Where the West Begins
Nebraskaland
November 1971 50 cents
For the Record... RECREATIONAL VEHICLES
The 1971 Legislature downgraded minibikes from the motor vehicle classification, ruling them off the road, and enacted legislation providing for the regulation and registration of snowmobiles. These actions have focused attention on all powered recreational vehicles, including snowmobiles, trail bikes and other cycles, all-terrain vehicles, and four-wheel-drive units.
These devices have several common features: they are designed for offroad use; they are noisy; they are deleterious to the environment in varying degrees; they are within the means of most families; and last, but by no means least, they are a lot of fun. Properly used and controlled, they contribute to the "good life" in outdoor recreation.
Growth of the popularity of these devices has been sensational. Between 1960 and 1962 annual sales in America were calculated at only 155,000 units, but by 1970 annual sales skyrocketed to 1,800,000 units, with gross sales reaching almost a billion dollars.
As in all aspects of outdoor recreation, this growth is the product of higher personal income, vastly increased leisure time, and a continuing shift of population from rural to urban areas. These and related factors are projected to result in annual sales of 2.5 million units by 1980 with the end still not in sight. The industry is busy searching for new enticements to offer an eager market, which took a look at the snowmobile to the tune of 10,000 purchases in 1960, liked what it saw, and by 1969 was buying snowmobiles at the rate of 317,000 units a year.
Standing in the wings are air-cushion, all-season, and electric-powered recreational devices, along with whatever else designers can come up with.
Because of the unpredictable snow cover over most of Nebraska, we will escape most of the snowmobile boom that has taken over the winter outdoor scene in the snow-belt states, but all Nebraskans would do well to concern themselves with the impact of recreational vehicles that are practical here.
Upon the purchase of a recreational vehicle, the new owner is immediately confronted with the problem of where to operate it. Understandably, his first thoughts are likely to turn to public recreational lands. Administrators of such lands, universally beset with funding problems, recognizing the owner as a minority user, deriving no direct revenue from the licensing or operation of these devices, and recognizing the potentially deleterious environmental impact, just as understandably take a very dim view of the whole situation.
In Nebraska there are some public lands where some classes of recreational vehicles could probably be operated under supervision with controls adequate to protect the environment, other visitors, and wildlife. At this point in time, however, this commission does not have the financial or manpower capability to develop and mark trails, designate and improve special-vehicle areas, or enforce essential control measures. Therefore, the development of a recreational vehicle program in the Nebraska State Park System must be predicated upon the development of funds.
Many administrators, including this one, believe that the ultimate future of recreational vehicles in general public-use areas will be determined by public tolerance of the sound levels produced by these devices. Noise is the single intrusion that directly and adversely affects other visitors. We are convinced that manufacturers and owners of recreational vehicles would be well advised to concern themselves, and deal decisively with this problem before noise places the kiss of death on the entire sport.
Jack Strain Chief, Bureau of State Parks
Speak Up
NOT FORGOTTEN-"I would like to take this opportunity to say your staff does an outstanding job publishing NEBRASKAland.
"Being stationed in Korea for a year is a long time to be away from 'Good Old NEBRASKAland', its people, and our way of life there.
"Since I've been overseas, my wife has been sending me your magazine every month. There's really no way of putting into words how much this means to me, being able to read about back home." — LeRoy Vanek, Silver Creek.
SOMEONE NOTICED-"I have just received my August NEBRASKAland and am very disappointed in the new style cover!
"The cover on the past issues has always been so distinctive with its colorful NEBRASKAland nameplate. One could always pick it out from all the other magazines. But, now it looks just like the common movie magazines that the kids buy.
"I do hope you will seriously consider returning to the distinctive cover you had and keep NEBRASKAland No. 1 - Sharon A. Smith, Schuyler.
STORY TO TELL — "I was very much interested in Warren H. Spencer's article Profiles of the Past in the August issue of NEBRASKAland. Old cemeteries do have a story of interest to tell.
"I would like to mention a cemetery which to me is as lovely as any I have NOVEMBER 1971 seen. It is not only old, but beautiful and well kept. It is the Oakdale, Nebraska cemetery just a short distance south of town. You enter up a long gravel drive to a flat area with beautiful pine trees. To the north and east of this part are rolling hills which are included in the cemetery.
"I do not know how many prominent people lie at rest in this spot, but one I can mention is the late A. J. Leach, a pioneer of Antelope County and author of Early Day Stories, a history of Nebraska written in 1916. His grave lies on the side of a hill at the northeast corner. The monument is a huge boulder with his name and dates carved on it. I do not remember where it came from, but there are those in or around Oakdale who no doubt could tell about it." —Mrs. E. R. Carpenter, Chambers.
WE NEED WATER-"So, the National Audubon Society wants to destroy Nebraskans'
"I refer to NEBRASKAland's For the Record (June 1971) which describes efforts being made to destroy us Nebraskans who are dependent upon the agricultural industry.
"In the 1930's, I helped my father dig an irrigation well here on our land in the Platte Valley near Cairo. He dug that well so that he could stay in Nebraska, so I could stay here, and so my children could stay here. Ours was not the first well in the Platte Valley and probably the last one hasn't been dug. However, all of us farmers must have an adequate water supply to keep ourselves and our families in Nebraska and to support the largest industry of our country — farming. Now, we're not trying to put more land under cultivation; we're trying to use the resources that we have with the best technical and professional skills in maintaining the social wellbeing of ourselves and the rest of the Nebraskans who are dependent upon us. To do this, we must have a dependable water supply.
"When my father dug that well in the 1930's, the aquifer was full of water. This summer I measured the depth of water in the well. Half the aquifer contained no water. If I am to stay in business and to maintain quality of life for myself, my wife, my children, and the rest of the Nebraskans, I've got to have that water supply replenished. Precipitation alone is not sufficient to do it. This is really what the Mid-State Project is all about — stabilizing the ground water and assuring an adequate water supply for the area.
"I have learned from records of the United States Geological Survey that they measured 261 wells in the Mid-State Project area. From their records, they tell me that from the fall of 1969 to the fall of 1970, 254 of these wells showed declines in the water table. The maximum decline was seven feet. Only 7 of these 261 wells showed increases in the depth of the water table. The average decline of these wells was 1% feet. Rainfall for 1970 was less than normal, but no drought.
"My father was an avid hunter, and so am I. In my early days, we did our waterfowl hunting along the Loup River. In more recent years, we have moved to the Platte River. So, I appreciate the efforts to maintain adequate wildlife facilities to provocate the species and to assure a wholesome life around a body of water. However, I feel that we human beings have a certain right to live in this environment; that we are part of the environment and adequate consideration must be given to facilities to protect us." — Bob Lowry, Cairo.
TWISTED TOPICS-"After reading the SOS poems in NEBRASKAland, (Speak Up, April 1971 and July 1971), I realize the endless number of topics these three letters could inspire.
"In all good humor, I earnestly hope some cleaning enthusiast doesn't come forth with 'Scour Our State, use SOS soap pads'."—Mrs. Lorene Moranville, Bayard.
Mrs. Moranville's contribution, S.O.S. — Sell Our State, was later interpreted as S.O.S. — Save Our State by Mrs. Vilma Toufar, Columbus. — Editor.
SAND HILLS SONG-"Enclosed is a poem our daughter wrote in high school this year. We live in the middle of the Sand Hills and the ranch is her whole life." — Mrs. Orville Conner, Gordon.
Looking and Listening by Cameon Conner Gordon Sitting on a big tall hill in the evening dusk, Overlooking the rows and rows of rolling sandy peaks. Listening to the wind brush through the grass. As though it is trying to tell you something. Nothing that's real important, but just something. Watching a hawk with its wings spread wide, Gliding through the sky, with the gracefulness And ease of a feather floating in the wind. A feeling comes over you, too wonderful for words to express, As though everything around you is alive, talking And free as the wind that whispers by. No worries, no troubles, just letting things come And go as they please. Being alone but not alone; just looking and Listening and being there.
HOW TO: BUILD A GUN RACK
Prized weapons deserve display, and this project does that proudly
TO MOST OUTDOORSMEN, owning a fine shotgun or rifle brings a feeling of enjoyment surpassed only by long hours spent in pursuit of fast-flying gamebirds, or watching through the rifle scope as a small, tan spot on a far hillside becomes a majestic, eight-point mule deer.
Shouldering your favorite gun leaves warm and memorable feelings long after the day's hunt has ended, and proper storage and display of these guns require little more than a small place on the wall — and this easily made gun rack.
Using easily obtained materials, a unique display rack can be constructed using tines from a set of deer antlers and a small board of walnut or other fine wood.
The first step in construction requires the selection of evenly matched tines, two for each gun. The tines can be selected from more than one set of antlers if unbroken or matching horns are hard to find.
After the proper tines have been found, they should be cut to approximately five or six inches in length. Sharp (Continued on page 12)
BUILD A GUN RACK
(Continued from page 8)points and blemishes can be removed by using a small grinding wheel first, and then fine sandpaper. Little else need be done with the tines, although personal preference might call for final polishing and a light coat of varnish.
Any type of easily worked wood can be used, but for lasting enjoyment and good looks, fine-grained walnut was chosen for this working model.
Five small boards, two measuring 25 x 4 x 1/2, and two measuring ll x 3 x 1/2 are needed. The fifth, 20 x 3 x 1/2, can be used as an optional shelf. Sizes may have to be changed, depending on the type of guns to be displayed.
Arrange the two longer pieces so they are parallel and approximately ll inches apart. These form the uprights.
Proper placement of the protruding tines can be measured by laying the guns on the uprights in the most satisfactory arrangement. Positioning marks should be made, being careful to center holes, allowing for the horizontal difference between stock and forward hand rest.
Holes should be drilled at the marks, allowing for any difference in size of the tines. A hand drill is
After the holes have been bored and shaped to allow the tines to fit snugly, the wood should be sanded smooth. Start with medium-grade paper if the surface has been scratched or dented. Standard gunstock finishing methods can be used, including wetting the wood between final sandings. A highly polished gun rack is not desired, though, because of a possible conflict with a finely finished gunstock.
Next, glue the two 11 x 3 x 1/2 crossbars between the uprights. This can be done by forming a simple rectangle, or moving either the top or bottom crossbar to find the most pleasing arrangement. A high-bond wood glue should be used and heavy clamps attached to hold the wood in position while the glue dries.
Corner L and T braces, available in most hardware or lumber stores, are used to strengthen joints. These are arranged on the back of the rack, using a drill to make starting holes for the wood screws.
Arranging small L braces to form a triangle with the point toward the top makes a sturdy hanger for the finished gun rack.
Once the glue has set, remove the clamps and touch up the sanding job by removing excess cement. At this time the optional shelf at the top of the gun rack can be attached. The proper shelf length is determined by measuring the distance between the outside edges of the uprights. Fasten the shelf with glue and long wood screws from the back through the uprights to give the shelf strength.
After the shelf is in place, go through the sanding procedure again and prepare the holes for epoxy by taping the backs shut.
After sanding, apply either linseed oil or a standard stock-finishing oil. Some hand rubbing is required to bring out fine grain. Next, glue the tines into the holes, using leather discs or stars to hide finished joints. These must be slipped onto the horns before gluing.
If small children will have access to the gun rack, remember to lock the firearms. Trigger locks or wooden dowels running through the centers of the tines can be used.
Other personal touches, such as carving or shaping the wood or using other common furniture ideas can be added.
All that is left is to hang the finished gun rack where your cherished weapons can rekindle memories of those pleasurable hours spent hunting the wild game of NEBRASKAland. THE END
ICE DOWN THE VORTEX
IT WAS AN early autumn morning in 1935 and my father-in-law, Bob James, and I planned a day of duck hunting on the Missouri River. Long before dawn, we loaded his 15-foot skiff onto his truck in Nebraska City, arriving in Plattsmouth in darkness some time later. Our plan was to float back south toward home.
Bob, a mason and lifelong resident of Nebraska City, was an experienced river hunter. He had made this 30-mile trip many times and liked to float in on large congregations of ducks on the river's sandbars, often easing within 50 feet of thousands. When the time was right, he would pop up, empty his semi-automatic, reload, and row downstream to await any crippled or wounded birds that might float by. There was no limit then, and he often took home several dozen birds. Hunts like those are no longer possible, though, due to the absence of sandbars, eliminated to make the Missouri more navigable, and, of course, regulations have lowered take-home numbers in the interest of conservation.
There was a crisp chill in the air and fallen leaves crunched familiarly beneath our boots as we made our way toward the riverbank. As we slid the boat into the water, we had to give it an extra shove to get it through slush ice that had formed near the bank, but soon we were on our way.
We had gone some distance, waiting for signs of game, when we noticed the boat slowing and grating sounds coming from its sides. Lying flat in the bottom, we could not see, so Bob rose slightly for a look. There was slush and ice across the entire river now, separating here to skirt a sandbar just ahead. It felt as if the boat were riding on ice. By then, we were both up, glassing the river ahead for ducks.
Slowly, an autumn sun topped distant hills and a quiet, misty light played across the colors blanketing both banks.
After a long look, Bob handed the binoculars to me and casually remarked that there was no ice beyond the sandbar we were passing. Still caught in the flow of slush, our speed began to pick up. Suddenly, Bob grabbed the binoculars. Scanning ahead again, he became frantic. That pleased me at first, because I thought it meant ducks.
Then he shouted: "Look!" Fear filled his voice. We zipped along with 14
We immediately knew what to do to avoid being swallowed. I grabbed the front oar and Bob snatched up the rear. A combination of adrenalin power that comes with fear and a good bit of rowing experience edged us slowly, laboriously away from the whirling water. From well to the side of the whirlpool, we looked back to study the phenomenon. There didn't seem to be any visible sign of the ice resurfacing. Where was it going?
From time to time, stories cropped up to support a theory that fast currents surged through the Missouri, in some places forming rivers beneath the sand and mud of the main channel only to emerge into the mainstream at various points along the waterway.
What we were watching seemed to support that theory. Ice was disappearing, seemingly gone for good. We searched for signs of it resurfacing farther downstream, but found none. Maybe there really was an underground flow. Or, maybe, the force of swirling water simply disintegrated the slush. We never found out.
Although that autumn trip turned out to be an unsuccessful hunt, a certain exhilaration surged through us when we had solid ground beneath our feet again. And, the trip home was silent as we both pondered what could well have happened to us that day on the mysterious Missouri. THE END
For Jerry Gamster, pilgrimage from Chicago's concrete canyons to Nebraska's northwest pays off
Panhandle Ringnecks
DESPITE THE MANY self-made promises after the close of pheasant season to get in more time afield next year, it seldom happens. Each year seems to bring more hectic schedules, denying more gunners the simple pleasures of chasing those sneaky, Oriental birds.
Such was the case when the 1970 pheasant season rolled around. Sure, like most other hunters, I managed to get away for a few hours on opening day, but that looked like the end of it for some time. Then Jerry Gamster came on the scene.
Jerry is advertising manager of Fishing and Hunting Guide, and like many other staff members, is an avid hunter. Several weeks before the season he had left his Chicago office to come to Nebraska on business. Hunting was mentioned only briefly at that time, but a later phone call firmed up a date for him to come out for some ringneck shooting.
Airline personnel may have been nervous when they saw him climb aboard bearing two sheathed shotguns, possibly expecting a detour to Cuba or somewhere, but Jerry was perfectly content to head for Nebraska. When he climbed off the plane in Lincoln on November 20, it looked as if he meant business.
Our plans were to hunt in the Panhandle, where some good pheasant hunting had been reported during the first two weeks of the season. It was a long drive from Lincoln, but hopefully it would be worth it. Bright and early the next morning we departed and were ready to hunt all the way out to Crawford.
Early Sunday morning Jerry and I gravitated toward Hemingford. Shelterbelts in that area were touted to be loaded with birds. They were, but that didn't help an awful lot. Shortly after we arrived in the territory, the wind came up like a small tornado. At one place so much dirt was blowing across the road from plowed ground that we had to stop the car. Visibility ended at the end of the (Continued on page 60)
NEBRASKAland
Shoot-out at Sheridan
In backwash of Indian Wars, doldrums often led to discontent. At Pine Ridge post, grumbling exploded into gunfire
BETWEEN INDIAN engagements, soldiers at Camp Sheridan in northwest Nebraska were hard pressed for excitement. A long 40 miles from Fort Robinson and farther still from the saloons of Crawford, the troopers had no way to break routine, and boredom was their daily bread.
The Cheyenne outbreak of early 1879 was over, and Indian action was at a standstill. Located one mile south of the Spotted Tail Agency, the soldiers couldn't find enough hostiles to break the routine, and the agency Indians didn't seem to need the "protection" the soldiers were there to provide. The big excitement of the year came in the fall when prairie fires threatened the post. Then the soldiers were ordered out, armed only with wet gunny sacks, told to burn a fire ring, and see that the onrushing flames did not jump the barrier. The activity was one of great hilarity for men who seemed constantly immersed in monotony.
An early resident of the post described the firings as follows: "Between thrashings at the fire which they had set, several of the men would rush upon some victim and smack him from all sides with the slimy, wet gunny sacks and then, just like children, scream with glee and go back to their chore."
After the fire, lonesome isolation was punctuated only by the yelps of coyotes that sneaked about at night and, in mid-winter, packs of great grey wolves that prowled the region. The men poisoned many of them for skins with which to make carriage robes.
Down by Beaver Creek were hundreds of dogs that had been abandoned by the Indians when they left for the Missouri River. They lived in holes dug in the creek banks and had become as wild as wolves.
Before cattle were brought in, black-tailed deer were plentiful and could be hunted close to the post, providing some sport for the men— but the cattlemen's arrival put an end to even that entertainment.
With the relocation of the Indians, cattlemen drove their herds in and assumed control of the ranges, bringing with them some desperado drovers. There were frequent shootings from then on, keeping the post surgeon busy.
Horse thieves came along with "civilization", and so did road agents, but the Cavalry was not told to 18 NEBRASKAland chase such outlaws, and they provided little break in routine for the troops.
For the entertainment of the soldiers, a kindly man named Sol Martin established a "road ranch" for the cavalry's recreation. Despite Martin's generous assistance, however, the soldiers' boredom finally led to a bloodbath one evening when troopers joined an assorted group of cowboys at Martin's place for a Saturday night get-together. The men were drinking and dancing with Martin's "hostesses" when violence erupted.
There seems to be no verified report of exactly how it happened, but the Pawnee Republican of Pawnee City printed the following details, garnered from a special report sent out from Fort Robinson, in its November 4 issue.
"It began by a drunken Mexican brandishing a revolver and threatening to shoot the bartender for swindling him. A dozen cowboys drew revolvers...."
The roar of a single gunshot erupted amidst the general uproar and Ed Collins lay dead, shot by his own revolver as he drew it. Undaunted by Collins' death, the revelers returned to their dancing and merry making a scant 20 minutes after the unfortunate cowboy was dragged out.
"Jim Joyce and a desperado named Page soon got into a rough-and-tumble fight, however, over the proprietorship of a girl known as Beaver Tooth Nell [one of the hostesses] and it ended by Page shooting Joyce fatally," the report continued.
According to the Republican, Corporal Martin V. Green of the Fifth Cavalry attempted to disarm Page, and was shot in the leg for his efforts. The soldiers then retaliated by firing into the Page crowd, as they retreated into the night.
At this point, the Fort Robinson release stated, women rushed out of the rooms to which they had withdrawn (so as not to be mistakenly injured in the scuffle) and ran screaming about the place. The scene then degenerated into a "general brawl which was said to be dangerous to life and health."
Apparently Martin's "lovely assistants" were caught in the middle of the action anyway, for the report says that (Continued on page 56)
Frothing waters of spillway are not for faint-of-heart or inexperienced, but they challenge this daring crew
20 NEBRASKAlandRiding Super Surf
SLAVES TO THE call of adventure and its mystical song of danger, Mike McAllister, Frank Siedlik, and Arnold Bueoy stood ready to make the death-defying jump. Dedicated drifters on open water in search of the unknown, the trio faced a totally new challenge.
Unlike the wandering cowboy of yesteryear, these highly trained "Drifters" take their name from a closely knit scuba-diving club to which they belong. Experts of the silent world and seekers of all its mysteries, the trio of Omahans leaves no rock unturned in the quest for diving knowhow.
A smiling, have-a-happy-day sun sent golden shafts of light bouncing a million directions off the roaring water below. The divers carefully studied the rumbling current and crushing waves.
Snugging up his jet-black, tailor-made wet suit, Arnold shouted over the roar of rushing water, 'Til go first!"
The scene was at the massive concrete stilling basin of Kingsley Dam, the structure that impounds sprawling Lake McConaughy near Ogallala. The basin was swirling with action that particular late-July day. The basin measures 400 feet long, 106 feet wide at the upstream end, and 250 feet wide at the downstream end. The bowl is 50 feet deep with 24-foot concrete baffles extending from the floor to dissipate the tremendous energy resulting from the discharge of water through the spillway tubes. The frothing water rushes into the basin, primarily from the big lake's control tower, through a tube 20 feet in diameter and 979 feet long.
Arnold looked west toward the howling tube as water swirled into the air, simulating a tortuous, mid-winter snowstorm. The wild spray, laced with colorful rainbows, offered little mental respite as Arnold inched up to the retaining wall's edge. Chilly mountain water boomed from the tube at the rate of 3,800 cubic feet per second, creating several thousand horsepower of energy and shooting from the tube at an initial rate approaching 80 miles per hour. Crushing onto the submerged baffles, the water shot high into the air and sent rolling waves rumbling into the basin wall.
Tugging his hood secure, Arnold flexed his knees lightly and leaped over the side. The fall to water level was about 15 feet. Arnold's entry splash was scarcely noticeable in the confusion of breaking waves. A few heart-pounding seconds raced by before Arnold emerged about 20 feet out from the wall.
The rushing current caught him in full tow as he glided—carefree now—on the wild surf. After a brief ride, Arnold made his move to get back, and a few strong strokes brought the ex-Navy man to the concrete wall.
While the action along the basin wall was rough
and unpredictable, that was where the divers wanted
NOVEMBER 1971
21
to be. Then, at the end of the furious ride, they
would grab the corner of the wall and pull
themselves out of the current to safety. Otherwise, if they missed, the current would sweep
them back into the middle of Lake Ogallala,
meaning a long swim back.
Arnold made it to the wall, riding high in the rolling waves. In addition to wearing the extremely buoyant wet suit, Arnold and his jumping companions also had on half-inflated life vests. A second later, Arnold reached for the wall's end. He caught it with ease and pulled himself into the subdued backwater.
"Beautiful," he sputtered, gasping for air, "just beautiful."
While it seemed as if Arnold had been in the water for hours, a check with the stopwatch proved otherwise. It was incredible! He had made the watery, action-packed trip in just 11 seconds. The distance back to his jumping-off point was roughly 265 feet. A quick mathematical calculation showed that he had jetted through the water at about 25 feet-per-second.
Climbing up the rocks to the top of the wall, Arnold related his experience to his fellow divers. "Turbulent," he began. "I jumped too far up. The water held me down and I had to swim hard to surface. I think if we move downstream just a bit the water won't hold on so long. It's fast, though, I swallowed my gum."
Heeding their friend's advice, Mike and Frank moved several feet down the wall. Mike was next.
Bewildered, several anglers strained their eyes to see what was going on.
"It would be unnatural for them not to wonder what in Sam Scratch we're up to," Mike pointed out, pulling on his special water gloves.
"But, we love people," he continued. "Sometimes it seems as if we answer millions of crazy questions. This gives us the chance to promote diving, water safety, and interest in our precious natural water resources. This person-to-person communication is actually a big part of diving."
Mike crept closer to the wall's sheer edge and gazed at the roaring water. "Why do we do it?" he asked. "Easy. It's here. It's a challenge, a step into the uncertain. Really, it's just the adventure of it all."
Kersplash! Mike hit the water. He popped up sooner than Arnold had, and wore a mile-wide grin. He bobbed on the waves, looking like a seasoned body surfer on the Pacific. Approaching the end of the run, Mike reached for the corner of the wall. He, too, successfully grabbed it and soon reached dry dock to prepare for another jump.
"Super fantastic!" Mike shouted. "It's really fast, Frank."
Frank was the last Drifter to make his first jump. His eagerness to experience the wild, tumbling ride was evident.
"The degree of risk adds more romance to the jumping," Frank stated. "Only a highly experienced person should ever attempt an ordeal like this, though, and a person can't be friends with fear and still cut it. It's really no different than jumping out of airplanes or climbing mountains, but it's here and it's really
Lightest of the three divers, Frank popped up the quickest. He also zoomed along on the ripping current the fastest. With his arms out like a boy playing airplane, Frank skittered over the water laughing all the way. "Oh, no!" he shouted, as he approached the end of the retaining wall. He was too far out. His powerful arms, conditioned by years of swimming, thrashed the water, but the struggling diver missed the wall. The current tugged at his body, pulling him toward the lake. But, in a final burst of energy, Frank managed to escape the current's clutch and slipped into the backwater.
Still laughing, Frank gulped for air. "It was touch and go for a bit there," he gasped. "You two are both right. That's really something else!"
Each having completed one jump, the divers began comparing notes. It was 7:30 a.m. on a truly beautiful morning.
Some 25 members of the Omaha-headquartered Drifters Scuba Club would each undoubtedly get the intricate details of making the jump. And, although this type of adventure was a bit off base for the underwater explorers, the experience had to be weighed as an important tool of learning.
"I guess I've always been interested in diving," Mike began. The public relations assistant for an Omaha Hospital continued, "Way back when, I had only a snorkel, fins, and a mask. From there I've come a long way. Now I'm a certified scuba diver and instructor."
Skin diving involves only the snorkel, mask, and fins, while scuba diving means the individual is utilizing an air supply and, depending on climate and water, a wet suit. Mike graduated to scuba by way of Bill Pearce, proprietor of Bill's Scuba Shop and founder of the Drifters Scuba Club. Bill has outlets in Omaha and the capital city and teaches scuba techniques in both cities.
Riding something wild and free wasn't new to Arnold, a former rodeo performer. At home, Arnold is a computer programmer, but in the world of the great outdoors, the tousle-topped diver loves action - the faster the better.
The Drifters are much more than pleasure seekers. They play an important role in community safety. Mike, along with several other club members, is on the Sarpy and Douglas counties' Civil Defense underwater rescue team. Also, the divers lend helping hands to a host of "surface" sportsmen who lose everything from boats to watches in the watery depths. The club members go even further by making themselves available for commercial diving as well.
Although landlocked, skin and scuba diving are popular in Nebraska and enthusiast ranks are swelling each year. Two other sanctioned diving clubs exist in Omaha.
"Big Mac is the best lake in this region for diving," Frank noted. "Diving is best in the spring and then again in the fall, with visibility sometimes 35 or (Continued on page 56)
Reasons for Seasons
Compromise is the name of the game when commissioners hear all sides of an issue, then establish periods for legal hunting
HUNTING SEASONS occur each year, yet many sportsmen remain unfamiliar with the procedure involved in setting opening dates, lengths, and regulations. Hunting seasons are designed to provide beneficial outdoor recreation within the limits of available resources and to allow hunters to harvest surplus game birds and animals.
Hunting seasons and game regulations are established by a seven-member board of commissioners which governs the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission. The commissioners are appointed by the governor for five-year terms with approval of a majority of all members of the Legislature.
Game commissioners appoint a director who, in turn, hires a staff to carry out responsibilities delegated by the Legislature to the Game and Parks Commission. His staff includes trained wildlife biologists and conservation officers, part of whose job it is to conduct surveys and maintain records on wildlife populations throughout the state.
Information on various game populations is gathered during the year. This data is critically reviewed and compared with previous findings to evaluate population status. It is not possible to obtain total counts, so population comparisons are based on trends.
The commissioners announce a public hearing when regulations or seasons are to be set. After hearing testimony from interested persons and consideration of all aspects, they pass judgment on the seasons to be set. Dates selected are compromises between what is biologically feasible and what landowners and sportsmen find acceptable.
The first step in determining season regulations takes place in February. At this meeting, the commissioners determine the opening date for all hunting except waterfowl and other migratory bird seasons which are set by the federal government. Opening dates are based on several factors: the maturity of young birds or animals to be harvested, crop harvest dates which have a bearing on whether land will be open or closed to hunting; trophy quality in the case of big game; success during past seasons; the reactions of sportsmen and landowners; and time for printing and posting of regulations.
Opening dates are decided in February so that hunters interested in taking vacations during the hunting season or wishing to arrange business schedules to take advantage of the seasons can do so. Maturity of birds to be hunted has a definite effect upon the opening date. Pheasant cocks at 13 weeks of age are easily distinguished from hens. In order to have a season on cock pheasants accepted, the opening date cannot be set too early before the cocks can be distinguished from the young hens. The progress of the grain harvest also affects vulnerability of cocks and affects private landowners' attitudes toward hunters. Since most of the crops are harvested and the young birds are distinguishable by sex late in October or early in November, this is the most acceptable period for opening the pheasant season.
Quail opening is usually set to coincide with pheasant opening because they are often hunted at the same time. Although there is no need to distinguish young males from females, late-hatched quail are not very sporting targets. Small quail fly only a short distance and are much easier to hunt than older birds. Grouse opening is based mainly on distribution and vulnerability of birds. A mid- to late-September opening results in higher hunter success. Grouse gather into flocks beginning in late October and on through the winter. These flocks are much more difficult to approach than small groups or singles late in September.
Fall antelope and deer opening dates are based on the breeding season and crop harvest. If corn is not harvested, the kill on white-tailed deer is very low. Also taken into consideration is the fact that both deer and antelope shed their antlers and horns each year. Males taken after shedding lose their trophy quality. Also, the deer rut has a direct relationship to the quality of the meat.
Turkey season opening date for the fall hunt is usually set just prior to the deer season and usually allows for an overlap of the two seasons. This is done so that hunters wishing to hunt both turkey and deer need make only one trip to the western part of the state, prime range for both species.
The spring torn turkey season is decided at the February meeting. The opening date, as well as the length of the season and the number of permits to be authorized, are all set then. The spring season is set to start immediately after breeding. At that time, hens are nesting but gobblers are still interested in breeding and respond to the imitated call of a hen. The gobbler-only season provides an opportunity for sportsmen to harvest males that are not needed for reproduction. Their removal has no effect upon the future population.
Antelope and deer seasons are set well in advance at the May commission meeting to allow for the issuance of special permits. Both antelope and deer rifle harvests are regulated on a management-unit basis. Nebraska's deer population is distributed statewide with the highest population occurring in the west. Seventeen deer management units allow for distribution of hunters according to the distribution of deer.
Deer seasons provide good recreational hunting, but still maintain population control. The deer population can have direct effect upon crops, so the deer season in Nebraska is designed to maintain the herd within the economic tolerance limits of landowners.
The desired objective determines the type of deer harvest regulations that will be adopted. An either-sex or any-deer regulation results in herd reduction. A bucks-only season allows for herd increase, and a combination of both can be used to stabilize or regulate slight increases or decreases.
A management-unit system is also used to manage antelope. Antelope are located in the western portion of the state, and in order to achieve the harvest desired, permits are limited by unit. Antelope harvest is regulated by the number of hunters allowed in a management unit. Hunting success remains fairly constant regardless of the number of hunters and if too many hunters were allowed to hunt, the antelope population could be drastically reduced.
Cottontail and squirrel seasons are also set at the May commission meeting, but the rest of the fall seasons are set in August. The other seasons are set then to allow for the collection of production data unavailable earlier in the year.
Turkey brood counts are made to predict peak production and are compared with previous annual production. Turkeys are also managed on a unit basis. Quail, pheasant, and grouse seasons are based on comparison production and population levels in previous years. The harvest of upland game by hunters is replacement mortality; not additive. Natural mortality normally claims 70 percent of each year's pheasant and grouse populations (Continued on page 56)
Like precious gems in a royal crown, trees unique to only one part of Nebraska rim jewel-like cascades hidden near Valentine
I HAD HEARD rumors that the waterfalls were there, hidden by heavy timber along the south wall of the Niobrara River Valley, and even more surprising were reports of clumps of paper birch trees common in northern states, but certainly not in Nebraska.
Having poked into most corners of Fort Niobrara National Wildlife Refuge on other assignments, the opportunity to begin my present search along a neglected section of the south wall was welcome. Less agreeable was the necessity of plowing through heavy brush, timber, windfalls, unbelievable masses of poison ivy, stinging nettles and chigger-infested grass, and wading up creek beds to find the falls and their birch trees.
Anyone can visit Fort Falls near the refuge headquarters, but I felt a sense of accomplishment when I finally located Taylor Falls a mile or more to the east. Clinging to the lip over which the water poured were several paper birch trees. Even some area natives are unaware that this fall exists. I sat down to rest, and stare, and contemplate.
The rolling, treeless Sand Hills south of the Niobrara are a giant sponge that holds Nebraska's biggest aquifer. The hills lie on a stratified layer of hard clay, and ground water makes its way along this impervious substratum, welling to the surface as springs from which rivulets meander toward the Niobrara.
As if cut by a giant knife, hills end abruptly at a
wooded wall that plunges downward to the rolling
NOVEMBER 1971
27
Potter Falls, just outside the refuge to the east, is privately owned and closed to the public. It dares to be different from the others by facing south, and so it is the only one that feels the warm sun on its cloak of water. Canoeists, running the Niobrara from the refuge headquarters, frequently terminate their journey at the small but noisy Sears Falls nine miles downstream without ever realizing that the first four exist.
Sears, on the other hand, is out in the open for
all to see. It smashes directly into the river without
NOVEMBER 1971
33
Happily, Smith Falls a few miles downstream, again is birch-crowned. Nebraska's tallest waterfall, it is remote and difficult to find. Its few visitors generally cross the Niobrara on a county cable car and walk up its discharge creek to find it.
The tiny, ecological band that contains most of Nebraska's birches is scarcely a stone's throw in width. It appears to coincide with the outcropping clay layer that is responsible for the falls, wedding each to the other. Moisture and soil conditions combine in delicate balance to support the life of the paper birch. It is a wonder the tree exists within our borders at all, since its home range lies much farther north. One theory is that this scant population along these few miles of the Niobrara Valley was left after withdrawal of the last glacier during ages long gone, but no one really knows.
Whatever the reason, they seem strangely out
of place. Caught in the crush of elm, cedar, and Cottonwood; oak and hornbeam, the white birch trunks
glow ghost-like in the canyon's gloom. Few achieve
the stately splendor associated with their kind in
other areas where uncrowded conditions permit full
growth, but nonetheless, they diffuse their gentle
beauty into nondescript timber around them. They
acle folk
NOVEMBER 1971
37
In the primordial dampness surrounding a fallen tree, its strength is sapped by beetle and fungus, carpenter ant and rot. Its interior disintegrates rapidly under the stress, but the iron-willed bark, stubborn to the end, retains the shape of the mother log for a dozen years or more until the sharp hoof of a passing deer or another falling log smashes it into the duff.
Perhaps its very name —paper birch—tempts man to leave a message. The outer bark, when heavily scratched with a nail or knife, relays the inscription to the cambium layer, which repeats the original message year after year. Though the original injury has long since sloughed away, one particularly venerable birch at the base of Cork- screw Falls still mimeographs:
Paul Har__(the last letters too blurred to read)Norfolk, Nebraska
Dec. 30, 1930.
There are, without doubt, more falls in other hidden spots along the Niobrara. They, too, may boast their birch-tree guardians. The combination adds up to a display of rare beauty and a challenge to seek them out. THE END
50 years on the line
With over a half century trapping behind him, Jack Kraus is a book of outdoor knowledge
RUGGED TRAPPERS, wise in the ways of nature and wild creatures, and toughened by years of deprivation and danger, were among the first white men to move into Nebraska's expanses.
Pursuing oft-wary fur bearers was not for the weak in body or spirit. Obtaining prime hides meant trapping in the coldest time of the year, usually working in ice-crusted water, then having the animal freeze solid even before the skinning knife could be brought into play.
In many respects, things have changed little. Trapping is still a cold-weather proposition, although ruber waders help a bit when sloshing around in a frigid stream. It still takes a pretty rugged individual to take part in this sort of venture and enjoy it.
Such a man is W. E. (Jack) Kraus of Taylor, a small town in central Nebraska. He knows what is involved in the trapping business because he has been in it every winter for more than 50 years. At age 76 he can still make a younger man pant and sweat trying to keep up with him, and he ends up each season with an impressive collection of hides nailed to his wall.
Actually, Jack doesn't nail up hides. He either skins his carcasses neatly and puts the pelts on stretching frames, or sells whole "critters" to fur buyers. He carefully brushes the ones he stretches to a bright sheen, and normally sells only frozen animals "as is".
A resident of Loup County since his father homesteaded a few miles north of Taylor when he was barely in his teens, Jack has carried on his operations during the past half century. The North Loup and Calamus rivers are his stomping grounds, and he concentrates most of his efforts on an area where the streams cross two large ranches several miles north of Taylor.
Much of his trapping is done in February, long after the rivers are completely covered with ice.
"I've fallen into the river, even through the ice, but never had anything like a close call — at least not yet," he claims. "Of course, I don't work quite as hard at trapping now. There was a time, though, when I did it because I needed the money. Now it gives me something to do. I can't stand just sitting around the house. I have to be up and doing things."
Perhaps an understanding and tolerant wife has something to do with his long career. Last year, in fact, she accompanied him for the first time on his regular 6 a.m. trap-tending tour.
"It really helps having her along to drive the car. That way I can do everything in one trip, rather than having to walk back and forth between the car and the river."
Officially retired for the past 11 years, Jack is far from that. For more than 20 years he worked at Taylor Dam as superintendent. Earlier, he farmed and ranched in the area, and for several years was active in rodeo competition.
"I can still ride a horse as well as ever," he says with pride, and still works on a local ranch during summers when he can squeeze it in between fishing excursions.
"I used to hunt a lot, too, but gave it up several years ago when I lost the vision in my right eye because of a flying metal splinter from a post I was pounding into the ground."
Jack doesn't act his age, nor does he look it. Most people would guess him to be at least 10 or 15 years younger than he really is. When trying to keep up with him in heavy tangles of brush along the river, they would probably lop off another 20-odd years.
Life for him has been a constant learning process. His knowledge of the ways of his quarry enables this trapper to place equipment in just the right spots to 42 NEBRASKAland catch the critters. This is true whether the water is open or frozen over.
When Jack is asked about the hardest part of trapping, he doesn't mention the rigors of winter or the setting of traps. "It's the skinning," he explains bluntly. "It takes me about an hour to skin out a beaver. Mink and muskrat are easy, but beaver make up for them."
He explains that beavers are large — usually weighing between 50 and 60 pounds and often up to 80. The hides are taken off after making only one incision down the middle of the belly. Then the legs are cased out— "sort of like taking a large dill pickle out of a jar."
When the beaver carcass is frozen, skinning is pretty uncomfortable work. The same is true of coyotes, which Jack traps occasionally, or shoots if he encounters them while running his traps. He often sells coyote carcasses unskinned.
Because beaver pelts are worth much more than others and because the animals are bigger and more difficult to trap, the challenge is greater.
"I remember the time I caught one without the use of a trap—that was a funny thing. There was this beaver house in the river and every time I went by I jumped on top of it just to see the beavers scoot out from underneath. Well, the weather turned real cold and the water must have frozen underneath the beaver house, although I didn't know it at the time. The next morning I jumped onto the house as usual, but didn't see anything come out.
"No sound came from the house, and I assumed it was empty. I stepped off, stopping to light a cigarette, and while I stood there, I heard this commotion inside.
"The top wasn't very thick—just a few sticks and not much mud. I went to the car for a small crow bar, came back, and poked around until I could see inside.
There, busily digging at the ice below them, were two beavers. As they scurried around, one of them stuck his tail up near the opening, so I grabbed it.
"I really didn't know what to do with him, but hung on. He wasn't very big, probably 40 pounds or so, but ne sure was a handful. I kept pressure on him, meanwhile enlarging the hole with the bar. I knew that if I pulled him out of the hole he might bite my leg. After several more minutes I worked nim all the way out and rapped him on the head with the bar.
"Things had worked out well, so I thought I might as well try for the other, but just as I peered into the house to see what he was doing, he broke through the ice and disappeared into the water below."
Not all Jack's experiences are so exciting. Most of the time it's a routine case of heading out into the country early each morning to check his 16 beaver traps and 50 smaller rigs, and resetting them if necessary. The beaver traps are No. 4's with double springs. His small traps are No. lVfe.
"I never bait any of my sets. Some fellows do, but they don't have very good luck. I have rigged traps around a carcass pn occasion to catch a coyote that might come to feed on it, but that's all. The best way is to set the trap where the animal will step into it.
"Once in a while you'll catch something you don't expect, but it doesn't happen often. One time I caught a mallard drake in a beaver trap. It was in shallow water, and the duck must have seen the trip plate and thought it was something to eat. He put his head right in, and the trap caught him by the neck. Other birds sometimes trigger the smaller traps, or, 'possums get into them. They are not worth much, though, so I don't like them."
Beaver are Jack's main concern. He has averaged more than 10 a year during the past 5 decades. Halfway through last season he sold 16 (Continued on page 57)
The Hunter is a Tourist
From across the nation they come to pump life into state's economy
THEY COME FROM Missouri, Oklahoma, Colorado New York, or Alaska. In fact, they hail from almost all 50 states, even a foreign country or two. "They" are a particular breed of tourists known as nonresident hunters.
Every year they stream to Nebraska in cars, buses, trains, and planes to participate in the great adventure of hunting the "Nation's Mixed-Bag Capital". While in pursuit of wily ringneck, tricky bobwhite, or crafty whitetail, they color the countryside green, dropping bonus dollars into the local economy. Usually sportsmen of the highest caliber, they often make lasting friendships with their resident hosts.
Their demands are fewer than those of the average tourist and they stay longer than ordinary out-of-state travelers. A survey, conducted by the Game and Parks Commission a few years ago, showed that visiting hunters averaged three to four days per trip, and many returned during the season. Still others prolonged their stays to a week or 10 days. Sometimes they brought Mom and the kids to enjoy a late vacation here "where the West begins". And, sometimes, the whole family trekked afield to enjoy a hunt in Nebraska's great outdoors.
While his opinion may or may not be typical of those across the state, Jack Vaughn, manager of the Holdrege Chamber of Commerce, has nothing but high praise for the nonresident gunners who flock to that area each year.
"They spend more money than the average tourist. They are not stingy in any way," Vaughn stresses.
"They seem to have no concern about money. They always order the biggest steaks...the best of everything. But, what's more important, they are gentlemen. Farmers like them, and they, in turn, praise our farmers to the skies."
As in many other communities throughout Nebraska, lodging facilities in the Holdrege area fill up during opening weekend and business stays brisk throughout the season. Folks there believe in catering to their special guests. At nearby Wilcox, the Lions Club sponsors its "Howdy, Hunters" program. The Lions have done some legwork and lined up more than 25,000 acres of land for each gunner who purchases a 44 NEBRASKAland
Another Lions Club in the same area operates in a similar fashion. Last year, the Huntley Lions included some 35,000 acres in their program. They, too, opened the ringneck season with a big hunters' breakfast. At Funk, still another Lions Club used the opportunity to throw an opening-day breakfast to raise funds for one of its charitable projects. All across the state, Nebraskans are becoming more and more aware of the economic impact of the free-spending, visiting hunter. They are going out of their way to make the gunner welcome. It makes good sense, for the sportsman who is treated right will come back again. And, next time, he may well bring some friends. The friends, in turn, will bring others. So it continues. For a small investment of hospitality, the entire community benefits quite richly.
When you consider that American hunters spend in excess of $1.1 billion each year, there's a rich mother lode to be tapped. Even more interesting: only 6.4 percent of that money is spent for permits. It costs the visitor five times as much to hunt upland and small game here ($26) as it costs the resident. Thus, these guests do much to support the conservation programs of the State of Nebraska. In 1970, 19,139 out-of-staters paid $478,475 for the privilege of hunting small game in Nebraska. Big-game hunters added another $43,800. When you consider that this money can be used to bring in federal funds on a 25-percent-state to 75-percent-federal basis, it means Nebraska's conservation projects benefited to the tune of $913,981, thanks to visiting sportsmen.
Even so, this is a small amount compared with the money spent on other things. The big item is equipment, not necessarily bought at home, accounting for 35.4 percent of hunters' expenditures. Last year, a Holdrege hardware store sold a $125 shotgun to a visiting hunter the day before pheasant season opened. That scene is repeated frequently across the country. While the gunner will not often wait to purchase a firearm, he seldom buys his shells ahead of time, and there is a considerable amount of other paraphernalia left to be purchased at the very last minute.
But, where does the rest of the hunter's dollar go? Well, he lays out 11.2 percent for auxiliary equipment like camping gear or clothing. Another 16.7 percent goes for guides, dogs, and the like. He spends 15 percent on transportation and 12.3 percent on food and lodging. The final three percent applies to "privilege" fees like those for the Wilcox "Howdy, Hunters."
The last "National Survey of Fishing and Hunting," compiled by the Census Bureau with co-operation from the U.S. Department of the Interior, indicates that some 18 million Americans over the age of 12 go hunting every year. Many of them travel great distances to pursue their sport, averaging 637V2 miles each per year. And, hunters spend not only money, but time, too. They average 14 days a year in pursuit of their quarry. Nationally, that's 185,819,000 recreation days a year.
What it all boils down to is that there is a ready-made market especially suited to agricultural areas where game is readily available. Farmers can supplement their income by providing meals, lodging, a place to hunt, and plain, old-fashioned hospitality. In addition, guide service is much in demand. To quote Jack Vaughn: "Good guides are worth their weight in gold."
Anyone with time to spare and good knowledge of his home area can pocket extra cash by hiring out. At the same time, all services —restaurants, lodging facilities, service stations, or one of many others — are used by the hunter. When this bonus income is injected into the community through any of these mediums, it benefits the entire locality. And, most hunters are easy to please, for they are used to "roughing it", often preferring it that way.
Whatever his point of origin, the out-of-state hunter brings a boon to his destination. Nebraska has much to offer him with its mixed-bag potential. But, the state's most important asset is hospitality, with the folks at Wilcox, Huntley, Funk, and hundreds of other spots around the state extending a welcome. That combination is hard to beat. It means happy hunters and a windfall for NEBRASKAland. THE END
LIGHT and LIVELY
Weighty problems fade as pair of chums revisits refuge to test tempers of the smail but feisty northern pike
THE HAMMERED, SILVER spoon clapped the mirror-like surface with enough authority to forewarn every northern in Crane Lake. Seemingly it had not. The ultra-light sung methodically, whipping four-pound monofilament line smoothly over the eyelets of the 1/2-ounce rod. The eight-ounce blade was nearly retrieved when the rod doubled and then sprang back, lifeless in Joe Hyland's hands, the line floating snake-like to the surface.
That was not the first, nor would it be the last time that a one- to two-pound northern bowed the rod and snapped the line on Joe's rig. The proverbial "dog days" of late July had set in when Joe and I penetrated the Nebraska Sand Hills.
The whole plan hatched two weeks earlier in Lincoln. I was looking high and low for an ultra-light advocate to use on a story when Joe, an old friend, stopped by to shoot the breeze.
You could call Joe and me old college chums. We were both plugging our way through the wildlife curriculum at the University of Nebraska in Lincoln when we struck up a friendship. Many a weekend in the field was behind us. After cap-and-gown time, both of us were tossed into the job market and have been bouncing around a bit since. Joe was involved in research with the Game and Parks Commission for a while, switched to land (Continued on page 62)
Some men hunt for meat. But several things have made me cherish a hefty rack even more
Obsession for Trophies
FOR CONVENIENCE, big-game hunters have long been separated into two categories — meat hunters and trophy hunters. Certainly, the two groups overlap, as opportunities and interests vary with circumstances. But, there are plenty of reasons for the groupings.
There are those who envision a game animal simply as so many steaks and roasts, and the quicker the animal is on its way to the deep freeze, the higher they rate their hunting skill. An experienced trophy hunter, on the other hand, often tends to pass up many animals in his quest for something better. However, the trophy hunter doesn't condemn the meat hunter, because it means less competition for the really grand bucks which may be just over the hill.
Trophy hunting usually requires considerable time and patience. And, it calls for an intimate knowledge of the game and its habits. When mule deer are the subjects at hand, and Nebraska's northwest reaches are the setting, I am really in my glory. I guess since downing my first deer as a teenager, I have slowly developed into a confirmed trophy hunter and like to talk about it whenever I get the chance.
Although not a native Nebraskan, I have become pretty familiar with the Panhandle since moving here many years ago. And, as the chief inspector of the Nebraska Brand Committee, I have ample opportunity to see the land close up.
Since 1960, I have taken some nice mule bucks, the best to date being a non-typical mule rack in 1960 which measured 25678 points and still holds top spot in the state record book for that category.
Most years since then, I have downed massively racked mulies — all within an area of less than 10 miles. Part of the reason for my success is that the most remote area is avoided by "meat hunters" who claim there is nothing in that area or, at best, only a few does.
So-called meat hunting is natural in the sport of hunting because that has always been a primary reason for pursuing game. And, there is a need for it to maintain stable game populations. If everyone suddenly converted to trophy hunting, the business of game management would become chaotic, and the outlook for the individual trophy hunter would be extremely grim.
Certainly, most big-game hunters have neither the time nor ambition to seek only trophy animals —big-racked bucks which make up only about five percent of the total deer population. Luckily for all concerned, most hunters are happy to have a crack at any antlered critter. Still, it appears Nebraska could support at least a few more prize seekers.
Nebraska hunters do not appreciate the fact that they have a better chance at a trophy than is afforded many residents of other states. I have had experiences and adventures that I feel cannot be equalled anywhere in the Midwest.
I suppose I started on the road to becoming a trophy hunter with the first deer I shot on my father's ranch in South Dakota when I was about 15. It was only a forkhorn, but I was as thrilled with that mule buck as I would have been if I had shot a world record. That started a hunting fire within me which I hope keeps burning at least another 40 years.
I have been deer hunting almost 25 years now, but that hasn't dulled my sense of anticipation nor the thrill of success when afield.
I don't suppose you ever lose that feeling—when your throat kind of tightens and your heart starts pounding. At least I haven't lost it. Perhaps it is partly because trophy hunting is almost an obsession with me, but I don't think you can beat deer as adversaries. They have keen senses, can run up a steep hill faster than you can fall down it, and bucks that have lived through the first season or two get so cagey you wouldn't believe it. Friends of mine have told me they don't hunt deer anymore because it is too easy. That may be true if you are going to shoot the first legal deer you happen across, but it just isn't so when you go after trophies.
Usually, old bucks have seen deer shot—often they have witnessed deer taken right out of their bevy of does. This tends to make them wary, so that they absolutely shun the companionship of other deer as a means of self-preservation. Often, in fact, the real trophy buck seems to have given up the chasing or herding of does and prefers to lead a solitary life. Maybe this is just true during the hunting seasons — after he hears that first firearm go off in the fall.
Just to show you how sneaky those mulies get, I remember one season, I think it was 1957, when I was hunting an area south of Chadron. I had just left the service, so it was my first hunt in several years. I suppose I was a little overanxious, for I shot one of the first legal deer I located. Not paying particular attention to my surroundings, I completed dressing that deer, then memorized the location so I could find it when I came back with help to haul him out. I started to leave, but hadn't gone 50 yards when a huge old mule buck exploded from a small brush pocket. That old buck had obviously remained hidden the entire time involved in my shooting and dressing the other deer, and only appeared when I walked directly toward his hiding place.
It often happens that hunters simply overlook big-racked bucks during even a cautious stalk, because the deer are more devious than anticipated. Hunters moving stealthily through (Continued on page 52)
48 NEBRASKAlandMy office reflects the sport I enjoy most
NOTES ON NEBRASKA FAUNA. . . Moths
Largest of order with species numbering 140,000, these insects are ugly ducklings in youth, but become regal monarchs in adult raiment
THE COLLISION was inevitable. The high-speed, ever-narrowing circles of a swirling miller closed in relentlessly on the vulnerable mantles. Suspended from a hook in the center of the livingroom ceiling, the faithful old gaslight was a favorite target of those pesky critters of the fields. All members of the family stared until the suicidal moment occurred. The moth collided with the white-hot mantle
Memories of battles between moths and gaslight mantles are still vivid in areas of Nebraska where rural electrification is a relatively recent blessing.
The colloquial name miller applies to many species of night-flying moths, most of them probably adult forms of well-known and destructive cutworms.
Along with butterflies and skippers, moths are part of the second-largest order of insects in the world. The order Lepidoptera is comprised of 140,000 species.
The name Lepidoptera means "scaly winged" and refers to the fact that the hairs covering the wings are flattened or scale-like. These scales give the wings their color.
While butterflies have club-shaped antennae, moths have feathered or thread-like antennae. A few rare, tropical species of moths —like butterflies—have clubs at the ends of their antennae, but for the most part any knobs, if there are any at all, are below the tips, thus distinguishing the moths from butterflies.
No other insect order claims as many variations in size and color. Moth species range in size from less than a quarter of an inch to the giant 12-inch owlet moth of South America. There is probably no color known to man that cannot be found to some degree on one or more of the moth species. Hues range from the very drab gray of the cutworm moth to the transparent, pastel green of the luna moth.
Moths are experts in the art of mimicry. One species resembles the face of an owl while others take on the appearances of leaves, tree bark, or sticks. The moth most often identified incorrectly is the sphinx. This speedy, darting insect is sometimes called the hummingbird moth. Its habit of darting from one flower to the next in quest of nectar, long snout, and rapid wingbeat make it closely resemble the little hummingbird. Gardeners, fascinated by the evening antics of the sphinx, would not be so tolerant if they realized that this same insect, while in the larval stage, may have been responsible for the loss of a tomato plant or a favorite flower a few weeks earlier.
Before any moth can display the vivid colors of adulthood, it must pass through four distinct, seemingly unrelated, stages. The adult female moth deposits her eggs on a favorite host plant. Those eggs that are not devoured by some hungry, egg-seeking insect, hatch and become larvae. The larvae immediately begin feeding on the host plant. Most larval forms feed voraciously until maturity. Next is the pupal stage. This stage, depending on the species, may take place in the soil, enclosed in a protective cocoon or concealed in a rolled-up dried leaf. The pupal form is a relatively inactive stage. Except for a twitching of the abdominal section when disturbed, the pupa is dormant. Most moth species overwinter in this stage and complete the transition to winged adulthood only when warming spring temperatures trigger the hormonal change, causing the adult to emerge.
The hobby of collecting and studying insects is fascinating. Some very interesting species can be found in 4-H collections displayed at county fairs.
Collecting, however, can entail more than just gathering adult moths. The process of locating, feeding, and studying moth forms through the entire cycle from egg to larva to pupa to adult can be a rewarding experience for the nature student.
The four-inch larval form of the cecropia moth can best be described as beautifully ugly. But, just put one of these large worms in a jar with a few twigs and see what happens. The transitions which take place are miraculous. THE END
TROPHY OBSESSION
(Continued from page 49)good deer habitat always have the feeling they are going to spot a prize buck before it is aware of his presence.
It just doesn't happen that way very often. A shrewd buck hangs around good cover, moves out to feed after dark and returns to cover before light, and rests in places where he can slip into hiding from two directions. And, he stays alert, using his keen nose and ears to evaluate anything suspicious.
I guess the most important factor in hunting a mule deer trophy is not expecting him to react like the average buck. He will hide in very small weed or brush patches, sometimes at great distances from other trees or cover. Even when a hunter approaches, he will remain motionless as long as he feels he has not been spotted, and will allow the hunter to pass within a few yards of him. Many times the buck will even stretch his neck out and put his nose on the ground. He starts out life as a fawn hiding in this manner, and it continues as a protective measure as long as he lives.
When hunting, I never use after-shave lotion nor perfumed soap, and don't wear clothing that smells of mothballs or soap. I always air out my hunting clothes for several days prior to wearing them. Since I don't smoke, that doesn't concern me, but the scent of tobacco is definitely associated with humans, and is strictly taboo in deer woods.
Luck, of course, plays an important part, too. One year I was hunting a particularly rough area of the Pine Ridge, and after stalking at a snail's pace the first part of the morning, I rounded a canyon wall and entered a small clearing surrounded by pine trees. Directly in front of me was a fine buck feeding on brouse. Both of us were surprised, and all I got was a snap shot, which I missed as he tore up 100 yards of terrain, thus making his escape.
I did manage to make a mental note of his unusual antlers, so at least I could relate the story of the big one that got away to the rest of my hunting party. Several hours later, after lunch and more fruitless walking, I returned to the same canyon on my way out. This time I walked on top where the going was easier. After reaching the area hunted earlier, I spotted the same large buck. He was lying in plain sight under a big tree right next to a canyon dropoff. I found a handy limb, propped my rifle on it, and soon had a fine specimen for my den wall. I never would have expected that rascal to be anywhere near that area, and only luck and some measure of laziness on my part put him in my freezer.
Whenever an avid deer hunter starts relating details ofhis hunts, it is natural for him to include details about his favorite rifle, scope, cartridges, and sundry other items. In my case, however, this is rather difficult. I may have one pet rifle, a .264 magnum, but I use many. That is because I am also a gun collector. Not just any guns, but pre-1964 Model 70 Winchesters. To date, I have 61 of these in calibers ranging from .22 hornet to .458 magnum. I have hunted with many of them, fired all but a few which are still factory-fresh, know them all intimately, and have brief histories to tell about them.
Primarily, however, I like to hunt mule deer. My collection of racks adorns much wall space in my office and workshop at home. Each of these, even more than the rifles, represents a special time in my life. I can look at one of the multitined antlers and recall many special hours or days in the field.
One of these I got a few years ago. I had hunted several days without spotting anything impressive, and then the weather turned. In the morning the ground was covered with four inches of fresh snow. A new snow is the most ideal time to hunt mule bucks —they are easier to locate, track, and recover if you only cripple one. Anyway, I was walking along the north edge of a deep, narrow canyon bordered on both sides by pine trees and brush. It was only about an hour after sunrise when I noticed seven does bedded down across the canyon about 100 yards away. As usual when seeing any does, I sat down and glassed the area. After five minutes without
Come for Lunch... FOOTBALL GAME DAYS SATURDAYS: Sept. 11 Sept. 18 Sept. 25 Nov. 6 Oct. 2 Oct. 16 Oct. 30 TEAROOMS, FIFTH FLOOR DOWNTOWN Come for lunch 10:30 to 1:30, when Miller's fine foods will be served buffet style for your convenience... you will eat quickly (and well) and get to the stadium in time for the kick-off! P.S. Stop at the Bake Case on Fifth Floor, take home something good for dinner! 52 NEBRASKAlandseeing anything else, I was deciding to give up and continue on my way when I saw a slight movement farther up the ridge. Careful checking showed I had located one very large mule buck. I wriggled into a prone position and rested my rifle on top of a dirt mound. The buck was bedded down under a small pine tree, apparently watching his potential harem from what he felt was a safe and secure place. That strange feeling of elation, excitement, anticipation, or whatever, had come over me with the first glimpse of the big rack. There comes that moment when you could fire off the shot, but unless the buck acts nervous, you look him over once more. You even try to determine something of his personality from watching him, trying to guess his age and what he is thinking about right then.
But, there comes that time when you can wait no longer —you remember what you came for and know you have found it. I was using a .30/06 with a 4X scope that year. I put the crosshairs on him again and touched off a shot. When the echo died and the stillness of the early morning settled in again, I had one very massive trophy buck, possibly the largest deer I will ever have the opportunity to shoot. And, that opportunity came about as the result of no special skill. Normally, I suppose, memories of a hunt vary according to how difficult or involved the quest was. And, I guess if some amount of skill was required, it means more than if you just happen onto a trophy. But, every hunt is different, and every one brings pleasure as no other kind of hunting can. I almost always get two deer licenses a year and can hardly wait from one season until the next. I guess I am just an incurable deer hunter.
So it is with a lot of people. Their techniques or goals may be different, but the same enthusiasm is there. Perhaps it is difficult for a non-hunter to appreciate, but it is even more difficult for good hunters to understand how other people can miss out on such enjoyment. Having a deer season every year is the only compensation for growing another year older. THE END
Where to go
Bertrand, Rainwater Basin
A WATERY TIME capsule, the Bertrand lay undisturbed for more than a century under layers of silt, sand, and water, storing riches beyond all expectations. Today the steamboat has been unearthed to yield its wealth to those who want to know the river and its past.
The Bertrand embarked from St. Louis on March 18, 1865, bound for Fort Benton on the spring flood waters of the Missouri. On April 1, she ran into a snag and sank without loss of life, but with almost total loss of cargo. Much of that cargo was preserved for decades under a layer of tightly packed blue clay. More than two million artifacts have now been removed from her hull.
The Bertrand rests in the Desoto National Wildlife Refuge, and her cargo is stored in a National Park Service laboratory on the refuge, but selections from that cargo are on display in the laboratory building.
Among the two million items stored at the refuge are luxuries ranging from brandied peaches to French champagne and frontier necessities including broad-brimmed hats and hobnail boots. Perhaps the most intriguing discovery of all is the 780 gallons of Dr. J. Hostetter's Celebrated Stomach Bitters, a potent 32-percent alcohol with some strychnine and belladonna added for effect. A chronicle of frontier life could be written using the many items found in 54 NEBRASKAland the stores of the Bertrand as a basis. A life style was buried in the hold of the vessel for more than a century, waiting to be unearthed as evidence of hardship, and then the sudden luxury of instant wealth at the gold diggings.
The Bertrand's cargo, under the supervision of Capt. James Yores, was scheduled to arrive at Fort Benton in Montana Territory about two months after the sternwheeler's departure from St. Louis in March. Much of the cargo, including quicksilver and general supplies, was to continue overland in wagons to the frontier mining communities of Virginia City, Deer Lodge, and Hellgate. Hence the varied cargo — supplies for pioneers and luxuries for those who had struck it rich and could afford them.
Accounts of the sinking are sketchy, but it appears that the 161-foot-long hull was swamped when the bow rode high onto a sandbar. The ship sank in 10 minutes. A recovery attempt was made a few weeks after the disaster, as divers went down to salvage what they could. Apparently, most of the driving mechanism was removed at that time. But when the Cora II went down nearby a short while later, efforts to salvage the Bertrand were abandoned and attention turned to Cora II. Finally the Bertrand disappeared under the river. Covered with silt and sand, the ship remained underground for years while the channel of the river changed at least four times. Then in the fall of 1967, 2 Omaha men, Jesse Pursell and Sam Corbino, obtained a permit from the government to search for and recover the boat. Armed with a formal contract, old river maps, sketchy historical facts, and a flux gate magnetometer to detect buried masses of metal, the treasure hunters began their search. On February 28, 1968 they drilled core samples at a site where high readings on the detector indicated a buried mass. The samples revealed a large, man-made object 27 to 32 feet below.
Excavators located water 10 feet below ground level. A system of wells lowered the water table and permitted removal of the earth and sand above the boat. Finally, in October, a portion of the ship appeared.
A new building has been constructed at the refuge to provide adequate storage space and to house laboratory equipment for artifact-care and preservation work. Archeologists will take four or five years to catalog each item, clean the glassware, and chemically stabilize corroded and perishable goods. Displays have been developed for public viewing to demonstrate the preservation work. Future plans include development of a visitor center and interpretive facility where samples of the artifacts will be displayed permanently.
The excavation site is located in the central part of the DeSoto National Wildlife Refuge. A viewing area at the site will be open for limited inspection pending progress of the operation. Access is gained from the Loveland-DeSoto Bend interchange on Interstate 29, then past refuge headquarters on U.S. 30 between Missouri Valley, Iowa, and Blair, Nebraska.
The Bertrand is not the only attraction at DeSoto Bend, for the wildlife refuge is a relatively undisturbed corner of the area's natural environment. Wild birds and animals abound there for the viewing and photographing pleasure of visitors.
Wildlife abounds, too, in central Nebraska in the Rainwater Basin where waterfowl production areas have been established for the expansion of waterfowl populations. The lands were purchased with federal duck-stamp revenue, and are open for public hunting —both upland game birds and waterfowl.
Hunting opportunities at the Rainwater-Basin areas vary from year to year with the rise and fall of moisture. In dry years, the potholes dry up, and waterfowl passes them by. In wet years, the populations of waterfowl are tremendous. Populations of pheasants vary inversely with the increase of water, affording fine upland hunting in slow waterfowl years.
So, there is game all the time. Blue-winged teal, mallard, and other ducks are the most common waterfowl that nest on the publicly owned, waterfowl-production areas. Ducks raised on these areas are in great demand and usually rank high on the list of those found in the hunters' bag. Priority is given to providing nesting habitat for these species, as well as food, water, and cover for other migrant waterfowl in the area.
Native grasses are being reintroduced around the potholes, and adjacent food patches will provide food and cover for all game species.
Whether ornithologist or curious youngster, every person is welcome to use these areas for exploration, hunting, picnicking, or relaxation. But no picnic tables, sanitary facilities, or fireplaces are available, and no trash receptacles are provided, so users must take their litter home with them. Overnight use is prohibited.
From a better understanding of generations past, to an understanding of our present environment and the threats it faces, NEBRASKAland offers a variety of schools for young and old, scholar and outdoorsman alike. THE END
Outdoor Calendar
HUNTING
Squirrel-Through January 31, 1972 Cottontail-Through February 29, 1972 Deer-(Firearm)-November 13 through 21 Deer-(Archery)-November through December, closed during firearm season Turkey-October 30 through November 14 Duck-November 4 through December 20 (east) November 4 through Januarv 9 (west) Goose-October 2 through December 15 Pheasant-November 6 through January 16 Quail-November 6 through January 16 Nongame Species-year-round, statewide State special-use areas are open to hunting in season year- round unless otherwise posted or designated. FISHING Hook and Line Archery Hand Spearing Underwater Powered Spearfishing -All species, year-round, statewide. Bullfrogs, July 1 through October 31, statewide. With appropriate permit may be taken by hand, hand net, gig, bow and arrow, or firearms. -Nongame fish only, year-round. Game fish, April 1 through November 30. Sunrise to sunset. -Nongame fish only, year-round, sunrise to sunset -No closed season on nongame fish. Game fish August 1 through December 31. STATE AREAS State Parks-The grounds of all state parks are open to visitors year-round. Park facilities are officially closed September 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. FOR COMPLETE DETAILS 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, 2200 N. 33rd St., Box 30370, Lincoln, Nebraska 68503.THE REASONS FOR SEASONS
(Continued from page 25)and 80 percent of the annual quail population. Harvest by hunting simply allows hunters to utilize the portion of the population which would otherwise be lost to non-beneficial natural factors. With a 50-percent harvest, natural mortality drops to 20 or 30 percent, so total mortality remains constant.
Waterfowl seasons are also set at the August meeting by the commissioners, but they have less leeway in setting them, compared with other seasons. Due to the migration habits of ducks and geese, the federal government controls the harvest of these species. Controls used by the federal government are maximum season lengths and bag limits. Individual state regulations may be more restrictive, but not more liberal than those provided by the federal government.
So it is that through proper game management and studied establishment of seasons, Nebraska continues to provide the quality of hunting that sportsmen have come to expect. Knowledge of the different aspects the Game Commission must take into consideration helps hunters understand the reasons behind the seasons' dates. THE END
SHOOT-0UT AT SHERIDAN
(Continued from page 19)"one of the females had an eye knocked out during the melee, while two cowboys, whose names are unknown, were badly wounded." The Cavalry from Camp Sheridan galloped onto the scene just in time to prevent more bloodshed.
Additional records of the Martin fracas are found in the court transcripts of Cheyenne County. In 1880, Dawes and Sheridan counties were part of the as-yet-unorganized County of Sioux. The nearest court was at Sidney in Cheyenne County.
The law in loosely organized Sioux County, however, started proceedings when John Clark, the sheriff, made out a complaint to Jepe Haston, Justice of the Peace, that J. H. Page committed the crime of shooting Ed Cullen, Corporal Martin V. Green, and James Joyce. Haston issued a warrant for the arrest of Page, and Sheriff Clark brought the culprit in from the Camp Sheridan guardhouse where he had been imprisoned under the threat of lynching by the soldiers.
Haston issued subpoenas for Rosa Martin, Sol Martin, F. E. Perry, Alice Jones, John Lamira, Eli Swollis, Joe Kirk, Corporal Thomas Bridgers, and Private William Steele. Page was delivered to the sheriff of Cheyenne County to be held for trial.
Whatever the witnesses said at the trial, which wound up nearly a year and a half later, is lost to posterity. Among the court records, however, is an affidavit concerning the death of Martin V. Green and the shooting of James Joyce.
Concerning Corporal Green, Assistant Surgeon H. M. Cronkhite reported, "He was suffering from a compound commuted fracture of the upper part of the left femur [thigh bone]. He was very weak from his wound."
Corporal Green was moved to the Camp Sheridan Post Hospital where, about noon the next day, the leg was amputated close to the body. Green died some two hours later.
Surgeon Cronkhite commented: "His death was caused by the gunshot wound received the night before. The shock of the amputation, it is probable, hastened by a very little the time of his death. The amputation was a forlorn hope, and the only way, under the circumstances, to make the effort to save Corporal Green's life."
Cronkhite also described James Joyce's wound. He had been shot in the chest, the ball passing through his right lung and exiting from his back. "The wound is a very formidable one and likely to prove fatal," Cronkhite wrote. Whether or not Joyce lived we do not know.
J. H. (Jack) Page was convicted of manslaughter on March 29, 1882, and sentenced to be "imprisoned in the penitentiary of the State of Nebraska and kept at hard labor for the term of 10 years. No part of which time is he, the said defendant Jack Page, to be kept in solitary confinement in the cells of the said penitentiary without labor and that he pays the cost of prosecution...."
Post orders at Camp Sheridan record the stir caused by the fracas. "Sergeant John B. Winchester, Company E, Ninth Infantry, is detailed as Acting Provost Sergeant of this Post for Corporal M. V. Green, Company M, Fifth Cavalry, who is hereby relieved."
On October 26 the post orders read as follows, "A Post Council of Administration to consist of Second Lieutenant H. J. Goldman, Fifth Cavalry, and Second Lieutenant John Baseter, Jr., Ninth Infantry, no other officer being available for detail, will meet at this post at 10 o'clock a.m. today or as soon thereafter as practicable to administer upon the effects of the late Corporal M. V. Green, Company M, Fifth Cavalry, who died at the Post Hospital October 24, 1880." Thus, with typical frontier efficiency, the Army wrote off another soldier, victim of circumstance during the Indian Wars. THE END
RIDING THE SUPER SURF
(Continued from page 23)40 feet. In summer, though, plant life cuts vision to less than half that." Puffing like the storied wolf who bullied the three little pigs, Arnold pulled himself up onto the rocks from his second jump. With a grimace he yanked his hood back, grabbing for his tunic zipper. Mike had watched him closely and seemed a bit worried. "Are you all right, 56 NEBRASKAland any problems?" he asked of his jumping companion.
"Just hot," Arnold stammered.
Arnold continued to explain that the trio's suits were custom-made to fit like a second skin. When the diver initially hits the water, a small amount of water seeps into the suit and helps insulate his body against outside cold. Once water is in, the suit holds virtually all body heat.
"It's quite comfortable when diving deep in cold water," Frank interjected, "especially under the ice. Last year, we went underneath in 38-degree water and the air temperature was in the 20's. But, I'm with Arnold. All this walking and climbing makes the suits almost unbearable."
Frank wasn't long for dry land. The refreshing surf soon coaxed him into further adventure. The roaring current gave the Omaha-based railroad worker another rugged ride. All eyes turned to Frank as the water sped him over the fun-filled course. Tireless waves boomed from the spillway tube to carry Frank the distance in a few short seconds-another jump completed and another happy diver emerging from the swirling water.
"We're like old pennies," Frank beamed. "We just keep coming back."
As the morning wore on, the divers continued leaping freely into the water. Laughter filled the air. Doing what he liked best, each forgot his everyday problems in this carefree world of happiness. A few more jumps and the fun-loving trio took a break.
"It's really fun," Mike started. But five or six jumps is about all anyone should take. The whole game is exceptionally tiring, and if you aren t in top shape, a jump could be fatal.
While taking a pause from the action, the adventure seekers exchanged experiences from the rides and philosophized on the total spectrum of diving. It was obvious that the personal rewards of the sport were gratifying.
"One more jump," Arnold ventured. Both his friends agreed. A few minutes later each had made his final jump and the threesome headed back to the car to peel off their durable wearing apparel. Glancing back to where the water was billowing high into the sky and then rumbling along on its way, Mike thought out loud. "Wish this big, beautiful lake were closer to home." THE END
50 YEARS ON THE "LINE"
(Continued from page 43)beaver, along with 85 muskrat and 7 mink, and had 7 coyote pelts on hand. His 50-year average for muskrat is 80, and for mink, 15.
"There are a few bobcats around here, but I've never taken one. About the only unusual critter I ever caught was a gray fox last year. The pelt wasn t worth much, so I sent the hide away to have it tanned, but the company wrote back and said the fur was slipping, so I never got it back."
Except for the three game species he traps, (Continued on page 60)
Roundup and What to do
NOVEMBER CHANTS a warrior's song as it steals into Nebraska on the trail of game. Pheasant and quail seasons open November 6 for the delight of hunters who have been sharpening their eyes and whetting their appetites throughout the long, hot summer. Prospects for both game birds are about the same as last year, when hunters harvested approximately 1,025,000 pheasant and 567,000 quail. Population and brood counts taken last sumer indicate that populations are down slightly — about seven percent on both. Bag and possession limits are 3 and 12 for pheasant and 5 and 16 for quail.
November also brings peak duck shooting in the Platte Valley. Limits are determined by the point system again, but the season is split, closing the first three days of November. Goose hunting picks up toward the end of the month with general limits set at five per day, five in possession.
Big game comes into hunters' rifle sights with a 9-day season beginning November 13. Both white-tailed and mule deer are under the gun with populations relatively stable. Last year's success ratio was just under 50 percent, higher than in some of the better-known, deer-hunting states. Archers stalk deer November 1 to 12, and 22 to 31.
Wild turkey populations are riding a three-year peak in Nebraska. The season opened October 30 and continues through November 14.
To add spice and variety to hunting fare in the "Mixed Bag Capital", cottontail and squirrel, as well as snipe, rail, and coot seasons open in November. Snipe season closes November 18, with bag and possession limits set at 8 and 16. Rail are legal game the first 9 days with limits of 25 and 25. The season for coot is the same as for ducks.
Limits are 15 and 30. Cottontail and squirrel seasons are open throughout the month with limits of 7 and 21.
November is also a month for plain relaxation, and Barbara Ruby of Lisco has the secret. NEBRASKAland has myriad scenes for enjoyment from old farmsteads to hidden glens and coves. Barbara has found a spot of her own at her Lisco home. Daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Ellis Ruby of Lisco, Barbara graduated from Garden County High School. During her first year at Chadron State College, she majored in secretarial business. She was selected Nebraska Arabian Queen in 1970, and was also Ak-Sar-Ben Rodeo Queen and York Rodeo Princess. She is a member of the Nebraska Arabian Horse Association, and lists horseback riding, swimming, reading, and dancing as hobbies.
Nebraskans following Big Red football are treated to one show in Memorial Stadium November 6 against Iowa State. While nimrods tramp the fields and Husker fans cheer their team, those 58 more culturally inclined find a cornucopia of events to satisfy their appetites. All across the state, colleges and universities schedule public performing arts events, as do community playhouses and orchestras.
One highlight of the theater season is the Omaha Playhouse production of "The Mousetrap". Described as the most successful play by the foremost mystery writer of the Twentieth Century, Agatha Christie's story has run 19 consecutive years in London.
The Lincoln Community Playhouse presents "Halfway Up the Tree" for theater-goers in the capital city area November 19 to 20, and 26 to 28. November 16 and 17 the Omaha Symphony Orchestra performs in Omaha, and symphonic and choral concerts are scheduled at Nebraska Wesleyan University November 2 and 4.
In the world of art, Priscilla Sage has a showing at Wesleyan's Fine Arts Building. George Rickey's work is exhibited at the Sheldon Art Gallery during the month, along with that of J. L. Wallace and William B. Sharp. Graphic designs and American prints are also on display there.
For nimrod or theater-goer, NEBRASKAland offers excitement galore in November, when crisp, cool breezes waft their way across the countryside and the colors of autumn mingle with the first traces of hoarfrost, and when the beauty of golden leaves gives way to the forthcoming clutch of winter.
What to do 1-7-J. L. Wallace Painting Exhibit, Sheldon Art Gallery, Lincoln 1-9 —Rail Season Opens, Statewide 1-12 —Archery Deer Season.Continues, Statewide 1-14-William B. Sharp Exhibit, Sheldon Art Gallery, Lincoln 1-14 —Turkey Season Continues in Specified Zones (see Hunting Guide) 1-18 —Snipe Season Continues, Statewide 1-Dec. 15 —Goose Season Opens in Specified Zones (see Hunting Guide) 1-Jan. 31-Squirrel Season Continues, Statewide 1-Feb. 29-Cottontail Season Continues, Statewide 2 —Choir Concert, Nebraska Wesleyan University, Lincoln 4 — Orchestra Concert, Nebraska Wesleyan University, Lincoln 4-Dec. 20 —Duck Season Opens, Eastern Nebraska 4-Jan. 9 —Duck Season Opens, Western Nebraska 5-21-"The Mousetrap", Omaha Playhouse, Omaha 6 —Iowa State vs. Nebraska, Football, Lincoln 6-Jan. 16 —Pheasant Season Opens, Statewide Except Knox County 6-Jan. 16 —Quail Season Opens, Statewide 9-Dec. 5 — Graphic Design Exhibit, Sheldon Art Gallery, Lincoln 13 —Ham and Bean Feed, Arapahoe 13-21 —Firearm Deer Season Opens, Statewide 16-17 —Omaha Symphony Orchestra Concert, Omaha 16-Dec. 12 —George Rickey Exhibit, Sheldon Art Gallery, Lincoln 19-20-"Halfway Up The Tree", Lincoln Community Playhouse, Lincoln 19-Dec. 17-Priscilla Sage Art Exhibit, Nebraska Wesleyan University, Lincoln 22-Dec. 31-Archery Deer Season Continues, Statewide 23-Dec. 19-American Prints, Sheldon Art Gallery, Lincoln 25-Jan. 3 — Christmas Diorama, rjemingford 26 —Christmas Lighting Ceremony, Columbus 26-28-"Halfway Up The Tree", Lincoln Community Playhouse, Lincoln THE END NEBRASKAland
50 YEARS ON THE "LINE"
(Continued from page 57)raccoons and coyotes are about the only other critters Jack and Partner Abe Northey, also of Taylor, go after. When the trapping season closes it's fishing weather and Jack devotes plenty of time to that, too.
"I go as far as Merritt Reservoir near Valentine once in a while and get a few of those big trout up there, but mostly I fish around here for bass and catfish. I weigh only the big ones. Last year I landed a lOVfe-pound cat. I suppose my biggest was a 14-pounder."
Built into the floor of the shed where Jack stores his furs and does his skinning is a four-foot-deep box. This, Jack explains, is his "frog cellar", where he stores his own bait. ' I got some in there right now, hibernating underneath that grass."
But that's not all.
"I never buy any catfish bait because I have the best darn bait right here," he says purposefully, taking a glass jar from a shelf. This is muskrat liver —a darn sight better than chicken liver. Early in the year, those cats really go for it."
Jack says he and his wife seldom eat the fish he catches, but he never wastes them. "A lot of people love fish, so there is never a problem. I even clean them for some of the gals who don't know how to handle the job."
Perhaps Jack's appearance does not fit the image of the frontier trapper, yet he possesses a great love for wildlife. The urge to be out there among the wild creatures "...really gets in your blood. Not everyone wants to do that sort of thing," he admits. "Some people like to hunt and fish, others have no desire for it at all. They prefer something else. But me? I just can't wait for trapping season to roll around so I can get back out."
This attitude has kept him much younger than his years. Jack is an individualist, and a mighty rugged one at that. Big, strong hands, an indifference to the cold, and a quiet, friendly manner are the exterior qualities of this Nebraska trapper. Beneath them he possesses a wealth of knowledge on the ways of his animals and of nature.
The monetary return is not what it used to be. Years ago, when Jack trapped for money, he and a partner made up to $150 a night. Now the financial gain is not so great, nor does it have to be. Yet the intrinsic value of trapping remains as dear as ever to him. THE END
PANHANDLE RINGNECKS
(Continued from page 17)hood. Even the side of the road was out of sight. Thinking we might drive into a farm pond or something, we halted and waited for the wind to subside. Gusts reached at least 50 miles per hour, so even after it slackened enough to move on, it hindered our success.
Time and again we kicked out groups of birds only to have them sail away with the additional push of the wind behind them, and we just couldn't zero in. We should have limited out after the first 60 NEBRASKAland two shelterbelts, but dozens of roosters completely faked us out.The first bird in the bag came from an abandoned farmstead. We walked out an adjacent shelterbelt, first, then moved into tall weeds in the yard. A hen was up, trying to get airborne against the wind, but she tired quickly and settled right back down again. On her second attempt, she swung with the wind and really got moving. A lone rooster made a better effort when he leaped out of the brush. He climbed quickly, but not fast enough to evade Jerry's shot. The first hit of the day was cause for some rejoicing, for it ended a two-hour dry spell.
After that things went better. Whether it was the waning wind, easier opportunities, or increased confidence, I don't know, but success slowly climbed. At the end of one shelterbelt, we doubled up on a rooster. Moving into another tree stand, I finally got a bird. It really wasn't a great accomplishment, however, since half a dozen others escaped without being fired upon.
A fourth pheasant, downed in a draw, went into Jerry's hunting coat shortly after, and that was it for the day. Altogether, we must have missed completely on about 15 easy shots, one injured bird escaped, and dozens of other roosters got away by being overly wary, jumping out long before we were within range.
But, we were disappointed only in our shooting. There was no shortage of game. In one clean, weedless shelterbelt right across the road from the farmer's house we flushed more than 20 birds, and couldn't get within range of any of them.
That night we cooked a pheasant and a bunny harvested during the day, and did a good job on them. We also made a telephone call to Alliance which wrangled us an invitation to hunt Monday morning with Floyd Stone, Commissioner with the Game and Parks Commission, and several of his friends. Hunting grounds would be just a few miles north of Alliance on Floyd's land, and a meeting time of 8 a.m. was arranged.
When we arrived, only a few minutes late, a mighty impressive crew awaited us. Although Floyd was not going to carry a gun, five acquaintances provided two dogs and lots of experience. Making up the crew were Pat Green, Bob Chadwick, Bob Castle, Darrell Howell and Keith Kreycik, all of Alliance.
Within five minutes we were ready for the first foray. That started in a draw a short distance from the house, then swept toward the highway through a cornfield.
Just as our crew was moving into the draw, close to two dozen pheasants climbed out. We weren't too concerned, as most of them simply glided away and landed in the cornfield, which was next on our agenda.
Jerry got the first action of the day - a clean hit on a rooster that had run out of the draw and was hightailing it toward a hilltop fence. Finally, the cover thinned out enough that the bird felt he had to get up, and that was his undoing.
A second bird making the same exit, however, got away with only a missed shot by Darrell to hurry him on his way. Another got away because he hid in a fencerow and then got up in front of me. Two of my typically fantastic shots hastened his retreat but didn't hurt him any.
Little else happened for a while. Blockers at the end of the corn worked back and forth across rows watching as much ground as possible, but many of the birds seemed to have left. Several hens jumped out from nearly under my feet, but no more roosters. Then Bob Chadwick, who was next to me in line, hit a rooster real hard. Feathers flew and he dipped in flight, but that tough old bird managed to continue on across the railroad tracks — out of sight.
Bob crossed the fence and took his 11-year-old dog, Lady, with him. But, the presumably dead pheasant was not to be found. Having dropped out of sight made a search real tough, especially with cars zipping nearby.
After moving sideways in the field to cover the remainder of it on the return walk, we moved out with military precision. The walk, however, was nearly fruitless. The only opportunity that arose was again in front of Bob Chadwick. It looked like a solid hit, yet the bird continued on with hardly a pause. Thinking the critter had made his getaway, we pulled out of the end of the field and atop a small dam at the head of the draw. There, Bob's friendly old dog busied herself in a small patch of cover.
"Hey, look at this," Bob shouted. "She's got a bird in there."
Getting ready to fire when the pheasant came out, we were somewhat surprised when, instead, Lady brought the bird out in her mouth. It was still alive, and must have been the one Bob hit. So, our score had reached three birds taken, one lost.
Next on the schedule was a field just a few yards away. This time Jerry and I volunteered to block, so Floyd delivered us to a strategic spot with his pickup.
Nothing happened on that drive, but the adjacent field must be loaded with birds", one of the men said, so maneuvers were made to walk it out next.
Then action came rapidly. Bob Castle and his 14-year-old Labrador walked on the outside, and he neatly dispatched a low-flying cock that got up only 20 feet from me (which I missed). Soon another one got up, but I nailed it. A third hit the dirt after a long flight during which we thought Pat Green was never going to shoot.
Continuing into another cornfield, birds six and seven came to earth, clobbered by Bob Castle and Darrel Howell, and another got away slightly injured. A few more yards along a cock flushed but hung low, so he made it clear to the end of the field where Jerry pasted him as he went by. No. 9 was dropped after we were completely through the field. It must have been hiding in the ditch near the blockers all the while during the drive. Jerry accounted for the young rooster, the smallest taken during the day, when it rocketed out of the ditch while we stood around talking.
"Not many guys would shoot those baby ones," someone commented upon seeing the bird.
"It isn't a baby one," Jerry returned. "It's a very wise old midget, and harder to hit, to boot," rising well to the friendly jibe.
"Well, you guys are doing well," Floyd observed, "but the best is yet to come. This next field should really be good." That was an understatement. Darrell and I posted, and I was standing just in front of Floyd's pickup, parked there so he could watch the action in comfort. As the hunting group got about halfway-through the field, they kicked out more than a dozen birds in one bunch and dropped the only rooster. Shortly after, a lone cock came winging directly toward me only 10 feet above the stubble. When he got in reach, he started to flare up to clear the row of trees behind me, and I met him with a load of No. 6 shot. He simply dropped in an arc, smacking right into the side of Floyd's pickup.
"You should have pulled up a few feet and he would have landed right on the seat," I yelled to him.
Less than a minute later, another rooster came soaring diagonally out of the corn, cutting to my right. Although he was about 50 yards out, I let him have it, and somewhat surprised, watched him fall dead. I had limited out, and that cock brought our total for the morning to 12 fine birds, or 11 fine ones and Jerry's "midget".
So, with the noble co-operation of the other hunters, Jerry and I had accounted for six roosters (plus several good misses on my part).
Because Jerry was returning to Chicago shortly, he was voted recipient of all but two birds, which were given to a neighboring farmer we happened across during the hunt.
With the long drive to Lincoln still ahead of us, we planned on an early start the next morning, allowing us time for a little hunting along the way. Although we made only two stops, our efforts were rewarded with a bird apiece, and they were iced down with the rest in Jerry's cooler.
So, when he climbed aboard his plane, he had 14 chubby birds and a lot of ice with him. The load pulled the handles off his cooler, so it took both hands to carry it, and a fellow passenger helped him get his other gear onto the plane. "I told the staff at the magazine I would have a big pheasant dinner for them when I got back," Jerry said just before takeoff. "They said either they better have pheasant or I would eat crow for a while, so I'm really glad these Nebraska birds turned out to be as numerous as you guys always say. I don't remember ever seeing so many pheasants. I just wish I had been able to hit more of them."
"Just don't tell anyone about how many shells I went through to get my birds," I admonished. "And, don't forget to come out and sample some of our white bass and walleye fishing. That's just as exciting in its own way as our pheasant hunting."
"You Nebraskans sure know how to tempt a guy," Jerry lamented as he trudged toward the plane. "But, you also know how to pay off. You better believe I am going to come back whenever I get the chance." THE END
LIGHT AND LIVELY
(Continued from page 47)management, and was doing a stint as conservation officer out of Geneva at the time. He will assume management duties at the Plattsmouth Waterfowl Refuge this fall. I had been with the Game and Parks Commission Land Management Division off and on for two years until taking on writing responsibilities for NEBRASKAland Magazine last November.
It didn't take more than a few minutes before the law of supply and demand went to work. I was in need of a fisherman with ultra-light gear. Joe had three days off from work and an ultra-light rig he had been wanting to test, so we had ourselves a deal.
A bit of nostalgia may have clouded the logic behind our choice of species and water. Joe had worked with the Fish and Wildlife Service at Crescent Lake National Wildlife Refuge for two summers while in college, and Sand Hills living had claimed another addict. He jumped at every opportunity to return. So much for nostalgia. The logic of choosing northerns at Crescent was based on several factors. It was mid-summer, and cool-season feeders like largemouths were not as active as earlier. The northern's more voracious feeding habits made it a good summer bet. Remote, Crescent Lake promised plenty of action with a minimum of competition, and it was situated west of Highway 81, making northerns under 24 inches legal. A two-pound pike, we figured, would provide all the action any angler using ultra-light gear could ask for. The logic seemed to hold up fairly well, too.
I picked up Joe in Geneva early that morning and we began the six-hour drive to Oshkosh and finally the refuge at Crescent Lake.
By late afternoon, we had satisfied swelling appetites and talked with Don Hunt, the local conservation officer. His blunt estimation of the area's current fishing potential was somewhat less than encouraging, but it did hold a faint glimmer of hope,
"You won't do any good on bass or panfish. Might catch a few northerns, though, if you stay at it."
It was mid-afternoon before we finally reached our destination on the refuge. The weather was not at all summer-like. In fact, every indication hinted we should have drawn shotguns from their cases and taken to the hills for grouse - it felt like early fall. Partly cloudy skies and gusty winds merged with cool temperatures to promise showers, a falling barometer, and poor fishing.
"Island Lake is a good bass and northern spot early in the season, but heavy vegetation has probably clogged the shallows by now and spin-casting is nearly impossible," Joe commented as we turned off the narrow pavement onto a sandy trail leading past Island Lake to Crane Lake. "Northerns run larger at Island than in Crane, but two-pounder action should be more consistent at Crane. Until I become more familiar 62 NEBRASKAland with the limitations of this outfit, those fellows will do nicely. We can always try Island later."
Breast waders are standard equipment for fishing Sand Hills lakes. The angler seems to have a closer touch with his quarry when in the same medium. Hard-stemmed bullrushes that line most lakes hamper bank fishing and serve as a retreat and feeding ground for predacious northerns. Most anglers consider this vegetation the most productive area to fish.
The water was unseasonably cool, even through a layer of rubber. A long, neck-like cove Joe had talked about on the way out looked every bit as promising as he had indicated.
"The last year I worked at the refuge we pulled nice northerns from this cove all evening. Almost every cast netted a fish. Smaller ones we released, saving those that ran two pounds or better."
A northwest wind churned the little neck wildly as we waded through the rushes and began working the edge. Underwater visibility couldn't have been much more than a foot. A spoon would have to be pulled right in front of a pike's nose for him to see it.
That first evening was something less than a smashing success. Joe had two good strikes and set the hooks solidly only to have the fish snap his delicate line. I fared a bit better with my heavier rig. My 6%-foot, fast-taper spinning rod looked like a telephone pole next to Joe's 5-foot shorty. The standard open-face reel and eight-pound-test monofilament line I was using slanted the odds heavily against Joe and his handicap equipment. It was an interesting comparison of gear and success.
A two-pounder bumped my red-and-white spoon twice before taking it. To say that two-pound northern was a scrapper would be an understatement. The battle was entirely satisfactory for an opener.
A landing net would have expedited things a bit, but a few additional minutes to wear the fish down and untangle him from my legs served the same end. Easing the exhausted northern from the murky drink by the bony ring around the eyes, I finally claimed the first fish of the day. My glory was short-lived. Like a bungling tinhorn, I removed the spoon from his bony jaw before running the stringer through the bottom of the mouth and somewhere between those two points he gave a last thrust and nipped back into the lake. Joe enjoyed that trick immensely. We continued casting almost until sundown with limited success. Refuge rules require all visitors to be off the area by then.
Since we were only a mile or two from headquarters, Joe suggested we drop in on Art Covalt, refuge operations manager, and probe for any suggestions he might have for the next day.
To merely say that Sand Hills people are friendly would be grossly lacking in accuracy. Before we could say, "How's fishing?" Art's wife, Louise, had Joe and me pulling up chairs around a thresher's banquet. After stuffing ourselves to the brim and wading through an hour or so of "old times" on the refuge, someone NOVEMBER 1971 finally remembered that we had stopped to ask about fishing.
"Crane Lake is still the most consistent northern producer on the refuge, but they don't run large there," Art informed us. "That lake was renovated about six years ago and the pike should be up to good size by now, but not many are taken. Most are right at two pounds or a little below.
"Island Lake, on the other hand," Art continued, "yields larger northerns, but not as many. Earlier this spring, and through the ice over winter, anglers scored well there. Some made the 10-pound mark. If you're after the large ones, Island would be your best bet. Otherwise stick to Crane for consistent action."
The refuge covers about 70 square miles of Nebraska's unique Sand Hills. It is liberally dotted with lakes ranging in size from a few yards across to Island Lake's 711 surface acres. In the late 1920's when the nation's waterfowl began a startling decline, public concern prompted the establishment of a refuge in the isolated Sand Hills region, the southernmost area of any consequence as far as reproduction goes. By 1931, the initial land purchase was completed and Crescent Lake Refuge became a reality. Small purchases since then have enlarged the area to its current 46,000 acres. Myriad waterfowl and shorebirds use the area. Grouse, pheasant, and mule deer are abundant, and pronghorn are scattered about the area in limited numbers. The place literally teems with wildlife of all sorts, especially during big migration pushes.
A towering stack of pancakes and a 30-minute drive from Oshkosh attributed to the sun preceding our arrival at the same Crane Lake cove the next morning. Joe eased my suffering conscience about our late arrival with his theory that northerns feed all day. Even though mornings and evenings may be their peak feeding periods they can be enticed to strike during any of the daylight hours. That morning-evening peak seems to correlate more with the movement of prey species than with any physiological quirk of the northern.
Even if our late arrival might have been a strike against us, the weather was two points in our favor. The temperature hovered in the 60's, skies were clear, and a slight breeze bent the rushes. It almost seemed as though a few days of spring had been recreated for our benefit.
Joe's ultra-light gear weighed things strongly in my favor that morning, but there was little doubt that his method was sportier. As we were rigging up at the water's edge, I noticed that Joe was not using any leader, only a small swivel tied with the customary monofilament knot. On the other hand, I went with a six-inch steel leader. Joe believed leaders were just excess weight on his light rig and, since most northerns are hooked in the lip (if you can call that bony ridge of projections a lip) there was really not much danger of the line being cut. Absence of leader also lent more realism to the spoon than if a heavy leader preceded it through the water. Joe went with his eight-ounce hammered silver spoon that had proven successful on pike in summer. I stayed with the traditional red-and-white spoon weighing five-eighths of an ounce.
Joe's spoon slapped the water maybe a dozen times before he felt the morning's first bump. Many hits were preceded by nudges before the northerns, true to nature, hammered home. Joe was casting parallel to the weedy shore when his first hit came. Indicative of a larger
"gator mouth", the fish never surfaced
but bored deep into the middle of the cove.
As Joe said later, "With those big boys
you don't just horse them in, you keep
the line taut and let them go."
The northern slowed up after reaching the middle. Joe took up the slack,
and a healthy push in another direction
snapped the flimsy four-pound line.
We worked that area during the better
part of the morning without so much as
a bump. The more open side of the lake
proved equally fruitless. We were back
in the cove and nearly ready to move on
to another lake when the action began
to pick up.
Joe continued to cast parallel to the rushes into every small recess that pocked the irregular edge. I usually waded behind him and cast the edge of the rushes near the other side, retrieving across the middle. My heavier spoon required a faster retrieve to keep it clear of the shallow bottom Joe was working. The result was a nice co-operative effort, covering the whole cove and permitting either of us to offer assistance in landing the other's fish.
Joe attributed the sudden spurt of feeding to the movements of the moon.
"We'll check the solunar tables and see what they say when we get to town. If it's around 11 a.m. you're going to eat crow for a while," Joe fired back after I scoffed at his theory.
"Those are just good excuses for lazy sportsmen to sleep later in the morning most of the time," I had told him.
But whatever the reason for the sudden surge of northern interest in our hardware offerings, the fishing was outstanding for the rest of the morning and into the afternoon.
Even though we worked the spoons the same way time after time, each pike became an individual with a unique personality after steel cut flesh. Some made no bones about their intentions, merely inhaling the silvery imitation, though only one of the morning's catches had the spoon embedded in the gullet. Try that for a pastime when fishing is slack — remove a firmly embedded pair of barbs from the northern's throat without raking your hand raw. Russian roulette of the angling world it is. Many, though, just hit and hit hard, boring deep with their prize while others bumped the twirling spoon once or twice before taking it. For those, a pause in the retrieve would often entice them. Others seemed unconcerned with the whole affair of having steel barbs embedded in their bony jaws and could be towed in calmly until nearly in hand. But once those alligator-like eyes popped above the surface and realized what was about to happen, a thrashing swirl and power dive seemed the appropriate response. In fact, you could never consider a pike caught until he was on the stringer, as my episode the previous day had proved.
I watched Joe closely as he waded the shallows. Raised in Lincoln, few would have guessed that he was not a resident sandhiller. The scarred, grass-polished boots he had shucked on the bank; crumpled, sweat-stained hat; faded denim jeans; lanky build; and weathered face all marked him as a native. A deep, husky voice and slow, deliberate drawl completed the impression. A vehement admirer of anything that honks or quacks and dips its webs into the water, he was aroused from his calm shell by threats to the waterfowl he had studied and grown to worship. He is the only man I know who could shake loose a motelful of sleeping guests with the shrill, warbling cry of a migrating sandhill crane or the resonant call of a Canada goose. I often thought that if reincarnation were possible, Joe would probably come back into this world with that same throaty honk.
We both grew to admire the fish's fighting qualities during that day. A fish more full of spunk would be difficult to find. We found the northern to be a supple fish with long, lean lines designed for action. Scorned by some for his indiscriminate feeding habits, and by a few as table fare, the pike can never be found guilty of lacking in action once hooked.
A voracious feeder, he will strike most anything an angler drags past.
During those two hours when the action raged, Joe hooked 9 or 10 northerns. I caught half that number.
Experience and familiarity with the behavior of Sand Hills northerns gave Joe a decided edge in luring the fish out of the rushes, but the heavier rig I was using outweighed his angling competence when it came to landing the devils.
His self-imposed handicap was all that made our pairing off competitive. While I hooked far fewer, my record was clean on landing the ones I hooked.
Joe fared worse. The four-pound line, the light rod and open-face reel, along with the absence of any type of leader, all contributed to his lower hooking-to-landing ratio, but the battle a two-pound northern puts up on that light a rig is unbelievable. During the morning, and for a while in the afternoon, Joe played at least four northerns in the two-pound range, and several smaller ones. Some broke the line at his feet as he reached for them, but most just made the initial strike, bowed the rod, and snapped the line. The action, regardless of losses, was fabulous for late-season fishing.
After that hour-long spree, the action stopped abruptly. Joe and I field-dressed the northerns, iced them down, and called it a day. Though neither of us had filled our limits, we had enough for several generous fries of prime northern fillets. Joe could easily have filled his quota had he been using regular gear. I approached the limit of six on my heavier rig. It was a good showing for the lake that late in the season. Joe made the first of many assessments that will follow over the years as we wound our way back to Oshkosh.
"If you're the kind of fisherman who likes to drop a line in the water and lay back gabbing with other anglers, Crescent Lake fishing is not for you. If, on the other hand, you like the solitude and serenity of the Sand Hills where, if you lay down your rod a registered hereford will probably step on it or a cantankerous northern will drag it off, Crescent is your kind of place." THE END
NEBRASKAland
Outdoor Elsewhere
High-flying Antics. The highest known elevation of a duck in flight is 21,000 feet. This altitude, just under four miles up, was documented by a Nevada pilot recently, when a mallard collided with his plane and tore a nine-inch hole in the fuselage. That ought to be proof enough. —Nevada
Underground Movement. A certain Pennsylvania Game Warden is now a firm believer that the whitetail buck is one of the smartest animals around. The warden has always felt this way, but recently had the belief confirmed when he watched a wise old buck solve the problem of crossing a deadly Pennsylvania turnpike. The deer crawled through a 20-inch diameter drainage conduit underneath the heavily traveled highway. The warden thought that was proof enough. —Pennsylvania
Tough Luck. Some folks, even sportsmen, have trouble keeping organized once in awhile. But, how about this excursion by a certain hunter last fall. The fellow arrived at his hunting destination and discovered that he had the wrong ammunition for his rifle, then found out he had completely forgotten the shells for his shotgun. In checking, the fellow discovered that he had also failed to buy a hunting permit. Things were bad enough, when later in the day the hunter fell asleep at the wheel and wrecked his new car. Then, to top it all off, when the police arrived, he found out the hard way that his driver's license had expired two days earlier.— Washington, D.C.
Nutty Housing. Who in the world ever heard of anyone keeping a lawn too clean? Well, it happened in Salem, Oregon. Groundskeepers did such a good job of maintaining the state capitol grounds that there was no natural debris left for the resident gray squirrels to build nests with. So, the state game commission came to the rescue with 21 nesting boxes and placed them in trees around the capitol. The rent, of course, was free! — Oregon
Hairor Hare. A Maine motorist recently missed colliding with a bear by just a hare. Apparently, while zooming down the highway, a rabbit jumped out in front of his car. Unfortunately, the motorist hit the hare. But, in slowing his automobile after the accident, he was able to stop his car and avoid hitting a bear that was crossing the road just a few feet ahead. So, he really did miss a bear by a hare. — Maine
A Hairy Tale. It's only human nature that some people really have trouble spelling. And, a Massachusetts housewife recently discovered just how much of a problem her husband has. While rummaging through their freezer, the wife came across a package marked "Hair." She asked her husband what could possibly be in the package. He simply replied: "I wasn't sure how to spell rabbit." — Massachusetts
Determination Plus. To say that some people are more determined than others might be the understatement of the year, but how about this? A certain hunter became lost in the woods last year in Pennsylvania while deer hunting and walked 12 miles before spotting familiar territory. During this long hike the dedicated sportsman toted a deer that he had shot but refused to abandon. —Pennsylvania
A Poor Tasting Experience. The metal strips that federal biologists use to band birds are inscribed: "Notify Fish and Wildlife Service, Washington, D.C.". However, the tags used to read: "Washington Biological Survey," which was abbreviated on the tags as, "Wash. Biol. Surv.". This abbreviation was changed after a farmer shot a crow and disgustedly wrote the U.S. Government: "Dear Sirs: I shot one of your pet crows the other day and followed instructions attached to it. I washed it, and I boiled it, and then I surved it. It was horrible. You should stop trying to fool people with things like this."-Washington,D.C.
Rabbit Sense. A Pennsylvania rabbit hunter was completely baffled when his dogs repeatedly picked up a scent and followed it to a gas-line meter box and seemingly lost the trail. Finally, the hunter piled his dogs into his car and left for home in disgust. An onlooker, who had watched the proceedings, casually strolled over to the meter box and lifted the lid. Sure enough, there was Mr. Rabbit all stretched out over the top of the meter —safe to run another day.— Pennsylvania
