The day seems lost by midafternoon, its traditional working hours inundated by the rain. But as the hands of the clock move around to the end of day, a faint streak of light begins to appear low on the western horizon. As if by magic, a bleeding sun slides down from its dull prison to cast crimson rays across the landscape.

The sky explodes in a kaleidoscope of color. Rays bounce from misty formations and splay across the dense clouds only to be reflected in a million hues upon the earth. Minutes tick off as awed earthlings stand agape before this natural phenomenon. Each instant brings new color and new excitement to a burning heaven. And man, in his smallness, can only wonder at this spectacle of nature.

For more years than any creature will ever remember, these panoramic displays have taken place. Just as she did since time began, nature turns artist and her canvas is the sky as onlookers treasure her every stroke, understanding little of what they see. For them the majestic sunset is a diversion, its causes unimportant. Yet, there are those who study the heavens and the reasons for such splendor. Their findings and the impact of their studies make the already spectacular sunset a true work of art.

If an area were to be named, Nebraska would lie in the "sunset belt". Our state has, over the years, become known for its end-of-day beauty. Visiting easterners, unaccustomed to such tranquility, marvel before a prairie sundown. Westerners, used to viewing a setting sun across limitless expanses of water, consider a midlands sunset an extravaganza. Even those who live here and watch these displays almost every day of their lives find something different every time — something to enchant the spirit and astound the mind.

But there is a reason for Nebraska's high place in the sunset category. The beauty is caused by AUGUST 1971 39   dust, and to a certain extent, by pollution in the atmosphere. A plains state, Nebraska is in a high-dust area. Therefore, as the sun sinks toward the horizon, its rays pass through an atmosphere heavy with solid particles. Unlike high noon when the air is relatively free of impurities, evening hours mean almost twice the amount of air between viewer to sun. The blue ranges of white light are diffused by the dust with the result that only orange and red rays come through, causing the spectacular hues of sunset. With coloration understood, many people accept the exhibition as a pretty scene. But not so in the scientific community. There are other phenomena to probe.

For instance, drivers bothered by a brilliant, setting sun are actually victims of deception. The burning orb is not really the sun. In fact, the sun has been below the horizon for as long as 8.3 minutes and the brilliant ball is an optical illusion brought about by refraction, rendered slightly elliptical by the ray-bending properties of the air.

We live in an age of environmental awareness, and one common theory is that pollution creates more majestic sunsets. The truth is that gaseous pollution has little effect on the appearance of the sun. But smog, a combination of water particles and smoke, intensifies the coloration of a sunset. Its density, similar to dust, also refracts rays.

We live in an age of environmental awareness, and one common theory is that pollution creates more majestic sunsets. The truth is that gaseous pollution has little effect on the appearance of the sun. But smog, a combination of water particles and smoke, intensifies the coloration of a sunset. Its density, similar to dust, also refracts rays.

Perhaps one of the most interesting offspring in the marriage between sun and atmosphere is the sun dog. Ancients felt they could forecast weather by watching them. They may, indeed, have been right. Sun dogs are formed by ice crystals in the atmosphere which, when positioned exactly 22 degrees in relation to the sun, create a ring similar to that of a halo around the moon. We on earth, however, see only two portions of this complete circle — sections on the right and on the left above the horizon. Signifying colder weather to the west at sunset, they indicate an approaching foul-weather front. If they appear at sunrise, the front has already passed.

Despite meteorological and astronomical applications, the phenomenon of the sunset is a spellbinding spectacle. Its grandeur seems magnified with each successive appearance, and in man's mind will ever remain the grand finale of day, played out on the stately stage of nature.

SCALE READING

AS CURIOUS ANGLER or sportsman, how many times have you been told that biologists are surveying your favorite stream and, among other things, are collecting scales from the fish? What is the purpose of this? What possible bearing will this have on future fishing prospects? Does this help in the management of lakes and streams in Nebraska? Perhaps many questions can be answered by explaining the relationship between fish scales and fish management.

Fish scales, upon close examination, reveal much fish history. Growth rates, age, migration patterns, and even the number of times the fish spawn are imprinted on certain fish scales.

An individual scale probably never catches the attention of the average angler. However, if one of these 42 NEBRASKAland scales is placed under a microscope or in a scale-projection machine, minute details are visible and the magnification of the scale reveals heretofore unknown secrets.

Under magnification, a fish scale looks like a series of concentric rings. These rings, commonly called circuli, are actually ridges on the underside of the scale. The spacing of these rings is the basis for scale interpretation.

As a fish grows, scales grow proportionately and circuli are constantly forming at the edge of the scale. When the rings are close together, the growth rate is slow during early spring and late fall. The growth rate is good when the rings are far apart. This condition usually exists during the summer growing season. Fish growth almost stops during winter. Consequently, the circuli appear crossed, incomplete, or bunched. This arrangement of circuli is called an annulus and marks the end of one year's growth. When growth resumes the following spring, the annulus is easily observed. When a fish scale has three annuli, it is recorded as being three years old.

Rainbow trout studies in Lake McConaughy and the upper North Platte River drainage illustrate the importance of scale interpretation in fish management. For example, scales from large, spawning rainbow showed that these trout had spent either one or two years in a stream environment before migrating to Lake McConaughy. Rainbow trout scales showed that roughly 80 percent of the annual spawning runs consist of 3-year-old fish. Two-year-old and four-year-old fish comprise the rest of the spawning runs. Only rarely are there five-year-old fish in the Lake McConaughy runs. Scale examination also helped determine that the small 8 to 10-inch rainbow annually migrate from the spawning streams downriver to the reservoir during spring. Spawning scars, evident on scales from this rainbow trout population, indicated that approximately 76 percent of the rainbow trout spawn only once. So far, as indicated by scales, 13 different life-history categories have been identified within the Lake McConaughy rainbow trout population. Scale readings have been used to help work out the migration pattern and will be used in future management of the rainbow fishery in the North Platte River drainage.

Besides offering an accurate check on the growth rate of fish, scale readings help to evaluate management activities used to improve fishing throughout the state. For instance, many small ponds and lakes in Nebraska become overcrowded with rough fish or stunted game fish (bluegill, crappie, bullhead, perch). The success of seining or renovating these waters can be determined by examining scales from remaining fish the following year. If a sudden increase of growth is detected on the scales, the management technique has been successful and anglers can look forward to larger fish from those bodies of water.

Scales collected from striped bass in Lake McConaughy show not only the age, but also the year they were stocked. This information is used by biologists to evaluate and develop future stocking techniques for this species.

The important aspects of scale reading for the purpose of good management and subsequent good fishing are endless. So, the next time you see a biologist collecting fish scales, remember that his purpose is to look into the history of the fish and uncover information which should ultimately provide better fishing for Nebraska anglers.

THE CAMPING HOSTS

PRIVATE GROUNDS For complete listing of private campgrounds in Nebraska, see pages 54-55.

NATURE MUST HAVE had camping in mind when she drew up the final geographic blueprint for NEBRASKAland. She blessed the land with unequalled diversity and beauty, ranging from lush farmland to towering pinnacles and grass-carpeted sandhills. For a finishing touch, she laced her creation with more than 11,000 miles of sparkling streams and rivers, and added some 3,300 lakes. Her deed done, she put out the welcome mat.

An unprecedented camper-tourist revolution has engulfed all of North America. Millions strong, it is growing by leaps and bounds. Just one step ahead of the spiraling camper-buff growth are the Paul Reveres of private enterprise, building campgrounds to serve those who yearn to discover the fun of the great outdoors.

Whether the camper is the proud owner of a brand new pup tent and an iron skillet or does his meandering in a posh, self-contained motorized unit with all the modern conveniences of home, Nebraska's enterprising entrepreneurs of the camping industry have a place for everyone.

Campers traveling the highways and byways of Nebraska can peg their tents in such exotic sounding spots as the Safari Inn, located at the Waco Interchange on Interstate 80, or snuggle camping rigs into such cozy crannies as Erb's Cedar View on the north shore of spectacular Lake McConaughy. Who could resist the temptation of spending a night under the stars at such a picturesquely named campsite as Grandpa's Woods near Elmwood. Organizations such as Kampgrounds of America, Inc. (KOA), have also seized upon the vast opportunity for development in Nebraska. To date, six KOA sites are already going strong with more to come.

Services and facilities at Nebraska's privately owned campgrounds are as varied and unique as the campers themselves. Some feature such things as fully equipped playgrounds for the kids, laundries, showers, game rooms, and concessions with complete travel needs. Virtually all camps provide crystal-clear drinking water, picnic tables, grills, and sanitary facilities.

Imagine a miniature golf course or a swimming pool at a campground. Preposterous, you say? Not on your life! Just spend a night at Kamperville at Cozad and you can step right up and play miniature golf to your heart's content. Several campgrounds, including Cutty's Campground at North Platte and the KOA facility at Gretna offer swimming in first-class pools.

Aesthetic values and the proximity of fun-time activities have played important roles in the site selection of private campgrounds. Several areas are nestled on the shores of rushing streams and placid lakes. Others, delicately constructed in richly wooded areas, leave the ways of the wild largely undisturbed.

The venture into private campground ownership is no shot in the dark for Nebraskans. National statistics prove over and over again that camping is not AUGUST 1971 45   merely a craze. It is here to stay and to grow, and Nebraska's private campground owners believe in hospitality with a capital H. They are aggressive and doggedly determined to serve the traveling public. At the same time, they are earning an enjoyable livelihood. With so much at stake and so much in common, these proprietors have organized the Nebraska Association of Private Campground Owners. Their goals include bettering their own business and service through group promotion and learning from each other. The association immediately set to work with state travel promotion officials, as well as the State Roads Department. Co-operative agreements are being made with campground associations in surrounding states to establish reciprocal promotion through a referral system. Services and the quality of private campgrounds are being upgraded every year.

Based on figures compiled by the Woodall Publishing Company, a data gathering and publishing firm, privately owned campsites in America increased almost 40,000 from 1969 to 1970. Evidence of the effort to upgrade the facilities is witnessed in the fact that more than 70 percent of the new campsites under construction have electrical hookups, 65 percent have water connections, and more than 50 percent have sewer couplings. The increase in sewer hookups was substantial, up 38 percent in 1969.

The camping revolution has presented a great challenge to investors in the field, and to quote an old 46 NEBRASKAland cliche, the private campground business isn't what it used to be. Today's modern spreads are becoming more and more resort-like. Reservations and advance deposits, once known only to the motel-hotel business, are now common procedure for campers plying the roads.

What does all this increase in development, service, and expansion mean to the outdoor buff in dollars and cents? In Nebraska, overnight fees peak at about $3 for a couple plus an additional 25 cents per person. The low is about $1 per night. Stacking those figures against the modern-day economic picture and making direct cost comparisons to motel and hotel prices, camping is a bargain being sought by an increasing number of vacationers.

Still, there's more to camping than just cost. The opportunity to commune with nature and share a bit of outdoor life is invaluable. Camping is an overall experience that offers escape from the helter-skelter pace of everyday life. It's a chance to settle back on the banks of a stream with pole in hand and enjoy a delicious evening meal of fresh fish cooked over an open fire, or to find an all-facility area conveniently adjacent to a highway route.

Nebraska is truly ideal for campers. The role played by private campground owners and operators throughout the state fills a big gap in meeting the needs of a vast number of outdoor-oriented pleasure seekers.

NOTES ON NEBRASKA FLORA. . . PRONGHORN ANTELOPE

The fastest of North American mammals, this prairie phantom has called the western part of our state home for well over a million years

FOSSILIZED REMAINS on the North American continent are constant reminders that pronghorn antelope, Antilocapra americana, roamed the continent in ancestral forms as early as the Age of Mammals more than a million years ago.

Survivors of glacial changes and droughts, the present-day forms of the pronghorn range throughout the western half of North America from southern Canada to Mexico.

Historically, the pronghorn ranged across the plains in numbers as high as 100 million, but these great herds dwindled to less than 20,000 by 1925. When conservationists became aware of the problem, steps were taken to protect these mammals from extinction. With proper management, which included effective law enforcement and habitat improvement, the pronghorn made their comeback. The population today is about half a million, with an annual hunter harvest of more than 75,000.

The major pronghorn range in Nebraska is in the western portion of the state. Range and distribution have increased recently because of their reintroduction into the Sand Hills.

Pronghorn have extremely large eyes in relation to body size, capable of telescopic vision. They bulge from the head and take in a wide-angle view. Thus, a potential predator is under scrutiny long before he comes close.

The rump patch, composed of white hair and erectile muscles in the skin, signals danger to other animals nearby, sending them off to distant safety. Speeds of up to 60 miles per hour have been recorded for mature antelope. Even day-old youngsters can run 25 miles per hour. Speed has long been one of the pronghorn's main survival features. The body structure — long legs and large respiratory organs — lends itself to fast running. The legs are lightly muscled near the hooves, while the heavier muscles are closer to the body. A large windpipe and oversize lungs allow huge quantities of air to be gulped through the mouth and nostrils.

The pronged horns of the antelope are true horns in that they are composed of a sheath of fused hair over a bony core. The sheaths are shed annually after the rut, or breeding period. Mature males usually develop horns about 13 inches long, but some exceptional males have horns that reach 15 or more inches in length. The record horn was 20-3/16 inches long. Female antelope also have horns usually no longer than four inches.

Pelages, or coats, are poor in quality due to continual shedding. However, the insulating quality of the hair is efficient, with large pockets of air cells in the hair structure to keep the animal warm even at 50 degrees below zero.

The pronghorn is gregarious by nature, but the doe spends much of her time alone prior to the birth of her young. Kidding grounds are usually located in swales and low-lying areas with low ridges or hills surrounding them. Vegetation is usually short and sparse. It must provide cover but still allow the protective doe to keep a watchful eye on her offspring, since a doe will loaf and feed with other does as far as a mile away from her young.

During late pregnancy in May or June, the fetal sack drops and distends the doe's abdomen. The mammary glands are well developed by this time. As contraction of her abdomen begins, the doe restlessly lies down and gets up. Her stance —at times very still except for her flipping tail —belies her inner turmoil and soon the head of the young appears. Much lying down and getting up continues until the young antelope is down on the ground. The young is then licked dry by the doe to stimulate blood circulation. Normally, the second twin is born about 30 minutes later. Nursing begins shortly after birth, as soon as the kid can stand on its long, wobbly legs.

Antelope usually consume forbs and herbaceous browse plants, but during certain periods of the year, green shoots of grass and grasslike plants are relished.

Female pronghorn are capable of conceiving during the fall of their first year, but normally do not until about 16 months of age. Twins are the rule after the first birth. The gestation period is believed to be from 230 to 240 days, with the peak of the kidding occurring about mid-June in Nebraska.

Proper management of the pronghorn and habitat will maintain them in correct proportion and assure their survival in their natural domain — the grasslands of sagebrush and cactus.

"TWIN BROTHERS"

Fond memories of my childhood haunt spur me to return for one last visit, one last hunt

SEVERAL YEARS HAD passed since I had been at "Twin Brothers" on the old farm in Nebraska. That's what my cousin Mike and I had named the pond, which was sometimes one and sometimes two, depending on the weather. There were fish in the pond, but to me it was more attractive because of its frogs. Several years ago, some bullfrogs had been brought from Louisiana to the Little Blue River about half a mile from Twin Brothers and, during a later flood, many of them had found their way into the pond.

I returned to the place in the fall of 1966. It was on a farmstead one mile west of Hebron on the southwest side of the Little Blue River. As I drove to the place, I remembered how Mike and I used to spend entire days there fishing. If the fish were not biting, which was usually the case, we would stick several homemade fishing poles into the banks of the pond in hopes of snagging some fish. Then we would go after bullfrogs. We would circle the whole pond, or ponds, and capture one or two. When those that got away were agitated and too alert for us to catch, we would go back to our fishing poles to check if we had caught anything. Then we would play on a raft or a partly sunken shack. Sometimes we would build dams or trap minnows. Often we would end up waist deep in the water, splashing each other.

But no matter what we did, we always ended up going after more frogs. We used tri-barbed hooks, slingshots, BB guns, and homemade spears to catch them. Once we got enough for a nice meal of froglegs, which we persuaded our grandmother to fry for us.

Everything I remembered about Twin Brothers was in direct relationship to the frogs. The tall grass and weeds offered good hiding places while we stalked the croakers on a windy day. The north bank was an excellent place for snagging frogs with long poles and hooks. The sunken shack was the home of one very large frog we always hunted, but never caught. This was a special adventure, since our grandfather had warned us to stay away from the shack. He was afraid we might fall through the floor and drown. I suppose that if we had ever caught the big frog, it would have ruined a lot of the excitement.

I was relishing my memories the day I went back in 1966. I was alone, except for a stray dog that followed me around. When (Continued on page 58)

CON ARTIST

the Midwest, using a different name each time, and sometimes disguising himself with a beard. But all his searching turned up not the slightest bit of evidence to reveal Fisher's true identity.

In an effort to ward off the culprit, Condit sent circulars to every county seat in the United States, explaining Fisher's method and listing the names he had used. He suggested that the registrar of deeds in every county seat get a copy of every notary public's seal so that they might be used for comparison whenever there was a suspicious land transfer. But that got him nowhere. Time and time again word came that Fisher, alias some other name, had done it again.

"Compiling a record of every deed swindler known to officers of the law, I sorted out those having the earmarks of our own crime, making a record of each by state, town, victim's name, and amount. This record Fisher afterwards termed my Bible," Condit recounted years after Fisher was behind bars.

"I then started corresponding with every known victim as well as the authorities where he had operated. Through them I secured photographs of the forged signatures of owners of farms, together with the forged signatures of notary publics in each case.

"All had the same story to tell regarding the swindler's disappearance as though the earth had swallowed him up ... I firmly resolved that I would not give up the chase until I was absolutely forced to, or until every effort I could conceive was exhausted."

Condit discovered that in almost every case, Fisher wrote a postcard to the person loaning him money, emphasizing that he would be there in a few days at exactly the arranged time to pick it up. Then came a flaw. Condit noticed Fisher misspelled the word "every", spelling it "evry" on each postcard. That small error led to Fisher's eventual undoing.

Finally a stroke of luck. Fisher was caught while trying to swindle his way through another land deal at a remote town called Oconomowoc in Wisconsin's Waukesha County.

"On January 21, 1915, just five years to the day after I had started on the trail of the smartest crook I ever encountered in all my experience, I received a telegram from the famous William A. Pinkerton of the Pinkerton National Detective Agency in Chicago conveying the happy news to me that John W. Kline, better known to me as Henry Fisher, was under arrest in Waukesha County where he was being held under the name of George Adler."

Condit resolved to bring Fisher into a Nebraska cell and, in his own words, "throw the key away".

As luck would have it, the Waukesha jailer had a daughter who worked as a stenographer in the law firm which had defended Adler. She discovered some correspondence to a John W. Barnhardt of Forrest City, Arkansas. Barnhardt was director of the Forrest City bank, and a respected member of the community.

Further investigation led Condit to believe that Barnhardt and Fisher were one and the same man, alias Kline, Adler, and a dozen other names.

Fisher was recaptured in St. Louis following his escape from the Waukesha jail and brought back. Charged with possessing a forged document and assaulting to kill, he was sentenced to five years in the Wisconsin penitentiary.

Going to the Wisconsin Penitentiary three days before Fisher's release five years later, Condit had handcuffs ready and promptly escorted his prisoner to Fremont by train. Fisher must have realized that this was no ordinary sheriff.

During the time Fisher awaited trial behind bars, Condit decided to get some extra evidence. It was customary that prisoners made written requests for whatever materials they needed. Fisher asked for a magazine, and this was the chance Condit had been waiting for. He instructed the warden to inform the prisoner Fisher that the magazine he wanted was not available, but that he could have Everybody's Magazine.

Sure enough. Fisher tore up the first request and wrote another for "Evrybody's Magazine", misspelling the word every, just as he had on all his postcards.

This Condit used as part of the evidence during Fisher's trial which ended in a 20-year sentence for conning O'Connor out of $3,000. But he was ordered released after seven.

Still not satisfied, Condit discovered that authorities in Canton, Ohio wanted Fisher. He notified them that he was up for grabs. Fisher subsequently got a 20-year sentence in Ohio.

'This sentence virtually ended his wide criminal career so far as future activities were concerned since he was more than 70 years old when he was sent to the Ohio prison," Condit wrote.

It was later proved that Fisher was, in fact, the respected banker Barnhardt of Forrest City, Arkansas.

"I had always claimed that if he were ever apprehended, he would be found in possession of either a ranch or a good, small-town bank. He had both —a bank and a cotton plantation which consisted of 1,700 acres on which 17 families lived. I was instrumental in getting 21 of the victims to attach his property, which after considerable litigation increased several thousand dollars in value. It was disposed of through the court and netted the victims $97,000 to be divided among them.

"It was hardly believable, but nevertheless true, that Barnhardt had one of my circulars hanging in his bank bearing the picture taken 17 years before, yet no one ever so much as linked it with him.

"He was the King Bee of Forrest City, known as Uncle John. Often, when he returned from one of his forging expeditions, he threw a banquet to which the whole populace was invited.

"The people would not believe that the most worshipped man in their town was the confirmed forger he turned out to be."

It took 10 years, but Condit finally brought the man to justice, putting a 52 MEBRASKAland real feather in his own cap and chalking a strong mark on the plus side for law in Nebraska.

NIGHT OF BULLHEADS

feeding in spite of it all after these cool, rainy days."

A liberal gob of worms adorned each hook as they were whipped far out into the bay. The methodical twitch of Marv's rod tip was hardly perceptible in the gusting wind. The tiny fishermen's bells he had taken such a ribbing about were of little use in announcing the persistent mouthing of the bait.

Becoming bolder, the bullheads asserted their intentions, the first encouraging signs of a generally miserable evening. Marv slipped his rod from the sturdy holder and brought up the slack, awaiting the impending series of nibbles. A sixth sense of bullhead savvy and precise timing preceded the unceremonious hauling ashore of the night's first prize.

"Small one," Marv noted as the plastic hook disgorger disappeared down a gaping maw to extract the embedded hook. "Won't make much more than three-quarters of a pound."

"After the biggies tonight, aren't you, Marv?" Gene chided.

Woody, hunched patiently over his rod, came through with a bit of Sand Hills hospitality, rescuing the warden from the butt of the joke. "Well, at least we know they may bite tonight. Maybe the bigger ones will move into the shallows to feed later on."

Action dropped from an already slow pace to almost nothing as darkness settled in. A gas lantern appeared from somewhere and the bending of the rod tips in the wind was again discernible.

The sharp cold that cut even deeper once the sun dropped below the horizon was warded off with a round of coffee.

"Might as well sit it out in the car for a while until it gets good and dark," Ron suggested, blowing warm breath into his cupped hands. "We can see the action just as well from there."

"Why do you think the bullheads are so much bigger here than in other lakes around the state?" Ron quizzed. "Must be all that good Sand Hills living."

"Each to his own theory," Marv said. "But I believe that when they renovated the lake here two years ago, all fish except the bullheads were killed. Those that made it through the poisoning were relieved of competition for food and space, so it's my guess that these big ones are the survivors of two years ago."

Shelter from the elements was not to be, though. A progression of increasingly vigorous twitches of two rods brought mass evacuation of the car.

"Feels like a big one," Ron said casually as he dragged a bully ashore. 'About like that monster Marv corralled."

"Just after 10," Marv observed, ignoring the ribbing. "They should start to hit now if they are ever going to."

And hit they did —one after another, two lines at once and with predictable regularity. "Three-quarters of a pound, maybe a pound even. Feels like the best one of the night," Gene said, as he eased back from setting the hook. More grudgingly than previous bullheads, the thick-bodied monster was reeled in and hefted aloft for careful estimates.

"Won't quite make a pound and a half," Woody offered.

"Get that hand scale out of my tackle box," Gene ordered at large, assuming the role as top angler for the night.

Weighing in confirmed Woody's guess as the scale's indicator came to rest at a tad under a pound and a half.

Things slowed after that, talk turning to other subjects as it usually does where sportsmen gather. Tales are spun and old times rehashed. Marv's consistent success compared with Gene's run of foul fortune during last spring's turkey hunt led to much badgering and heckling.

Woody finally broke in, turning the conversation in another direction. "I've been fishing and hunting this area for 40 years. This used to be nothing more than a swampy marshland. Damming the water flow at the western end formed this lake. We used to shoot a lot of ducks on that marsh, but the fishing was nothing to brag about then."

"Bass fishing has been running well in the upper end," Marv injected. "Shallow reed beds are turning up some nice one to two-pounders on artificials."

A throbbing line cut the small talk short. Tempo of the action increased and came to a peak. Bulls were being taken off lines or being put onto the stringer constantly. Marv, trying to run two outfits at once, compounded his problems as well as his pleasures. On several occasions during the night he had to trust a rod holder to keep a fish on one line while he pulled one in on the other.

The bank was soon strewn with writhing fish because no one found time anymore to abandon his line long enough to thread fish onto the stringer. Time slipped by unnoticed. Baiting, casting, feeling for just the right tension, and setting the hook became routine.

"Better call it quits for tonight," Gene finally suggested. "Tomorrow is a working day for Ron and me. Most patients don't understand a slip of the drill, regardless of two-pound bullheads."

"Let's tally up and weigh in," Marv agreed.

"We've got one stringer with 11 bullheads that totals right at 15 pounds," Ron affirmed. "That's just over a pound per fish for the whole works."

"Those piled on the ground run a bit smaller than the ones on the stringer. Most are between three-quarters and a pound even," Marv added. "That's a nice bullhead anywhere else, but a poor showing for Smith Lake.

Bullheads ranging in size from three-quarters of a pound to near a pound and a half crowded the ponderous stringers. Well in excess of 40 yellow bullheads were taken by the quartet during a three-hour fishing extravaganza. More than 50 pounds of tasty Sand Hills fillets and consistently sporty action proved to these traditional bass fishermen that at least this one night away from the flyrods had been worth it.

"Weather should be breaking up by tomorrow. Might turn warm and muggy AUGUST 1971 53   toward the end of the week," Woody led. "Could be the big bulls will be hitting by then."

"What are you hinting at, Woody? You wouldn't be suggesting that 40, one-pound bullheads are beneath a sandhiller's dignity," Marv read into the rancher's suggestive slip. "Most fishermen around the state would call that a highly successful night on any lake."

"Hold on there now. I never said anything like that," Woody responded defensively. "All that I'm saying is, come next Friday night or over the weekend you'll probably find me right here in the same spot, dangling my line out there after one of those two-pounders."

"Can't hardly see letting him come out here all by his lonesome," Ron chimed in.

"Friday it is then," Marv firmed up the date. "Smith Lake two-pounders sharpen up! There will be another night," Marv said as he lugged the night's haul of bullheads off into the darkness.

PROFILES OF THE PAST

enroute. Mounted for the return, Grant drove his horse until it was worn out, then took refuge in the rocks. Two braves went after him, and the sergeant killed them both. He later staggered into Fort Kearny, dragging his own Spencer carbine and also a captured Henry rifle one of the Indians had carried. So, when George Grant walked into Fort Kearny that day in 1867, he also walked into immortality and a place in the listings of Nebraska's honored dead.

Other, more familiar names are also found chiseled on Nebraska tombstones. Major Alexander Culbertson, "King of the Missouri," lies at Orleans. Despite the volumes written about him, perhaps his tombstone tells the story best:

Major Alexander Culbertson

Born Penn. May 20,1809. Died Orleans, Nebr. August 27,1879. An important figure in the development of the western frontier. Associated with the fur trade. Entered service of the American Fur Co. 1829. Began career on upper Missouri, 1833. In charge of Fort McKenzie until 1840. Then Fort Union and sent to Fort Laramie. A special assignment to reestablish fur trade and save fort from abandonment. Superintendent of Upper Missouri Outfit which included all forts on the Yellowstone and Upper Missouri River 1847. Established Fort Benton, the first permanent settlement in Montana. Married Na-Ta-Wis-Ta-Cha, a Blackfoot maiden, about 1840. Acted as interpreter and as special agent of the U.S. Government in making treaties with the Indians. Such as the one with Blackfeet and Gros Ventres in 1855 permitting the survey through their territory of a Pacific railroad. Blazed trails on his trips from fort to fort and to Indian camps which were followed by settlers and today are the routes of highways. For nearly half a century his high character and ability enabled him to make major contributions to the development of the Missouri Basin.

While Culbertson lived, his travels led him through Nebraska many times. In 54 NEBRASKAland death, he came back to stay forever. Today, his gravestone stands as a tribute to his breed in a cemetery only a few miles east of the town which bears his name.

Embellishments were few and far between for the men of the frontier. Of few words, often their tombstones said more than they ever had. But, there were those who were largely silent even after they passed on. One fellow, W. H. Betts, tola the world little in life and in death his economy of words created one of our great mysteries. Even the old-timers in Friend don't remember Betts, but his tombstone has become a regular attraction in the local cemetery. Simple and eloquent, his marker states:

Names from a long-forgotten past dot almost every graveyard. David McCanles of Rock Creek Station fame, is at Fairbury. Luther Mitchell is buried at Kearney while his friend and hired hand, Ami Ketchum lies in the Central City Cemetery. Both were hanged and burned by Print Olive in 1878, and their murders spelled the downfall of his cattle and land empire in north-central Nebraska.

Almost everything is governed by tradition and cemeteries are no exception. The dead are buried with their heads to the west because of a scripture which says: "Look to the east for the resurrection." And, husbands are traditionally buried to the right of their wives because that is the way they stand when married. The Ashland Cemetery, true to the second tradition, largely ignores the first. There, graves wind up a small hill, with residents laid head west and head north. Not only is it one of the oldest graveyards in the state, it is one of the most unique. North of town, however, an ancient burial place, Clear Creek Cemetery follows both dictums to become among the most beautiful resting places in Nebraska. Situated on a gently sloping hill, it commands a spectacular view of the Platte River Valley and is well worth the trip. Lying two miles north on U.S. Highway 63, one-half mile west, and another one-quarter mile north, the cemetery is cared for by area residents and is a tribute to their toils.

But perhaps the grandest plot of them all is in the Wyuka Cemetery at Nebraska City. There lies Caroline Joy, wife of orator and statesman J. Sterling Morton. Words are useless to describe the monument. Yet, it has been described:

A shaft 20 feet high and 3 feet in diameter is erected in the center of the plot. It is in the form of a tree trunk which has been riven and broken at the top. At its base lie 50 disposed emblems of the life now ended—a sheet with the music and words "Rock of Ages". The needles and materials of embroidery, the painter's palette, pencils and brushes, graceful ferns and large lichens, a vase upon its side with lilies and ivy twining (Continued on page 58)

Where to go

Big Alkali Lake, Fort Atkinson State Historical Park

AS SUMMER REACHES its peak and dog days begin to drag, urbanites with an urge to wander begin thinking of their get-away-from-it-all spots. And, for a good number, Big Alkali Lake creeps into idle daydreams and absent-minded chatter. Lying in the heart of the Sand Hills, Big Alkali is an oasis for the harried angler and a pause that refreshes for the camper.

There is really no way to tally the number of people who pass through this state special-use area each year. Those in charge of the area, however, say it ranks as a moderate-to-heavy use site during its peak in summer months. Located 17 miles south and 3 miles west of Valentine off U.S. Highway 83 on Nebraska Highway 483, Big Alkali annually draws visitors from all corners of the state. Centrally located, yet well off the traffic mainstream, the area is an ideal spot to wile away a Sunday afternoon or a week's vacation.

Big Alkali boasts more than 47 acres of land for campers and hikers and 842 acres of water open to the public. Access is good, with adequate marking along the highway and reasonably good gravel roads leading to the interior. Roads and markings are constantly upgraded as the need arises.

For fishermen, Big Alkali offers diversity and excitement on the line. The lake was renovated in April 1965, and area Game and Parks Commission personnel say fishing should be good this year. Fry stocked in August of that year are reaching take-home size and should present plenty of challenge for both seasoned and novice anglers. Three 1965 stockings put channel catfish, rock bass, largemouth bass, Sacramento perch, and bluegill into the lake. Then, in 1966, white bass and walleye were introduced, with additional stockings of northern, bluegill, and Sacramento perch. Northern and largemouth populations were also increased in 1967. All species are most responsive in summer, although Big Alkali offers considerable ice-fishing potential. All boats, regardless of horsepower, are legal on the lake, but captains with larger craft should exercise caution, as Big Alkali lies in the middle of the Sand Hills with little foundation on which to build launching facilities. Therefore, there are no ramps and smaller craft are recommended since the lake's water level is rather unstable in summer.

Campers, too, are unrestricted at the area. Whether trailer, pickup camper, or tent is desired, there is plenty of room to set up housekeeping. Big Alkali State Special-Use Area also has eight modern cabins for those who would rather rent housing than buy it. Each cabin is furnished and has water and a stove to provide a home-away-from-home atmosphere. Reservations for cabins should be made well in advance.

No matter what mode of camping is selected, camp stoves, trash barrels, and drinking water are provided. A concession stand at the area, owned by the Game and Parks Commission and run by a local businessman, offers light snacks AUGUST 1971 57   though it is not intended to provide major meal services.

History buffs will have a field day as they explore the grounds of Fort Atkinson State Historical Park where colorfully clad troopers once trod. Although the park is under development, it gives an ideal outing for the historian and pleasure seeker. Located some nine miles south ofBlair on U.S. Highway 72, the post recalls the days before there was even a Nebraska territory, when it was an area inhabited by Indians and only the bravest of white men.

Fort Atkinson, Nebraska's oldest military fort, was a part of the Yellowstone expedition which called for the establishment of a line of military posts from the mouth of the Missouri River to the mouth of the Yellowstone River. However, Fort Atkinson was the farthest upriver. Congress, later rescinding its own legislation, did not provide additional funds for the furtherance of the expedition.

Fort Atkinson was first located along the river bottom and was known as Cantonment Missouri. It was constructed in 1819. However, floods destroyed it and the fort was then located on the bluffs in 1820.

Fort Atkinson was constructed by the Rifle Regiment and the Sixth Regiment. From 1820 to 1827, this was the western outpost of American authority. An expedition against the Arikaree villages Fort Atkinson today stands as symbol of the white man's western movement was carried out and as a result, the military complement of the Fort was increased. A Counsel House was constructed outside the fort in 1823 and it was here that the military met with the Indian chiefs who visited the post. The fort was abandoned in 1827.

At present, the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission is engaged in developing an interpretive program and partial replacement of the fort outline. The State Historical Society has been engaged by the Commission to perform the archeology and locate the old buildings, foundations, gates and so forth, which will re-establish the original perimeter of the fort. It is a difficult task and a big order, but one that must be done, however, to preserve a part of Nebraska's heritage and an important segment of the nation's history.

Archeology crews will be at work there this summer and a trailer will be used as a temporary visitors' and interpretive center to give some idea of what Fort Atkinson was like.

Whether on the prowl for get-away-from-it-all angling or in the market for a date with history, Nebraska stands ready to supply something for every demand. Big Alkali Lake and Fort Atkinson State Historical Park are just two of the many attractions that offer an everchanging array of outdoor fun possibilities.

PROFILES OF THE PAST

to the top. One branch hangs alone, symbolizing the broken life. Upon the opposite side is the cavity of a decayed knot, in which are three fledglings which have left the nest; while on top of the trunk, looking down upon the little ones, is the anxious mother and one other, the youngest of the brood, under her wing. The field is protected by a fence of stone, the base being a perfect resemblance of rows of stumps of trees cut to a uniform height, upon which are logs lying horizontally as they are laid in a log house.

As if this were not enough, the inscription reads:

From modest to grand, Nebraska's grave markers and cemeteries span the classes. Each, in its own way, tells a story of a sturdy yet frail society that built a great state from a sea of grass. It is all there, carved in stone for everyone to see. All that remains for the present generation is to search out and absorb the legacy of our land.

TWIN BROTHERS

I first arrived at the farm, I thought the pond had disappeared. But I knew it had to be somewhere between the cornfield and the dam. I continued walking through the cornfield and then, all of a sudden, I stumbled upon it. Twin Brothers was right there in front of me. It appeared to be a single pond —much smaller than it had been when Mike and I had played around it. The banks seemed to have lost (Continued on page 62)

Outdoor Calendar

Nongame Species-Year-round, statewide.

State special-use areas are open to hunting in season the year-round unless otherwise posted or designated.

Hook and -All species, year-round, statewide. Line

Bullfrogs, July 1 through October 31, state-wide. With appropriate permit may be taken by hand, hand net, gig, bow and arrow, or firearms.

Archery-Nongame fish only, year-round. Game fish, April 1 through November 30. Sunrise to sunset.

Hand-Nongame fish only, year-round, sunrise to Spearing sun

Underwater Powered-No closed season on nongame fish.

Spearfishing

State Parks-The grounds of all state parks are open to visitors year-round. Park facilities are officially opened May 15.

Other areas include state recreation, wayside, and special-use areas. Most are open year-round, and are available for camping, picnicking, swimming, boating, and horseback riding. Consult the NEBRASKAland Camping Guide for particulars.

Consult NEBRASKAland hunting and fishing guides, available from conservation officers, NEBRASKAlanders, permit vendors, tourist welcome stations, county clerks, all Game and Parks Commission offices, or by writing Game and Parks Commission, State Capitol, Lincoln, Nebraska 68509.

SNAKES ALIVE

confronted by danger, but almost all have some form of defense. Many snakes secrete musky smelling liquids from anal scent glands to discourage predators. Others, such as the bull snake, rear up to strike at an enemy, emitting a loud hiss. If repeatedly annoyed, some snakes roll into a ball and hide their heads in the center. The hog-nosed snake hisses and strikes at an enemy, but if harrassment continues, it thrashes about and then rolls over onto its back as if dead.

Rodney's loud shout "Skinks!" brought Gary and me running. We arrived just in time to see him dive into some debris under a fallen tree, reappearing seconds later with a small lizard.

"There are more," he said, dropping the skink into a snake bag and then disappearing again. Gary grabbed one on the other side of the log and Rod, a wide grin on his face, reappeared holding still another.

"I broke off his tail," Rod said, pointing at it whipping wildly on the ground. "That's the skink's defense," he said. "When a predator grabs its tail it breaks off and thrashes around. That keeps the predator occupied while the skink scurries away.

Our stomachs told us the hour, so Gary's suggestion to head into town for lunch met with unanimous approval.

"There's so much folklore associated with snakes that most people kill any they see," Gary said, as we waited for our sandwiches.

"And it's too bad," Rod added, "because in most cases they shouldn't be any prouder of killing a snake than they would be of killing a robin."

We resumed the hunt after lunch. Gary said he felt our chances of finding a massasauga were slim and suggested we try for a timber rattler. He tempered my enthusiasm by adding that in all his snake-hunting trips he had captured only one. Five miles southwest of Barneston we stopped at a farmhouse for permission to hunt.

"There aren't any rattlers around anymore," the farmer told us. "But you're welcome to look. Some fellows killed one down by the bridge several weeks ago."

Reaching the top of the bluff, Rod and Gary began flipping more rocks. Almost immediately they found several ringnecked snakes, which grow to about 12 inches in length. I examined one carefully. The slate-gray back was broken by an orange band around the neck, while the belly was bright orange-red, spotted with black dots.

"It's a beautiful snake," Gary said, noting my interest. "Rod and I collected about 40 of them several weeks ago. I released them in my backyard near a lily pond and I hope they stay around."

A hundred yards down the slope, Gary kicked a rock aside and discovered another ring-necked snake, grabbing it with both hands.

His sudden shout of "Timber rattler!" brought Rod and me scrambling. A big snake lay coiled under a ledge just inches from where he had found the ring-necked snake. Quickly pinning the head with his snake stick, Gary grabbed Rod's stick and tried to hold the head more securely with it. With a single, powerful thrust, Gary's snake twisted free and slithered toward the ledge.

"He's going to get away!" Rod yelled. Just at that instant Gary planted his boot firmly on the rattler's back.

"Don't let him bite you!" I hollered. Working quickly, Gary again pinned the snake's head, then reached down and carefully took hold of the snake just behind the head.

"That was close!" Rod exclaimed, as Gary lifted the snake for us to see.

The big snake sported six rattles, but Gary informed me that the number of rattles doesn't indicate age. A rattlesnake gets a new rattle every time it sheds its skin. Often it sheds several times a year.

With the rattler safely deposited in a snake bag we continued hunting.

Rod came up with another species — a prairie rat snake. It tried to bite him when he caught it, and Rod explained that it was probably getting ready to shed its skin. Pointing out the snake's clouded eyes, he said snakes become blind for about a week before shedding and are often more hostile during this period. In addition to good eyesight, snakes have a highly developed sense of smell. They use their tongues to carry particles of scent into two cavities in the roofs of their mouths. A rattlesnake often strikes its prey and allows it to stagger off to die. The rattler then follow's the victim's scent. Other smaller snakes can actually follow the scent trail of an earthworm.

Farther down the ridge, Gary made a double find. Turning over a large, flat rock he collected a ring-necked snake and another timber rattler, but this rattlesnake was only six inches long and had no rattle.

'He was probably just born this spring," Gary said, noting that rattlesnakes and numerous other species bear live young, while others lay eggs. Regardless of birth method, female snakes take no interest in offspring after birth.

Further investigation along the bluff's top yielded only more ring-necked snakes, so we decided to move on to our final hunting area, a long-deserted rock quarry two miles east of Wymore near the Big Blue River. There again the ringnecked snakes predominated. We found them under almost every rock or board we moved.

"I was hoping for several more species," Gary said, as we decided to call it a day and headed back to Beatrice.

"We collected five different species," I said. "How many more are there in this area?"

"Well, let's see," Rod thought. "There's the pilot black snake, the prairie king snake, the blue racer, the bull snake, the massasauga, and the garter snake. That makes six more."

"But we were really lucky to get two timber rattlers," Gary added. "I don't know how many trips I've made looking for them, only to return empty-handed."

"We've got a good start for the fair," Rodney said. "And, if the display con- vinces even a few people that snakes should not be killed indiscriminately, our day has been well spent."

Roundup and What to do

AUGUST SWIMS INTO Nebraska with a splash as Columbus residents kick off the month with their water festival. The annual Water-ama offers a Sunday of summer fun August 1. There is a water-skiing contest with prizes for the best male skier, female skier, and youngest and oldest skiers. Boat races include all sizes of power craft and a Water-ama King and Queen are named.

Competition is the name of the game for Stephanie Kutler, too. She entered the Miss Teenage America contest as a candidate at large from Nebraska, winning the alternate crown in the national pageant.

Daughter of Dr. and Mrs. Sol Kutler of Omaha, she was graduated from Omaha Central High this spring. Stephanie lists golf, tennis, reading, sewing, playing piano, bowling, table tennis, basketball, and watching football as her favorite hobbies.

Stephanie achieved the peak of form, to be named a 1970 Nebraska State Junior Golf Medalist.

Other titles are awarded during August in Nebraska, and golf is among the activities. Red Cloud is the scene of a Men's Centennial Open Golf Tournament August 8, and Mullen also hosts a golf open that day.

The Nebraska Czech Festival in Wilber takes place August 7 and 8 with Old-World dishes, dancing, and music. For two days, the town dons colorful costume and tradition as Czechs remember the heritage their forefathers brought to this country.

A second festival winds up the month in North Loup. The annual Popcorn Days celebration carries on the tradition of harvest festivals, which are as old as cultivated land. Bushels and bushels of popcorn are served free to anyone with a taste for the puffy stuff. There are horse shows, parades, games, music, dances, exhibits, carnivals, and much more. One of the biggest events is the horseshoe-pitching contest, which attracts top throwers from across the state.

Baseball and softball tournaments are also part of NEBRASKAland's August picture. State softball championships dot the calendar, and Red Cloud holds its Centennial Baseball Tournament August 14 and 15.

The 1970 champs of the league meet 3 opponents in 13 games on their home diamond. August 9 to 13 the Omaha Royals battle the Wichita Aeros; August 14 to 17 the Evansville Triplets; August 26 to 29 the Iowa Oaks.

For tops in outdoor entertainment, Nebraska offers rodeos throughout the month. Many of the county fairs taking place in August are held in conjunction with rodeos, and several communities host other rodeos. Included in this category is the Stapleton event, late in the month. Horse shows, too, are on the agenda of things to do, and horses are the center of another Nebraska activity in August as flashing silks and flying hooves make for thundering action in Columbus from Aug. 10, where the ponies race to the end of the month. Parimutuel betting makes the sport just that much more exciting. Nebraska's finest thoroughbreds are on hand to show spectators some of the greatest speed on the western plains.

Evenings indoors offer a variety of oldtime entertainment. The Mellerdrammers in Lincoln perform "Love Rides the Rails" and "Ten Nights in a Barroom" throughout the month. And, for footstomping, whooping fun, the Old-time Fiddlers and Country Music Contest at Brownville attracts the best of entertainment in the pioneer tradition. Brownville is also home of the Village Theater, staging performances throughout the summer.

With picnics and water sports, games and parades, reunions, centennial celebrations, and county fairs, there is plenty to see and do in Nebraska during August.

TWIN BROTHERS

their potential for adventure. The pond appeared to be little more than a mudhole.

At first I saw no frogs. Suddenly one jumped. I jumped too, and then all the excitement I had felt in earlier days returned. I looked deeper into the growth and found there were two ponds after all, separated by a narrow strip of high, weed-covered land. It must have been a dry summer.

I had a slingshot with me, together with enough BB's and marbles (ammunition) to last all day. After explaining my excitement to the dog and convincing him of the seriousness of what I was about to do, I went to work. Everything seemed familiar again. I spent most of the day crouching, crawling, and shooting. Twin Brothers had changed a bit, but the frogs were still there and they seemed to have multiplied many times.

The next day I went to the old farmstead again, shooting frogs part of the time, and wandering around in reminiscent thought the rest. I had never hunted the frogs at night before, but had heard that this was a very successful method, so I decided to try it that evening.

Using a flashlight and spear, I covered the banks of Twin Brothers as well as the edges of some other smaller ponds nearby. Within 2 1/2 hours I had bagged my 8-frog limit. I took them to my grandmother and persuaded her to fry them for me the next day.

I returned to Twin Brothers a final time during the evening of the third day, taking my younger cousin, Tim, with me to show him the ropes of night hunting. I considered myself to be professional now. There was one big frog I had seen during the previous two days, which reminded me of the old croaker Mike and I had never been able to catch. I told Tim this was the smartest, most elusive frog in the world, and it made us both excited.

We didn't get him at first, but after 20 minutes of concentrated hunting, I finally grounded him with a well-aimed shot. He never knew what hit him.

I spent half of the next day showing him off to friends. I'll never forget. He was 17% inches long from the tip of his nose to his toes, stretched out. He was the only frog I had ever caught which was big enough for a small meal.

But, underneath my pride lingered a feeling of guilt. I knew there was nothing illegal in the method I had used —using my flashlight at night to catch frogs —but I felt like a cheat. My grandmother offered to fry the frog for me, but toward the end of the day my excitement wore off and I could not have eaten him if I had tried. I gave him to Tim's sister for her biology class.

Although I have no definite plans at the moment, I have a feeling I will visit Twin Brothers again someday. How the pond will look is hard to say. Perhaps the lure of the frogs will have disappeared. Maybe I'll find only a mudhole surrounded by weeds. And yet, somehow, I feel I will always be able to find the magic of boyhood there.

WHEN CHIPS ARE DOWN

dissolved oxygen, thus rendering the stream unsuitable for many forms of life. While the change in color of a watercourse may be just an eyesore, over-fertilization is an insidious menace. The discharge of fecal wastes into a stream can lead to a surplus of nutrients and the related problems of undesirable eutrophication. While the odor of a fetid stream may only be a transitory offense to the senses, the pathogenic or disease-causing bacteria which are associated with feedlot wastes are a hazard to health which must be dealt with. All of the problems connected with feedlot pollution are more than just nuisances. They present real dangers to the quality of Nebraska's water supply.

With pollution and its sources identified, the problem becomes one of correction. The Water Pollution Control Act of 1967 was passed "to conserve the waters of the state and to protect, maintain, and improve the quality thereof for public water supplies, for the propagation of wildlife, fish and aquatic life, and for domestic, agricultural, industrial, recreational, and other legitimate beneficial uses." The Water Pollution Control Council was formed at the same time and given the duty of administering the act, and established within the Department of Health, it went to work.

One of its first functions was setting up of water quality standards for all waters within the state. These criteria may differ from one stream or lake to another depending on the use to which the water is put. But an important feature of the act was that water could not be degraded below the established standards and that the high quality of good water should be maintained. Clearly, the wastes from some of Nebraska's feedlots degraded the quality of a variety of watercourses, and programs to eliminate the pollution were needed.

From the outset, the problem has been tackled by governmental agencies and concerned feeders in a spirit of co-operation. Naturally the stockmen, many of whom are represented by the Nebraska Livestock Feeders Association, initially felt threatened. The majority of the feeders agreed with the proposals to which they would have to conform, but it was obvious to them that this situation, which had existed for many years, could not be remedied overnight.

Working to abide by the Water Pollution Control Act, the feeder association formed a Livestock Waste Control Advisory Committee. With representatives from the feeding industry, the Water Pollution Control Council, and the University of Nebraska, the committee began a program of information and research which has become a strong influence in the administration of pollution standards.

Because of the combined efforts of the feeding industry and the concerned agencies, Nebraska is now a leading state in researching the problems of feedlot waste control. A variety of studies aimed at this particular kind of pollution is underway in several locations throughout the state. With the information that has thus far been accumulated, the feeders and the regulatory agencies are now in a position to temper their actions with experience and to follow sound, sensible approaches in regulation enforcement.

In order to accomplish the task of controlling feedlot wastes, the Advisory Committee of the Livestock Feeders Association provided the impetus for a state-sponsored program to approve those feedlots which met the requirements of the pollution laws. With the assistance of county extension agents and Soil Conservation Service technicians, forms are filed with the appropriate offices indicating whether or not the feedlot meets approved standards. If it does, the operation is given "approved feedlot" status. If not, the operator can plan waste-control facilities with the Soil Conservation Service for lots smaller than 10 acres, or with private consulting engineers for larger operations. Once built, the facilities may then be inspected by the Water Pollution Control Council and are eligible for approval.

The Water Pollution Control Council now requires, by law, the registration of all feedlot operations of a substantial size. For example, if a feeder keeps 300 or more feeder or fat cattle, 100 or more beef cows, 500 or more swine, or 2,000 or more sheep, the operation must be registered. Approximately 2,000 feeding operations are now listed with the state, and of these, about half are able to meet the established standards.

The basic requirement which must be met in order to achieve approved status is that the runoff from a feeding area must be contained on the owner's property. No waste from the lot may reach a watercourse or ditch, nor may it drain onto another person's property. Although there are many feedlot owners who cannot presently meet this requirement, most are honestly seeking to improve their operation by installing and maintaining suitable waste control facilities. Resolutions passed by the Nebraska Livestock Feeders Association express their concern. They urge their members to make every effort to stay informed on all aspects of waste control, to accept the responsibility for doing what they can to control waste runoff, and to strive to be good neighbors.

With continued good relations between the state's livestock feeders and governmental agencies assigned to regulate their activities, Nebraska may soon witness improvements in water quality. Fortunately, Nebraskans care about the land on which they live and make their living, for in concerns about the environment, as well as in matters of government, the salvation of the state is watchfulness in the citizen.

NEBRASKAland TRADING POST

OUTDOOR NEBRASKAland of the Air

Outdoor Elsewhere

Polluted Pigeons. Everybody has heard about polluted water and air, but how about polluted pigeons? When pigeons became a population problem in Philadelphia, city officials couldn't decide what to do. Then, an idea was born. The officials soaked wheat grain in 190-proof alcohol. The grain was then sprinkled around for the pigeons, and as suspected, the greedy winged fellows made pigs of themselves as they gobbled up the wheat. Soon the birds toppled to the ground, too soused to fly. When they hit the turf, city employees were on hand to tote them away. —Pennsylvania

Man's Best Friend. Dogs are man's best friends, so goes the saying. And, in some cases these canine friends really seem to go out of their way to be friendly and get their jobs done. In one recent case, an Ohio sportsman was rabbit hunting with his beagle, Spot, a veteran at the sport. When the action cooled off to a near standstill, Spot decided to take to the hills on his own. And, just as he must have figured, he soon flushed a bunny. The race was on! Spot finally chased the rabbit into a small six-foot-long piece of drain pipe that was closed at one end. Consequently, the dog couldn't get in and the rabbit couldn't get out. Spot lugged the pipe, rabbit and all, back to his owner's home and dropped the whole works outside the back door. — Ohio

Pot Luck. Some of the happiest goose hunters during California's disappointing hunting season last year were residents of South Sacramento. The locals there did extremely well, but they needed neither hunting permits nor guns. Basically, all they had to do was be there to cash in on several geese that fell dead after a severe electrical storm. Although a bit singed by lightning, the fowl needed only to be drawn and plucked to become first-class table fare.—California

Ride 'Em Moose. Have you ever seen someone ride a cow? Well then, how about a moose? In Russia, young wild moose are trapped, corraled, and broken for riding just like horses. The next step for the moose is harness breaking. When all is said and done, they are shipped to northern outposts for use in long hauling and similar work. They survive where horses would die, and because of their splayed hoofs, can cross boggy ground where horses would be helpless. But, domestication of moose is nothing new in Russia, for as far back as the Middle Ages a law forbade riding moose in the streets.—Washington, D.C.

Instant Cure. Everyone knows about the proverbial golfer who gets so angry that he wraps his golf club around a tree. Well, according to a recent report from a New York charter-boat captain, certain anglers are also susceptible to anger. On a recent outing, the captain reports that an angler kept getting his string all tangled up in his hooks, his weights tangled in the string, and his reel all tangled up. Despite several rescues by the captain, the fisherman continued to mess everything up. Finally, the enraged fellow reached for his knife, hacked the line off at the rod tip, fired rod and reel into the drink like a javelin, threw his second rod after the first, and followed that with his tacklebox for a grand finale. The fellow then calmly announced that his only regret was having thrown away seven cigars that were in the tackle box. —New York

Photo Finish. Most sports fans think about the undescribable thrills of horse racing when they hear the phrase "photo finish". But, now there's a new application for the phrase. Last year, an estimated 400 hooved animals died in our national forest, parks, and other recreational areas from eating film residue discarded by careless photography buffs. — Washington, D.C.

Honest Angler. A Massachusetts fisherman came within just a few inches of giving up the sport back in 1966. The ardent angler had just purchased a $153 bamboo-flyrod outfit and was using it for the second time when he accidentally knocked it overboard in Vermont's Echo Lake. However, all was not lost. This past summer, some 4 years later, a fellow Massachusetts angler was fishing the same lake. When he hauled his anchor aboard, a bamboo-flyrod outfit was tangled in the rope. Through the company that manufactures the flyrod, the finder was able to locate and return the fishing rod to its original owner. And, except for two reel springs, the rig was in near-perfect condition. -Massachusetts