For the Record... GENTLEMEN OF CAP

The irate hired man fumbled with the broken strands of wire as he sought to fix blame for his extra duties. He had found the gap in his employer's fence when he was rounding up cattle which had found the opening. All he could do was repair the damage, but under his breath he offered a blanket indictment: "Must have been those damn hunters!" It mattered little that all game-hunting seasons were closed. Hunters were easy targets for the hired man's wrath.

Though such accusations frequently are exceptions rather than rules, this hypothetical illustration does point out isolated instances where hunters are unjustly blamed. The question remains, however: How do hunters conduct themselves on private land when they are allowed to hunt without being required to ask permission? In an effort to answer the query a card survey was launched this year by the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission. George Nason, district game supervisor at North Platte, contacted landowners co-operating under the Cropland Adjustment Program (CAP), which provides public-access hunting areas across the state. Some of the replies at least partially answer this question.

Of the total 485 cards returned by farmers, slightly more than half admitted they had been concerned about hunter behavior before enrolling in the program. Of these, 80 percent reported they experienced less trouble than expected, with only 10 percent announcing more.

Another measure of hunter behavior is whether landowners signed up for the program would do so again. Of those who experienced less trouble than expected, 96 percent indicated they would. Only three percent of the group said they would not re-enroll and the rest were undecided. The negative side showTed a turn for the better, with 48 percent of those who received more trouble ready to enroll again. Another 36 percent indicated they would not sign up again, and the rest were undecided. It must be pointed up, too, that those who would withdraw their land had other uses in mind for it.

Despite the high population of the eastern third of Nebraska, that area showed no more concern about hunter behavior than those out west. In the east, the poll showed, 80 percent of concerned owners had less trouble than expected and 10 percent had more. The concerned western group reported 75 percent of their ranks had less trouble and only 15 percent had more.

All these percentages are nice, but what do they mean? First, they show landowner-hunter relationships in Nebraska are quite good. Second, they indicate the CAP program could well be a continuing success. And lastly, they show that there is room for improvement. The poll does not totally absolve hunters of problems resulting from using land open to hunting. But, it clearly shows that the majority of hunters behave like gentlemen when afield.

LUCKY IS THE HUNTER

IT WAS CLEAR, cold, and dark that morning in November of 1964. A sophomore at Chadron State College from North Platte, I hauled out of bed and dressed as quickly as I could, trying not to disturb my sleeping roommates. In only a few minutes, I would be on Nebraska National Forest lands in the Pine Ridge Division for a crack at a big buck during the archery deer season. As silently as possible, I scooped up my 49-pound-pull bow and 30-inch hunting arrows and slipped out to meet my partner Art Halfhide.

Art picked me up right on schedule, and after breakfast, we were off to the Deadhorse Road area southwest of Chadron. We had many places to hunt in the National Forest, but our chosen spot seemed the most likely to pay off. Headed south from town, we estimated we had about two hours before Art would have to start back to the drugstore where he was and is a pharmacist. My first class wasn't until after 11 that morning.

Frequently, we had seen deer in one particular pasture along the road and figured we stood a good chance of a shot that morning. Possibly 8 a good four-point buck that we had seen would still be there. It was just legal shooting time when we pulled into the area and the deer we had seen before were there. We weren't sure whether the buck was among them, though, since they blended into the background.

Plotting quickly, we decided one of us would get out while the other would drive to the other end of the pasture. We hoped to get the deer between us as they worked into the timber for the day. Art stepped out of the car and I drove to the other end of the pasture, got out, and attached my bow quiver.

Working my way slowly back into the timber, I tried to keep an eye on the deer as I moved over the frost-covered ground. I was about 200 yards from the car when I was confronted by a small bank —maybe three feet high. Reaching up to grab a small, frost-covered tree for leverage, I curled the fingers of my right hand around it and placed one end of my bow on the ground with my left. With my foot jammed into the dirt about halfway up the bank, I was suspended when my grip on the tree began to slip. There was nothing I could do and, almost before I NEBRASKAland knew it, I was lying on the ground at the foot of the bank. I figured I might as well try again, but as I got up, I noticed my right hand and arm were tingly and sticky. More puzzled than hurt, I slipped off my glove, and that's when the whole affair hit me. I had fallen on the unprotected broadheads protruding from my bow quiver.

There were two holes in my arm where the arrows had gone in. The pain was lessened only by the fact that my arm had instantly gone numb. I needed help! As I clamped my left hand over the wounds, trying to form a compress with my fingers, I began yelling for Art. It seemed like an eternity before he arrived, though it couldn't have been more than a few minutes. Maybe he wasn't in as big a hurry as he could have been, because, as he said later, he thought I had downed the buck we were after. He didn't know I was hurt. When he found me, though, he went into action. Using both his handkerchief and mine along with my sweatshirt, Art fashioned a compress to try to stop the bleeding. Securing the improvised bandage with his belt, he helped me back to the car and we headed for town.

Though I was a little light-headed, I still remember one ironic aspect of the trip. Art suddenly slowed down and told me to look out into the pasture we were passing.

There —within easy bow range — stood a big buck and four or five does. All we could do was look. That trip to town and the hospital seems like one of the fastest I've ever made. When we arrived, Art called the doctor, who was on his way immediately. After he cleaned and dressed my wounds, I found out how lucky I had been. Had the arrows gone in a bit higher and at a slightly different angle, they would have severed the major artery in my arm. As it was, they only cut a vein. So, I was ordered home and to bed.

Unfortunate accidents have a tendency to leave us much wiser. This one did just that for me. I look back now and think of things that would have prevented the whole affair. First, I should have worn boots that would have gripped instead of sliding on the frost. Second, I should have used a protective cover over my broadheads. And, third, (not so much preventative as just plain common sense and the only rule I followed) I wasn't hunting alone.

Later in the season, we both managed to fill our permits, testifying to my complete recovery. But, I still carry the scars of potential tragedy that day. THE END

This hobby is fun in the doing and the proving. Start your "bug" collection

HOW TO: Tie Flies

FLY SEASON means different things to different people. To some, it is time to pick up a swatter and head for the rocking chair on the porch. But for an angler, it is a magical moment devoted to seeking out that certain trout stream, or possibly settling down at the workbench with a fly tying outfit.

Creating a beautiful, never-fail enticement in feather and floss, then using it to land a hook-nosed trout is an accomplishment too few anglers enjoy. Yet, all it takes is to give fly tying a try. Many enjoyable hours may be spent hunched over a hook vise, thread spool in hand. And, as a bonus, homemade specimens are generally much more durable than their commercial cousins.

Assuming that many anglers don't have a friend who can demonstrate such techniques, NEBRASKAland prevailed upon an authority to show the proper method. J. G. (Jake) Geier teaches the subject at the University of Nebraska in Lincoln, and also 10 uses his products on the trout stream, so he knows they work.

There are three basic fly types — streamers, nymphs, and flies, (wet or dry). While design, color, material, and size vary, procedures for making each are basically the same. Body, wings, hackles (those whiskery things protruding from around the fly's collar), tails, or legs are attached by winding thread around them.

To start fly tying, it is advisable to buy a kit containing the basics. These include a vise, small scissors, hackle pliers, bobbin, whip finisher, and sundry thread and feathers.

With the necessary ingredients spread before you, clamp a hook in the vise jaws. For practice, start with a No. 10 hook and put on a single foundation wrap of thread using the bobbin, which keeps the thread on the spool until you pull it off. End this, and all other steps, with a half hitch in the thread.

Leave the filament hanging, and tie on half a dozen spines of small feather. This "tippet" can be fashioned from many different plumes, but Jake prefers breast feathers of the golden pheasant. Wrap the lower end of these spines securely, leaving the upper ends projecting.

Next, cut off several inches of black yarn, tinsel, and red floss or silk thread. The yarn is secured with thread, then wound around the hook, working it down the shank, then back over itself toward the eye. Repeat this back-and-forth wrap again to produce a heavy body. When satisfied with the size, wrap the upper end of yarn with thread and cut off any excess. The same procedure is used for tinsel and red thread, using only enough of these to create a barberpole effect on the black body. Tie the upper ends securely, and trim off excess.

Rooster neck feathers make good wings. Select four, two-inches long, and strip away two-thirds of the webbing, leaving only the shiny part near the tip. Put several loose wraps of thread around the quill, then adjust them so the curve of the feathers enclose the hook. When in place, wrap them tightly and trim away extra stem.

Hackles are the last addition, and can be made from rooster feathers similar to those used for the wings. Slide a thumb and finger along the feather to spread the spines, theirtlcr onto the hook with thread.

Hackle pliers now come into play. Clip them onto the tip of the feather and wrap sideways around the shoulder of the fly so that half the spines fan out, sticking up away from the body. They look just like long whiskers if done properly. When only the tip remains, tie with thread and trim.

The finishing touch is to wrap the head of the streamer. Wind on 15 or 20 turns of thread between the hook eye and the hackles, but not enough to form a lump. When it looks right, get out the whip finisher. This tool helps tie the final knot, one which won't unravel. Holding it in place string thread between the points.' Spin the tool, between thumb and forefinger, around the hook four or five times, tilt, pull out, tighten the thread, and cut off. Daubing on a little clear fingernail polish or cement will seal the wrap, and the creation is ready for the water.

The art of fly tying is so intriguing that many people cannot decide which is more fun — manufacture or use. If you have only done the latter until now, head for your workbench and really tie one on. Then make a comparison. With practice, you can become an expert. THE END

Speak Up

WAY OUT BACK-I am a SeaBee from Nebraska and have just received my first two issues of NEBRASKAland. I noticed an ad in both issues that said 'Delivered to your home or even your deserted island'. You don't know how true that is. I am with NMCB40 on Deago Garcia located in the Indian Ocean. And, it is deserted except for 700 SeaBees." — Richard L. Neuse, FPO, New York, New York.

BLUE RIVER FLOATS-"One of the prettiest events I have ever seen, and one I will always remember, took place several years ago on the Big Blue River near Beatrice. It was called Venetian Nights and consisted of floats made on boats and barges. All were hooked together and pulled down the river. The event I saw was in 1927 and the entries were made to depict special events such as Christmas. The people on board sang carols as they floated by and people came great distances to watch the display." — Mrs. Brock Smith, Memphis.

This is the first the editors of NEBRASKAland have heard of such an event. We would appreciate any further information or photos readers might have. — Editor.

HOT SHOT-"While attending the National Rifle Matches at Camp Perry, Ohio, as a member of the Nebraska Civilian Team many years ago, I was firing in the Wimbledon Cup match, 20 12 shots at 1,000 yards. I was lying on the firing line right beside Dr. Lincoln Riley from Wisner, who was the team captain. The doctor was hitting the bull's-eye right along, one shot after another, a rare feat. By the time he had scored 15 straight bull's-eyes, shooters all along the firing line were watching alertly. Shot No. 16 was also a bull's-eye. Then came No. 17 and the marker was a red disk signifying a score of 4. Phoning to the targets, the range officer asked if that were correct, and learned that it was a 'wart four' just outside of the bull. Dr. Riley finished his string with three more bull's-eyes for a score of 99 — 1 less than a 'possible' and was close to the top man in this famous match." —Julius Fester, Prescott, Arizona.

HEAP SMART - "No doubt you have heard of the white man and his Indian friend going deer hunting. The white man was armed with bow and arrows, while the Indian carried a rifle. After the white man's deer got away with two or three arrows stuck in him, the bowman turned to the Indian: 'You people are experts with bow and arrow. I'll trade mine for your rifle.'

" 'Uh, no. Bullet better,' came the reply.

"From the humane angle, I agree with the Indian, and hats off to him." — A. J. Stenner, Powell, Wyoming.

EXECUTIVE TIPS-"Steve Olson's article, Hooked on Browns, in the September issue of NEBRASKAland, brought back some great memories. Earlier this summer, my family and I camped on the Snake River in Les Kime's back yard, our trailer parked somewhat precariously on the canyon's rim. The absolute beauty of the place is something we will never forget!

"For your readers who prefer to fish with flies, I am happy to report that Snake River trout find them attractive. A 22-inch rainbow gobbled up one of my black gnats (wet, size 12) while a black woolly worm fetched an assortment of nice browns and rainbows. I found a small split shot a couple of inches above the fly necessary to get down where the fish are. This makes fly casting a little clumsy, but it is well worth the trouble." -Jack Scott, Administrative Assistant to Senator Roman L. Hruska, Washington D.C.

UP WITH REASON-"I read with interest and appreciation the letters from George H. Burnett of Omaha and Donald L. Hayes, Hopkinsville, Kentucky, on the Speak Up page of the September issue. It is gratifying to note that a few people still have the level-headed outlook on the events and ideas that so many anti-firearm and anti-hunting fanatics are coming up with these days. These letters and the editorial by Mr. Willard R. Barbee in the same issue should be read by those so-called anti-crime and wildlife protectionists.

"I am a former Nebraskan who is nearing 81 years of age. I am in excellent health and still go hunting every chance I get. I think I owe a lot of my good health to the many days I spend in the great out-of-doors." —Ramon Harding, Portland, Oregon.

WE'RE THE BEST-"I was really glad and proud to see your article, Legend in Red, in the September issue of NEBRASKAland. Yea, that's all right! But, I would like to see more pictures and write-ups on our No. 1 team. (Many more.)

"Let's really inform the folks in other parts of the country about our No. 1 team and the great people of the state behind it. Don't let them forget that we're No. 1 and proud of it."-Lynette Marshall, Verdigre.

WOOPS-"The article, Profiles of the Past, by Warren H. Spencer in the August issue of NEBRASKAland is very interesting. It does, however, contain an erroneous statement which I wish to call to your attention.

"Ami Ketchum is buried at Kearney. The grave of Luther Mitchell is in the cemetery at Central City-marked by a simple stone marker." —Mrs. Rexford Ferris, Central City.

With such stationary subjects, it is hard to get them mixed up, but we did so at any rate. Our apologies to our readers for the misinformation. — Editor.

BARBED MEMORIES-"A few years ago, as my father and I began to set a new fence, I recalled doing the same thing with him in Nebraska when I was very young. I usually ended up tearing my shirt or hooking a bit of skin on the barbed wire. So, this thought came to me and I thought I would share it." —Mary Graham Saunders, Lebanon, Oregon.

On The TraiI of the Kiowa

TRAVELERS ON THE Santa Fe Trail in Kansas Territory in the fall and winter of 1859-60 were far from safe. Every journey entailed an element of danger few were willing to accept. In the autumn of 1859, large numbers of Comanche and Kiowa had moved into Texas, hoping to come to terms with the U.S. government, thus ending years of warfare between the two worlds. All seemed ready for a lasting peace and a treaty the Red Man could live with. But both would have to wait — immediate prospects felled to the report of exploding gunpowder. Kiowa Chief Big Pawnee was shot to death September 22, 1859, by a Lieutenant George D. Bayard in what could be termed as less than a diplomatic disagreement. In those tense times, the incident was enough to touch off wholesale slaughter along the trail. By November, perhaps 13 travelers had been murdered.

Despite the killing of Big Pawnee, the government couldn't sanction "savages" running roughshod over a white population. So, that next spring what was to be known as the Kiowa-Comanche Expedition of 1860 was formed. The force was a two-pronged assault group, the southern pincher of which jumped off from Fort Cobb, Chickasaw Nation. While a northern arm swept down out of the northwest under the command of Major John Sedgwick, it was the southern column, headed by Captain Samuel D. Sturgis, that was to go down in history as the campaign's most important element.

Fully expecting to encounter at least 3,000 Kiowa along their route, Sturgis and some six companies of mounted troops headed out of Fort Cobb in what is now Oklahoma, and turned north on June 9, 1860. Ahead of them lay the largely uncharted reaches of Indian Territory, a hostile Kansas, and a running fight in the sprawling expanse of what is now Furnas County, Nebraska.

For the most part, their march was uneventful as they covered more than 700 miles in 44 days. Their only break from tedium came in discovering deserted Indian camps and ogling thousands of buffalo which literally carpeted the plains. The only members of the expedition who encountered any hostiles were Delaware and Tonkowa Army trailers, about a hundred strong; though for some time, even they saw their quarry (Continued on page 53)

Running the Shallows

With an airboat, deep water is unnecessary. In fact, sandbars are as much fun and even more adventurous

A STEADY DRONE of propellers filled the morning air as three pilots maneuvered their craft along the winding river course. Heavy foliage lined the banks, concealing whatever resided there. Only tracks, crisscrossing occasional sandbars, told of life's existence.

On this mission, no guns protruded from the cowlings, however. And the formation was not made up of World War II fighter planes ranging after enemy installations. Instead, the pilot trio helmed three airboats as they skimmed the tricky channels of eastern Nebraska's Platte River.

Airboats, those amazing shallow-draft hulls pushed by airplane propellers, have found a real proving ground on the Platte. Indeed, they are about the only powerboats practical on the seldom-deep, always-twisting waterway.

After running airboats several years for pleasure, and building a few for his own use, Duane Shunk of rural Valley decided on a deeper involvement. Experimentation led to his discovery of a special mold for fiberglass hulls, which must be sturdy enough to bump over sandbars, logs, and other obstacles.

Duane's airboats zip along at about 40 miles per hour, which seems much faster as trees on the riverbanks blur by. Even so, speed is secondary to the main benefit — their unique ability to flit about in exceedingly shallow water. With neither rudder nor drive unit protruding below the hull's surface, airboats skim along in only an inch or two of water, gliding even better across reeds or grass. Sandy stretches pose problems only if they are extremely high or wide.

Late last summer, Duane and two friends spent a day island hopping on the river — a fairly common practice for them. Three of Shunk's products, one with him at the controls, another piloted by Gary Dahlgren of Valley, and one he sold to Larry Peck, also of Valley, formed the trio. And, an impressive fleet it was, breezing along the river between home and Fremont. A distance of about 15 river miles, a round trip should have taken less than an hour. But, there were many pauses in the river run.

There was an island to visit where, in loose sand at one end, turtles laid eggs. Nearby, shade trees formed a favorite picnic spot, and Larry often spent several summer days loafing there.

And, in mid-summer the water level was down considerably; at least four feet lower than earlier in the year. Such depletion offered ample opportunity for sandbar hopping.

One more mile, and a fisherman caused another stop. George Arps of Fremont, all alone in his airboat, was just starting to check his setlines and was unhooking his first catch of the day — a nice three- pound catfish.

"Stop by on your way back, and I may have a nice stringer to show you," he shouted over the idling prop's growl. "I'll be out most of the day; either here or over by that island across the way. If you guys do any fishing, get into the deep holes where the water moves fast. That's where the big ones are. I caught a 19 1/2-pounder here a few weeks ago." With a wave, and a promise to drop by later, the airboaters moved on.

It's tricky leaving, because prop wash throws a lot of air and water. Anyone standing astern gets a good shower if a boat is not maneuvered right. And, starting out in shallow water sometimes requires a lot of throttle before the craft begins to move. Gary was the victim on that start, getting a good drenching as Larry gunned back into the main channel.

Dwayne's boats are 8 feet wide, 16 feet long, and almost flat on the bottom. Peculiar steering characteristics mean that edges must be more critically contoured than most other boats. In a sharp turn, a fan boat slips sideways. So, at a good clip, the rig could capsize should it ram a sandbar. Sideslip is fun, though, and there is plenty of it because of the river's winding course. Knowing when to start a turn and when to apply power takes practice — more so than in a regular boat.

Power is never lacking. Two of the boats have Pontiac engines, and the third boasts a big Chevy, giving each around 400 cubic inches of throbbing power. Auto engines are used because they are more dependable and much easier and cheaper to service than the aircraft types used in many such boats. At a flick of the throttle, they accelerate 18 immediately and noisily. That noise, and motion combined with the rush of air, provides an exhilaration that compares with an open plane or motorcycle.

Because the bow of the boat is normally used for entry and exit, Duane puts no windshields on his models. The resulting rush of air adds to the feeling of freedom. While obstacles in the river are avoided whenever possible, there is little concern if they are hit. The heavy hulls can even skip over steel girders with barely a scratch. Gary Dahlgren knows.

Just beyond a railroad bridge south of Fremont, his boat scrunched into a piece of submerged steel. "I saw the thing coming when your wake pushed water away, but by then it was too late. I thought it would come right through the bottom, but we just bounced over. Bet there's a long scratch down there, though," he grinned. Duane's two sons, 17-year-old Don and Brad, 12, were with Larry in the trail vessel, and they skittered through the same stretch of water without touching the obstruction.

Carol, Duane's wife, was to be picked up on the return from Fremont. She had foregone the upriver stretch, opting to fry a batch of chicken and prepare other goodies for a noon picnic. Prior planning called for a swing downriver to Two Rivers State Recreation Area for lunch later in the day. Then, they would continue on to the confluence of the Platte and Elkhorn rivers where Don and Brad planned some late-season water skiing.

"I think I can smell that fried chicken from here," Gary quipped almost as soon as the bows of the three boats settled onto a sandbar just below the Fremont Airboat Club. "I also got kind of thirsty a while ago -I think it was when Larry sprayed us with water back there. Throw me some of that pop you're hoarding in your cooler, Larry, or I won't help shove you off when we head back," he threatened.

"Something is growling inside me, too," Gary returned. "I think I may look for some shortcuts."

Duane just shook his head and grinned, (Continued on page 55)

HEP FOR BEAVER

Clarence Sanders traps for just one reason. He loves it

FOLLOW HAP SANDERS for one day when he's running his traps, and you'll wish you had his energy. You'll tramp through weeds, ford creeks, slip down muddy banks, and stumble over beaver-gnawed stakes.

At 59, Clarence (Hap) Sanders farms 400 acres and is caretaker of the Memphis Lake State Recreation Area near Ashland. But, winters are as busy as summers for Hap— an ardent beaver trapper.

"I've done it ever since I was a kid," Hap explained, as we left the cafe in Union where we met. Despite a cool breeze, it promised to be an unusually warm February day. In the back of his pickup was an impressive load of fur— 6 beaver and about 50 muskrat, all taken the previous day.

"I trap for one simple reason. I love it. Beaver hunters are like coyote hunters, you know. Everybody says you have to be nuts to be a coyote hunter; absolutely no gain in it. You ask a man why he's a coyote hunter and he'll say he loves (Continued on page 55)

Craftsman of Fauna

A master in his own right, Bud Pritchard picks his best from over two decades of excellence

DURING the past 21 years, NEBRASKAland Magazine, has from time to time, changed its appearance to stay abreast of advancing trends. Artists, photographers, and writers have come and gone, bringing, then taking their individual styles with them. In 1964 the magazine's title changed from Outdoor Nebraska to NEBRASKAland, coinciding with the addition of color to 10 center pages. And, in 1966, color reproduction spread throughout the magazine. From 28 pages in 1950, the publication expanded to its present 68. But one monthly feature —Notes On Nebraska Fauna— remained constant. So did its artist, C. G. (Bud) Pritchard. Bud joined the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission in 1948 at the age of 38. Still an unestablished artist, he had yet to develop the realistic style for which he is now noted, but it soon became evident that his talent should not be wasted. Late in 1949 he was assigned a black-and-white watercolor illustration of a mule deer to be published as part of Outdoor Nebraska's first formal fauna feature in January of 1950. That artwork launched what had been designed as an experimental series into the longest, uninterrupted run of monthly features still being published in NEBRASKAland. The only basic change came with the expansion of color in 1966 when Bud switched to color from black-and-white illustrations. Popular since its inception, the series is, without doubt, the most notable, artistic documentation in existence of Nebraska wildlife. Although Bud has used all materials during his painting career, he prefers tempera for both practical and artistic reasons. Compared with oil, tempera dries rapidly, allowing him to work within the monthly schedule of publication deadlines. It also offers a wide range of hues, providing every muted or lustrous shade he needs.

With the exception of a two-year correspondence course in art instruction during the early 30's, which offered a bit of formal training, Bud is a self-taught artist; craftsman of a mature, realistic, and well-developed style mastered through hours upon hours of wildlife observation and many more at his easel. He is a courteous, soft-spoken gentleman. Quietly, without influence except that which emanates from his own love for wildlife, he produces paintings noted for their accuracy and detail. He spends much time outdoors, sometimes hunting in season, but mostly observing the animals that eventually appear in his illustrations. His wife, Mary Lou, often accompanies him, especially during bird-watching walks. Both are members of the Audubon Naturalists Society.

Bud won national honor three years ago when the U.S. Department of the Interior chose his illustration of the hooded merganser (see Notes on Nebraska Fauna, NEBRASKAland, October 1964) to be used on Federal Migratory Waterfowl Stamps for the 1968-69 season.

Reproduced here are 10 fauna paintings he himself chose from his 62 color illustrations published continuously in NEBRASKAland since February of 1966. Some of them are among his favorite animals (small mammals, songbirds, and waterfowl) and represent a selection based on reproduction potential, composition, and harmony. They demonstrate his unique achievement as an outstanding, nationally recognized wildlife artist. THE END

SEA HORSE OF PRAIRIE CREEK

Horns and pearly tusks were all Lynk Phelps saw, but he wasn't waiting for a better look

LYNK PHELPS MUST have cut a crazy figure that day in 1870 when he exploded from the swimming hole on Prairie Creek. Grabbing his clothes, he headed — stark naked — for the wagon and team tethered nearby. Hurling his duds into the wagon bed, Lynk hustled around the side and beelined for the traces which held the horses. But his nude body startled them and they reared, cinching the halter knots so tight that Lynk couldn't get them loose. Instinctively, he reached for his knife only to realize that his pocket was in the wagon, so he clawed at the reins until they came free. Then, heaving himself onto the seat, he ran the team all the way home and into the barn. Bursting into the house, he bolted the door, ordered everyone away from the windows, and was still babbling when Uncle Lyman Balcom walked in.

Lynk sputtered his story about a monster in the swimming hole, slowing down only when he remembered he had left one of his boots behind. He offered $10 to anyone who would go after it, but when Uncle Lyman volunteered, Lynk wouldn't let him out of the house. It was early the next morning when Uncle Lyman finally sneaked out, made his way down to the creek, and returned some time later carrying a well-scarred boot.

Lynk, Uncle Lyman's hired man, was on the job when the whole episode occurred. He had been sent to Grandpa Rose's cheese factory near the Balcom farm to deliver a load of milk. It was customary that after the milk was delivered, several of the men got together for a quick dunking in the creek. On that particular July 3, Uncle Lyman told Lynk not to go in until he 32 arrived, but when the sun began to sag in the west, they all decided to go swimming anyway. That's when it happened. One of the men noticed something floating downstream toward them. Its horns and pearly tusks stood out against the dark water. Not sticking around to investigate, Lynk lit out.

The next day, Lynk drew more of a crowd than any exhibit at the Clarks Fourth of July celebration. There had been several rumors of a water monster stalking the Prairie Creek-Platte River area near Silver Creek, and Lynk said he had seen it. He told and retold the story until what he described as a "sea horse" was 40 feet long, and his tale made the whole thing seem so real that a group of local hunters decided to go after it. They asked Uncle Lyman to help and he agreed.

The day of the hunt came and the men arrived at the Balcom farm aboard a spring wagon. Uncle Lyman took them up the creek to where the hunt was to begin, passing one place where the rushes were tramped down. That was evidently where the sea horse had slept. Suddenly, not far ahead, the monster poked its head over the riverbank, scanned the approaching hunters, and disappeared. Guns at the ready, the party converged on the spot, expecting to find the creature. He was nowhere in sight. Still, things were so tense that if anyone had thrown a hat in front of them, the hunters would have blown it to shreds. But the uncertainty of the moment was enough to deter even the best-armed of the group and all decided they should return to town for reinforcements.

Days passed before another hunting date was set, and stories of the first foray grew all out of proportion, NEBRASKAland and one man, a professor in Clarks, showed a lot of interest in being the one to kill the monster, and that, too, got around. By the time the hunt was rescheduled, it was pretty much agreed that he would have the opportunity to do the beast in.

The night of the big hunt was at hand. Men from throughout the neighborhood and from Clarks arrived that evening. They came in wagons, spring wagons, and on horseback; some even brought lanterns in hopes that the light might attract their quarry as it swam along.

It was late dusk when the sea horse came floating down the river. All agreed that the professor should have the first shot, so when the monster came within range, he began shooting. All of his shots missed their mark, though, and as the target moved closer, he dropped to one knee for a better aim — still he missed. Finally, Uncle Lyman said he would have a go at it. He took careful aim and, sure enough, his shot sent the monster to the bottom of the river.

Everyone was ready to retrieve the kill. Everyone, that is, but the professor who feared that the beast might only be wounded. He wanted no part in bringing it out of the river. So, several of the older men waded out to where the monster had gone down. They found the sea horse and managed to get a rope around its horns. As it was hauled ashore, one of the men grabbed the carcass, heaved it onto a horse, and headed for town with the rest of the company close behind. When they arrived, they found bonfires already blazing and the townspeople all set for a feast of roast sea horse. Their expectations were short-lived, however, when DECEMBER 1971 they began to examine the animal and found that it wouldn't make good eating at all.

It seems that the whole thing was a great ruse concocted by Uncle Lyman after many people had seen a log of about the same shape floating down the Platte River. The monster's neck and head were made from burlap sacks stretched over barrel hoops. The horns were long cow horns and the tusks were willows stripped clean of bark. The beast was constructed so that a man could carry it on one arm while swimming, thus giving it a rocking motion as it moved through the water. Shooting posed another problem, though, since no one could safely swim with the beast. So, bottles were installed to keep it afloat and when Uncle Lyman shot them, it sank immediately. Of course, he wasn't in it alone. Lynk, after his first scare, was let in on the gag. And, several townsmen were enlisted. They made sure the professor couldn't kill the monster by removing the shot from his shells before the hunt.

Clarks residents evidently took the whole joke in good humor. They hoisted the "sea horse" to the top of the Union Pacific Railroad water tower where it remained for quite some time. All in all, the professor probably got the worst of the deal. Each time one of the kids in town saw him, they would call out "sea horse", and he would chase them. For him, the torment of the hunt was to last for quite a while. In time, the monster disappeared. Some said it was last seen headed west on an outbound freight train. But, whatever happened to the sea horse of Prairie Creek, it was cause for considerable stir and a host of chuckles for Uncle Lyman, Lynk, and the hunters from Clarks. THE END

Chrismons

Festive decorations are a part of the holiday season. But these ornaments go even deeper with holy significance all their own

CHRISTIANS worship and express their love for the Christmas Child in many ways. Hymns and anthems laud him. Special services are leld in his honor. Homes and rches are decorated during the Christmas season with lights symbolic of the light he brought to the world.

Symbols and word pictures are used in the Bible to glorify God. Christ used parables, such as the one about the good Samaritan, to demonstrate divine love. He used representative characters like the good shepherd to describe himself and his work. In the Old Testament, sacrificial acts of worship foretold the coming sacrifice of Christ. Numbers and symbols are used to convey divine truth.

Throughout the centuries, man used symbols. The scroll is symbolic of the written word and prophecy. The six-point star identifies the Creator.

Christians use symbols to demonstrate their faith. The five-point star represents Christ's Epiphany. The rose symbolizes Christ's birth, the shell his baptism, and the butterfly his Resurrection.

During the last 14 years, members of the Lutheran Church Of The Ascension at Danville, Virginia have used Christian symbols to decorate their Christmas trees. In 1940, an elderly Lutheran pastor visited the home of Mr. and Mrs. Harry Spencer in West Virginia. He saw some unused Christmas wrappings in their home and asked if he might

In the years that followed, the Spencers made their own decorations for their own trees at home, styled after those first ones made by the pastor they knew. They felt a Christmas tree should portray a Christian message, but did not know just how to convey it.

The family moved to Danville, and in 1957 Mrs. Spencer volunteered to decorate the tree in the Lutheran Church Of The Ascension. She thought of different ways to emphasize the Christian message and researched the history of Christian symbols. She eventually came across some historic designs, called them Chrismons, and chose them as her theme. Chrismons is a combination of two words — "Christ" and "monograms".

There were only a dozen Chrismons on the tree, but that was the beginning. From that time on, new decorations appeared each year, incorporating the same symbols, and the idea spread to other churches, including some in Nebraska.

In May of 1970, the American Lutheran Church Women of Our Saviour's Lutheran Church expanded on the idea, gathered the necessary information, and organized themselves for the task of making more. They made several different kinds, but carefully preserved the historic design and significance of each.

Chi Rho with Alpha and Omega is the next symbol. Chi Rho, which looks Iike XP put together, are the first two letters of the Greek word for Christ. It is a monogram representative of his office. Alpha and Omega are the first and last letters of the Greek alphabet. Added to Chi Rho, they indicate that Christ is the beginning and end of life.

The third symbol, lota Chi (IX together), combines the first letter of Jesus' given name with the first letter of his title —Christ. It is sometimes called the Saviour's Star. The fourth Chrismon is the Saviour's Star in a circle, symbolic of eternity.

The Son-of-Righteousness symbol is Chi Rho on a globe from which a 12-point star radiates, representing the 12 apostles.

The cross with Chi and roses tells of the risen Christ with the first letter of Christ's name on the cross. The roses represent rebirth brought about by baptism.

The crown is another. It is simply beautiful. It means the newborn babe of Bethlehem is King of Kings, Lord and Ruler of all.

The Greek cross, with four equal-length arms, tells of Christ's love for mankind, which was so great that it led him to death on the cross in atonement for all of mankind's sins.

A cross with Alpha and Omega on it symbolizes the man who died, and his divinity as the eternal Son of God.

The lota-Eta-Sigma (IHS) symbol includes the Greek alphabet's first three letters of the name Jesus, which means "the one who saves". This is the name of the Infant who lay in the manger.

The butterfly on the cross together with Chi in a circle are symbolic of Christ's Resurrection from death and his power to forgive sins. The butterfly is the symbol of Resurrection because it emerges from a cocoon, just as Christ emerged from his tomb at Golgatha.

The eight-point star is the symbol of rebirth through baptism. Man, who was dead in sin, is brought back to life through this act.

The orb, a cross set on a globe, means the entire earth is Christ's domain. Artists often depict Christ holding the earth.

The fish is the symbol of Christ himself. It comes from the word FISH made up of the first Greek letters of the phrase 'Jesus, Christ, Son of God, Saviour".

Variations of these symbols are used to point out the meaning of Christ in the lives of humans. These symbols and monograms are visual expressions of faith in the Child of Bethlehem. They strengthen belief in the saving power of the Child God gave to man as a gift, and enrich the lives of people during this season when they celebrate the birth of Christ. THE END

Destiny of the Goose

Hunting Sand Hills honkers hangs in balance. Success of project could spell future for these majestic birds

SINCE TIME eternal, Nebraska's Sand Hills have fulfilled the needs of nesting Canada geese—at least until this century. The last known nesting in the Sand Hills was seen by a group of bird watchers early in the 1900's. Until the past few years, no successful goose nests have been reported in the wilds of Nebraska. Recent developments, however, promise to change all that and offer Sand Hills gunners unprecedented opportunities to down more of these magnificent birds and still leave a healthy population.

Restoration and release programs sponsored by the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service in Montana, North Dakota, and South Dakota, as well as state-sponsored programs, are largely responsible for an upswing in dark-goose activity. Nebraska's recently initiated program to reintroduce nesting birds to the Sand Hills will hopefully help bolster the Canada population within several years. South Dakota's highly successful program operates just across the boarder and is a (Continued on page 63)

Indian artworks and crafts, once cherished by a proud people, are now residue of ravaged race

Premise for Survival

IT WAS A BLEAK land, this Nebraska before the coming of the whites. Thousands of square miles stretched to distant horizons, halted only by nature's boundaries. And, across this land walked a singular man— the first American.

Neither Sioux nor Cheyenne, Arapahoe nor Pawnee were alone. Their beliefs reflected natural surroundings and their tools, arts, and crafts fitted the wild plains which they roamed. Much of that simple existence, though, was destined to fade as years crept into centuries. Religions were inundated by the flood of Christianity and life-styles were altered by the dogged pursuit of white progress. Now, only remnants of their skills and artwork linger for 40 NEBRASKAland

Arrow points and stone axes, once tools of survival, rest in the florescent glow of display cases. Buffalo-hide tepees and earthen lodges which once sheltered families whose lineage stretched to the dawn of time, remain today simply as curiosities. Ceremonial garments, once raiments of noble tribesmen, adorn lifeless mannequins in pseudo recreations of the majestic heritage of a proud people.

Superficially, fragments of a civilization, whose basic precepts have never been completely assimilated by the prevalent society, seem a bit sad. Deeper, though, lie the cornerstones of a culture attuned to a primitive land and the environment from which they sprang. Amidst the artifacts of such ancient societies lie some clues to understanding the Indian way DECEMBER 1971 of life. Paramount among them are the arts and crafts practiced to perfection, rivaling modern man's in their beauty. Yet, they are often paradoxical. Vestiges of an advancing people mingle with original objects, often obscuring what is Indian and what is not.

Plains tribalism dates to prehistory with recovered objects tracing both its growth and location. Diminutive clay pipes and tiny statuary portray, for the modern scholar, a way of life long since past. And, among the artifacts is the evidence of change. Before the white incursion, objects were rough-hewn and elemental. But, as trappers and traders crept into the region in ever-increasing numbers, the artifacts became more refined. Herein lies much of the difficulty.

Beadwork has long been associated with the Indian culture. Yet, it was not until the 43  

The Indian also took the white man's trade goods and fashioned them for his own uses. Toward the end of the Eighteenth Century, metal trappings began to appear on Indian clothing. From precious metal to tin, objects were cut apart and used to sheath sinue thread from which hung horse-hair bobbles.

Though it was far from a white innovation, war took on a new spectrum with the white man's arrival. Weapons which had been made of flint and sticks, bone and stone, were suddenly embellished with metal spikes and blades; brass tacks embedded for adornment. And, of course, firearms crept into the Indian arsenal. Still, in comparing the most primitive of clubs with later versions, a whole vista of armament improvement unfolds.

And, so it went. Pottery, once so important to the farmer, was replaced with ironware. The nomads' baskets and bags, crafted from native grasses and colored with clay and berry dyes, gave way to commercial varieties bought with pelts or an occasional curiosity. Two worlds met in the castoffs and misplaced articles anthropologists now call artifacts. It is the way of things that the fittest survive. In the wild, the process serves to improve the species. In the repression of a race, its art, and its crafts, the premise is not so beneficial. THE END

Genealogical Fun

Libraries, museums have much to offer, but building family tree must begin at home. Elders are great help

DURING THE LAST decade there has been a tremendous surge in the search for authentic, historical material. Old furniture, once destined for farm junkyards, is snapped up by collectors, refurbished, and placed in homes as valuable antiques. Dog-eared documents, forgotten in dusty attics, are discovered by history buffs, carefully flattened, and framed to be hung in prominent places.

Along with this fascination for ties with the past has come another interest — the family tree. Profession for some, hobby for others, genealogy has become a household word where once it could hardly be spelled. Formerly reserved for the elite, collecting documented family history is now a common pastime at every level of the social structure. With the slow disappearance of snobbery concerning ancestors, it's fun when a black sheep can be found somewhere in the annals of a clan, adding color and spice to an otherwise dull inventory of names and dates.

Genealogy is a fascinating hobby which lures enthusiasts into periods of history previously unknown to them except as vague recollections from school days. For the serious buffs, it becomes a fetish, always in the back of their minds, making them ever alert to new discoveries.

The trick is how to start.

Without question, the beginning of a family tree must be in the home. Historical societies, libraries, and museums are co-operative, but people familiar with material available in their institutions can do nothing unless they have something to work with. Their help really comes in the final stages of research.

Three basic steps must be followed. First, collect as many names and dates as possible from family records. Second, obtain documents which give authenticity to this initial material. Then, research it further to add color and life to the bare structure of your family tree.

For the beginner, the best place to find names and dates of immediate ancestors is in the family Bible. Although this custom has diminished to some degree, it was common until early in the Twentieth Century for family information to be recorded on 46 NEBRASKAland special pages inserted between the Old and New Testaments. Other sources are elderly relatives.

Time and again, disputes arise about dates pertinent to the family's history. "Just ask Aunt Sarah — she'll know," is the usual solution. It's a good idea to stay in Aunt Sarah's good graces in order to be able to tap her memory whenever possible.

Diaries and journals often kept by pioneers, particularly those with a better-than-average education at the time, are especially valuable references. They are also great items for your collection. Letters, identifiable photographs, account books, newspaper clippings, or even needlework attesting to the lineage are other materials from which information can be gleaned. Family legends, although their credibility must often be questioned, usually have at least some truthful basis.

Jotting down every bit of information you collect is essential. This prevents duplication of effort when you refer back to what you have done. Also, keep a detailed list of resources that prove fruitless to avoid looking there again. Such documentation will prove invaluable for future generations who may carry on with what you started.

A lineage chart is necessary for arranging data. At a glance, a specific ancestor's position on the tree can be determined. This chart, incidentally, can be decorated with suitable sketches relating to periods in which the ancestors lived and it may be used as an attractive wall decoration.

An accompanying record book should list the father and mother of each family at the top of an individual page. There should be a separate page for each married child.

Names and birth, marriage, and death dates are essential before moving to the second stage.

Having organized your information, you are ready to write to various places for documents, depending on where your ancestors lived. The U.S. Department of Health, Education, and Welfare is a good place to begin. The department publishes booklets listing places throughout the United States where to write for the certificates you want. For instance, to get a reproduced birth certificate in Nebraska, the booklet tells you to write to the Bureau of Vital Statistics, State Department of Health, State Capitol, Lincoln 68509. A small fee is generally charged in each state. Cost in Nebraska for a birth certificate is $2. An additional notation in the booklet states that available birth records date to 1904. If the needed certificate is for someone born before then, write to the State Historical Society for suggestions. Other publications prepared by the department list sources for obtaining marriage and divorce certificates.

Once you have obtained these booklets, your next step is to write to the appropriate office, enclosing the correct fee.

Other valuable sources of information are wills or probate records filed in the county court where a person died, tax and assessment lists in the city or county clerk's or treasurer's office, and naturalization records in federal district offices, although these tell little about a subject. Land records, usually filed in the county clerk's office, are helpful. They range from homestead certificates to military bounty lands and private claims. Property deeds list both grantor and grantee, and show the duration of ownership, thus suggesting the length of a person's residence in any one place unless, of course, he dealt in real estate. Cemetery records have tombstone inscriptions which can provide missing details.

The State Historical Society has Nebraska census enumerations, lists of people who lived in certain areas at the time, for the years 1860,1870, and 1880 on microfilm. The 1890 list, however, was destroyed by fire in Washington D.C. in 1921, and the 1900 census has not been released. From 1910 to the present, census enumerations are not public, and to get information from them involves a complicated procedure through the Federal Census Bureau of the U.S. Department of Commerce at Pittsburg, Kansas. For information write to Immigration and Naturalization, 215 North 17 Street, Omaha.

In addition to the federal enumerations, there is also a state census list for 1885 on film. As far as the Nineteenth Century U.S. mortality schedules are concerned, you have a 10-percent chance of finding information about an ancestor if you do not know the exact year in which he died. If you know the year, and it is 1859, 1869, or 1879, you are in luck, since federal marshals were required to list the names of all people who died in their areas before June 30 of the following years. Information gleaned from these lists can be helpful in correctly linking your lineage. Mortality schedules include the age, sex, freedom or slavery status, marriage date, occupation, length of illness, and cause of death. The 1880 mortality schedule also lists the birthplaces of the parents of the deceased.

Whenever you build a family tree, you work back from the present. More often than not, this method will take you to some date when your ancestors were European or Oriental immigrants. Consider yourself extremly lucky if you can find the name of the ship on which they crossed the Atlantic or Pacific oceans. Passenger lists for many of these vessels, although certainly not for all, have been compiled and can be valuable sources of information about the voyage. Names of publications which include such passenger lists are available in city libraries. If your ancestors came from Africa as slaves, your chances of finding information about them are one in a million because their names were not recorded.

Although your research may already have taken you to the museum or historical society, you now should begin earnest consideration of what they have to offer. Sometimes you'll be lucky; other times your search for more information will fizzle out. Mrs. Louise Small, librarian at the State Historical Society, points out that genealogists face numerous difficulties. For one thing, the society does not have the personnel to do the research that is often requested. All she can do is tell genealogists what is available, and let them dig on their own. Another thing is that it is very difficult to find additional information on people who came to Nebraska during the second half of the Nineteenth Century.

"You had to be either famous or infamous to (Continued on page 62)

Journey with a Mission

Taunts become test as state's angling forecaster takes up rod and reel to defend the validity of his own reports

FLAILING TYPEWRITER KEYS and a cold shoulder did little to spare Ken Bouc from his cohorts' taunts. Ken, special-publications writer for the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission, is the middleman between the commission's field personnel and the biweekly fishing reports sent to newspapers across the state. Over the years, Ken has become the scapegoat for every unsuccessful fishing trip launched and sunk by office personnel. This particular day was no exception, and the harassment came to a head when one disgruntled angler put the value of Ken's fishing reports on the block.

"You've been sitting behind the desk so long you probably can't tell a kokanee from a red snapper, much less catch one or the other. Furthermore, by the time those reports come out they are outdated and only tease anglers by telling them how fishing was last week. Why don't you put your money where your mouth is and follow your own reports for a few days, then come back and tell us how you did. And, just to be sure you don't stretch the truth, we'll send a writer and photographer along to document the whole episode." While Ken was more than eager to get out of the office, he was a bit reluctant to accept the challenge. A few well-aimed jabs, however, finally forced his hand.

The trip was agreed upon, and I drew the honor of recording the event. A minimum of ground rules were laid: Ken could fish any body of water for any species with any gear, providing he followed the tips of his last news release. The entire state and three full days were at his disposal.

We were slated to pull out of Lincoln and head west before noon just after the Labor Day weekend, but Ken's cantankerous superior put a damper on that. The clock marked six as we grabbed a hamburger for supper on the way out of town.

Ken's assorted equipment bristled from the back window of our station wagon as we whipped down Interstate 80 toward Harlan County Reservoir just southeast of Alma, since

Ill winds blew over our junket from the very beginning. As if a six-hour delay in departure were not enough, all accommodations in the bustling little resort town were occupied. An impassioned discussion on the merits of motel reservations ended with condemnation of my let's-look-them-over-when-we-get-there attitude. A receptive motel operator in nearby Republican City saved us from sleeping in the car.

The night was young as far as catfishing went, and that seemed a good way to make up for lost time. A local information dispenser, also a short-order cook and bartender, equipped us with life jackets we needed to fish the spillway, a handful of locally recommended silver spoons for the next day's white-bass outing, and enough shad gizzards to entice a limit of cats, or at least give us that instant fisherman's smell.

Before long, we were wading darkened shallows to the boiling basin below the dam where one other fisherman was trying for cats. We rigged up with about three ounces of lead and some of the most foul-smelling shad gizzard ever to decorate a hook. Leaky waders dampened our legs, and our companion dampened our enthusiasm. Flatheads had been hitting well a few days earlier, but the action was tapering fast, he told us. His offering of salamander and shad had yet to entice any customers.

He retreated to his camper and a warm sleeping bag to wait out the early evening doldrums as we added more weight in an attempt to keep our lines in the turbulent water. We passed the time of night swapping old fishing yarns while waiting for action.

I wasn't quite sure about Ken's jinx. Office ribbing sometimes must be taken with a grain of salt. He told me about a trip he and some cronies had made to Harlan for white bass. After 20 minutes on the lake, the wind came up and kept the whole outfit off the water for the rest of the weekend. It seems the same thing had happened once at McConaughy. It still wasn't bothering me that much, though, even after he told about a spring trip to Red Willow for bass. That was the time the temperature shot up to 106 degrees and the fish, of course, did not bite. My mind was still open to give him the benefit of all doubt when he told about a fishing trip to Minnesota where his two buddies caught their limits of walleye while he drew a blank from the same boat with an identical rig. But, I suddenly knew we were in trouble when he reeled in to check his bait and snapped his rod into two neat pieces.

I said not a word as we drove back to town, hoping that what I was beginning to suspect would prove to be a series of flukes. After all, Ken couldn't be a voodoo. Or could he?

We were up with the first hint of dawn the next day, eager to sample the piscatorial pleasures of Harlan's white (Continued on page 59)

ON THE TRAIL OF THE KIOWA

only from a distance and failed to make contact. That left plenty of time for troopers to dwell on the march. By July 22, they noted that the column, 44 days out of Fort Cobb, had marched for 41, laying over in camp to rest for only 3. In that time, they covered 743 miles with the longest day's push being 50 miles and the shortest 2 for an average of 18 miles per day. Virtually sailing across the landscape, the troops were tired, their mounts exhausted, and their ranks dwindling. As they moved, soldiers whose enlistments were up simply split off and headed for home with no one to take their places.

By August 1, though, the men were on the Big Saline Fork of the Kansas River in northern Kansas. Signs indicated the Kiowa band they were after was no more than seven days ahead —their first contact was close at hand - perhaps just over the border of Nebraska Territory. The exhilaration of impending battle seemed even closer when an advance party of Indian scouts swooped into camp brandishing three Kiowa scalps —the blood still dripping from them. Camp was struck immediately and the column surged ahead to find only one other dead Kiowa in their path. But toward sundown, a band of some 50 enemy braves appeared on the horizon. Sturgis ordered his men into pursuit, the contact was lost without conflict, and the first real Indian scare of the expedition dwindled.

Three days later, danger reared its ugly head again. On August 4, 6 Indian trailers were ambushed by Kiowa. Capt. Sturgis later wrote that two of his trackers were killed on the spot, one lingered for a time, then died, and three others were wounded. Three enemy braves were killed in the skirmish and several others were wounded. To close the gap between his column and the fleeing Kiowa, Sturgis quickened the pace.

By August 5, the First Cavalry was camped on Sappa Creek in southern Nebraska Territory. The next morning, they were on the move again when they crested a small knoll not more than two miles from camp. Only a few rods ahead were 30 Kiowa, armed and ready for battle. Without so much as a command, the advance guard for the military and a detachment of 30 men lit out after the Indians. Evidently, the Kiowa got the better of their warlike instincts in the ensuing chase, because they dropped everything from lances to rifles to pistols to bows and arrows. Even a few primitive saddles were tossed aside as they lightened the load in hopes of escape. Their tactics paid off, too, because as Indian and trooper pulled out of a choppy stretch onto level plains, the Kiowa easily outdistanced their pursuers. The bluecoats rejoined the column.

The same cat-and-mouse episode seemed inevitable some 15 miles farther along when about 50 Kiowa warriors popped up before the command. They were about two miles away, but Sturgis decided to try for them anyway.

A company of troops and about a hundred Indian trackers were ordered to move on the enemy. As they did so, what had been 50 Kiowa suddenly multiplied into more than 500. Still, the die was cast.

The trackers were first into battle and two of their number were killed almost instantly. Three others were wounded. Estimating enemy dead and injured was a bit more tricky, though, since one observer noted the majority were strapped to their mounts. Kiowa casualties were put at three dead with hopes for more.

By then, the main military force was advancing on the Kiowa and, as the charge was sounded, the enemy began to fall back. They weren't quite quick enough to escape the fast-moving First and Third Squadrons. Though the First didn't get close enough to inflict much damage, the Third poured volley after volley into the fleeing Indians and several fell while others reeled in their saddles and rode off. When the main body of cavalry arrived on the scene, however, there were no Kiowa bodies anywhere in sight. Nevertheless, pursuit continued and as the bluecoats topped the last rise above the Republican River, they saw their quarry escaping on the far bank. Hoping for another, more decisive encounter, the cavalry gave chase for some eight miles before turning back when their mounts proved too slow.

In his report to the War Department, Capt. Sturgis later recounted the battle: "In our front lay a level plain-say a mile wide —intersected by numerous ravines and contained between a low ridge of hills on the north and a heavily wooded stream on the south. As we approached, the enemy poured in from every conceivable hiding place until the plain and hillsides contained probably from 600 to 800 warriors, apparently determined to make a bold stand." The ensuing charge dispersed what must have seemed a wall of Indians. "The whole scene now became one of flight and pursuit for 15 miles, when they scattered on the north side of the Republican fork, rendering further pursuit im- possible."

While the main column was engaged in a deadly game of hide and seek with the Kiowa, the supply train, left behind in the heat of the moment, was having its own problems. A small band of Kiowa swept down on it, intent on killing as many of the whites as possible and making off with both stores and stock. They did manage to take eight ponies belonging to the Indian scouts, but left four dead and five wounded on the Nebraska sod for their trouble.

One straggler was in trouble, or so it seemed, about the same time. The soldier was on his way back to the main column astride a played-out mount when a party of eight Kiowa rode down on him. Ready to give up neither the only horse he had nor his life, the trooper drew his saber and prepared to make a stand as best he could. As the savages rushed him, he hacked the ends off three lances and dispatched their owners. He was still occupied with the fourth when help arrived and drove off the rest. Besides combat experience, all the soldier got were superficial leg (Continued on page 55)

Outdoor Calendar

ON THE TRAIL OF THE KIOWA

wounds. His horse, though, was run through with a lance.

An Indian scout fared not so well. When his body was recovered, 21 arrows were counted protruding from it. Having abandoned the chase, the main column headed back to their wagons to set up camp. During their return, Kiowa were seen galloping back and forth on a ridge some three miles away. Fearing a night attack, the troopers spent a good deal of time on alert. The onty alarm came with the discharge of a pistol, however. A quick investigation turned up a soldier seeking solace at the bottom of a bottle. He was promptly disarmed.

The morning of August 7, Sturgis' command, doubting any chance of further contact, headed for Fort Kearny and needed supplies. As they crossed the Republican, several enemy corpses were found along the banks. Shot with poisoned arrows, presumably by the Indian scouts, their bodies were almost twice their normal size. They were unceremoniously scalped and the column continued its march to the Platte. Between August 3 and August 6,1860, Capt. Sturgis estimated that his troops and their Delaware and Tonkowa trackers killed 29 Kiowa. He made no mention of the total First Cavalry casualties.

By mid-August, the First was camped some two miles west of Fort Kearny awaiting orders to move south while they drew supplies. Word at the Nebraska post had it that an estimated 1,500 Indians, herding thousands of horses, had crossed the Platte River a scant 14 hours ahead of the troops' arrival. The consensus was that they were the main band for which Sturgis' command had been searching but never found.

After four days at Fort Kearny, the First U.S. Cavalry headed back for Fort Cobb. Their mission had been moderately successful. They had made contact with the enemy and, though they didn't exactly annihilate the Kiowa nation, they had exacted some measure of punishment on them. It was to be seven years before the Kiowa signed the peace treaty they had been seeking when Big Pawnee was murdered. And, Capt. Samuel D. Sturgis was to become Brig.-Gen. Samuel D. Sturgis. But as the First Cavalry wound its way toward home and the Kiowa band pushed farther north, neither future event seemed very important. Only the deaths of comrades from both sides mattered amidst the trail dust. THE END

RUNNING THE SHALLOWS

but fried chicken must have been sounding better all the time.

"It's getting late. Let's go see how things are coming," he agreed.

"Right behind you," Larry said. "In fact, I may get there before you," he DECEMBER 1971 yelled, his words floundering in the roar of his propeller.

Amidst rooster tails and ruffled water, the trio of hulls skimmed downriver toward Dwayne's home. En route, sure enough, they encountered George Arps, tucked in next to an island, eight channel cats ranging from the three-pounder down decorating his stringer.

"They're taking crawdads," he explained as he plunked the speckled, shiny critters onto the bow of his boat. George, who uses his craft almost exclusively for fishing, has one of many on that stretch of river. Although still not common everywhere, airboats far outnumber their conventional cousins along certain sections of the Platte.

"Airboats really are just coming of age," Dwayne explains to anyone who asks. They have so many advantages in this type of water that they can't be compared to any other boats. We had trouble with the first ones we built, though. They were made of plywood covered with fiberglass for waterproofing. After a while, the plywood joints worked loose, though, and we found them too tough to repair. That's why we went to molded hulls. I had a special form made, and now we produce solid, one-piece shells with four embedded reinforcing braces running the length of the hull. We attach the front motor mounts and storage compartments to them.

"I put bucket seats in some, but prefer to use regular boat seats because they can be folded down to make beds. I also like a foot accelerator better than a hand throttle since river travel requires frequent speed changes."

Large loads do not pose much of a problem, but bridges do. Some of those over the Platte are fairly low, leaving only a few feet of clearance for the protective metal cages which shroud the boats' propellers. When the river is running high, such a close tolerance can put the kibosh on everything by trapping the boats between spans. Luckily, the river is low most of the time, so airboaters are footloose and fancy-free.

Arriving dockside, Carol and her basket of chicken were piped aboard, and within minutes the entourage was cutting wakes toward Two Rivers. No picnic could have been scheduled for a more opportune time. It was one of those ideal days with absolutely clear skies. A bright sun yielded delightful warmth. Beaching the craft right below the pic- nic tables, food was soon being transmitted to the inner reaches of Dennis and Gary's troubled areas.

"Let's take a short run up the Elkhorn to see how the river looks," Dwayne suggested to his boys. "Then we'll come back down and you guys can ski just below the junction. There should be several hundred yards where there's almost two feet of water. Brad, why are you staring into that can?"

There's a bee in there," No. 2 son revealed, easing up to grab a stick. "Is there any more pop? Let's go skiing." All Dwayne could do was agree.

It's always pleasant to remount an airboat. Perhaps the hulls could be fitted with skis or runners for use on ice or snow. Then, the thrill of whipping along the Platte's twisting course could be enjoyed year round. Anyway, during the warm months, few diversions offer more excitement. And, even fewer make it so easy to imagine yourself in the cockpit of a bi-winged Stinson closing in to strafe an enemy airfield. Where's my flying suit? THE END

HEP FOR BEAVER

As we drove toward the first trap, Hap described his work. He estimated he had about 50 sets for beaver and 200 or so for muskrat. Ideally, the traps should be visited each day, but since he traps in Saunders, Cass, and Otoe counties, it takes two days to check them all. That means he is on the road before dawn and doesn't get back until dark.

"If I get three beaver a day, I call that good. I've taken as many as eight. Of course, some days...." He left the thought hanging.

The season, which runs from the middle of December until late February, usually brings Hap 70 to 90 beaver. An excellent year might bring him 150.

Like all good sportsmen, Hap respects his prey. "I like beaver. I never get tired of watching the way they work and play. They're smart, clean, and, most of all, ambitious. That's what causes trouble.

They don't belong near farmland. They can cause considerable damage, and when they become a nuisance I get a call."

Trappers, he explained, work closely with both game warden and farmer. Together, they decide when beaver should come out of an area.

What damage do they do? We parked the truck and hiked across a cornfield toward the traps. As we neared the stream, damage became obvious. Cornstalks had been sheared off about 12 inches above the ground.

Beaver wait until corn is mature, then shuck it very neatly and stash it in dens along a stream's bank.

"One time," Hap recalled, scanning the stripped corn row, "I caught a pair which had cached away about 15 bushels — almost filled my pickup. They laid it away carefully, too, stacking it up rick fashion."

Not only must the farmer contend with crop loss, but storage dens cause washouts, promoting field erosion.

"A big den can be dangerous to a farmer driving a tractor. Why, just last year a man was killed while mowing. The wheel fell through and the blade got him." A further danger, he added, is that cut trees leave stakes sharp enough to puncture a tractor tire. "No, I love beaver, but they don't belong on farmland. They must be kept near the river."

Our brisk pace was interrupted as we Eushed aside branches and stepped over eaver cuttings. The sun's warmth had softened the stream's bank and Hap momentarily lost his balance, caught himself, and waded into the water where he lifted a sprung empty trap. He examined its jaws, shrugged, and undid the heavy (Continued on page 59)

Where to go

Hemingford Christmas Diorama, Anna Palmer Museum

REVEREND W. J. HOARE, in 1955, took the initiative with the people of Hemingford to realize a dream to help put Christ back into the Christmas season. Reverend Hoare envisioned a fantastic diorama of Biblical scenes, stretching for miles before the eyes of a beholder. About 60 scenes were in his plan, depicting everything from the Creation of the earth to the Resurrection of Christ.

The community took the first step in 1955, with 4 scenes in their Christmas Diorama. The plan grew from there even after Reverend Hoare's death in 1957.

The original four scenes have been rebuilt, since they were not substantially reinforced and suffered damage from weather. But now, with a firm foundation of community brotherhood, the dioramas are being built to withstand years and years of weathering. Reverend Hoare's vision of 60 dioramas has been cut down to 30, of which 13 scenes are complete.

Each of the scenes is 10 feet high and 40 feet wide. Each is constructed of 4 x 10 plywood, background panels with figures in the foreground made of hardboard. All carpentry and artwork was done by volunteers from the community, and supplies were donated by Hemingford residents and businessmen.

The entire story of Christ is told in more than two blocks of three-dimensional scenes. Figures are both bigger and smaller than real-life size to add to the effect of depth, as well as width and height. The structures are reinforced with 2x4 bracing to withstand high winds.

Thousands of man-hours have gone into the non-sectarian Christmas story that brightens the fairgrounds annually from the Sunday before Thanksgiving to New Year's Day.

Hundreds of cars from all over the Panhandle enter the west gate of the fairgrounds on the west edge of town carrying interested people. A few out-of staters and some from eastern Nebraska also drive to Hemingford to observe the representative glad tidings there during the holiday season.

Members of Hemingford's five churches have all pitched in with wholehearted effort and a Diorama Association has been incorporated to handle organization, labor, and materials. A special building has been erected in the park to house the displays out of season when work on them carries on.

The scenes are taken from Reverend Hoare's first-hand observations of Christian, historical places during several visits to the Holy Land, and from the Bible. Previous to his work in Hemingford, Reverend Hoare, who earned his Ph.D. in theology from Oxford University in England, was involved in Christmas pageants in other communities. But, he wanted to create something more spectacular and permanent.

The display is open day and night with floodlighting to add brilliance to the night scenes. The 13 dioramas depict the entrance of sin into the world, with an array of scenes divided into 13 phases: the Garden of Eden, expulsion from the garden, and Cain killing Abel; the prophecy of Christ's coming, including the five important figures of that prophecy; Gabriel's appearance before Mary; Caesar's decree; Mary and Joseph returning to Bethlehem; Mary and Joseph being turned away at the inn; angels appear- ing before shepherds in the fields; the wise men crossing the desert; wise men appearing at Herod's court; the manger scene; the flight to Egypt; the Resurrection of Christ; and a final scene with the text "...God so loved the world...", a rising sun with the first three Greek letters of the name Jesus (IHS) behind a shrouded, backlit cross lying on its side.

Text signs connect the dioramas and add appropriate Biblical continuity.

in hushed silence, visitors gaze upon a work created in memory of Christ's sacrifice for mankind, as the story is told in the Bible.

Another gift, not so great but certainly worthy of note, was given to the community of York in eastern Nebraska. The gift was a sizable donation from the estate of Anna Palmer which made possible the Anna Palmer Museum in the York Community Center.

The museum is a collection of York County history, a period dating to the 1800's. Included in the display is a sod house, a collection of wooden machinery 58 Anna Palmer Museum recalls York's heritage with which early pioneers scratched a living from the soil, and interior trappings from a vintage bank of Blue River, including the framework of the tellers' windows.

In the Civil War Section, museum workers have displayed weapons, uniforms, flags, and a collection of photographs of all York County volunteers who fought in those battles from 1861 to 1865.

A private gun collection has also been added to the museum's display area, bringing the total number of showcases to 20, 4 of which were set up by the Nebraska State Historical Society.

Other features include dolls, dishes, and clothing. The museum is operated by volunteers from the Daughters of the American Revolution. It is open from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. Monday through Saturday, year-round.

From one end to the other, NEBRASKAland offers a host of things to see. From a spiritual awakening to an orientation in Nebraska history, the state's many attractions are eye openers for natives and tourists alike. THE END

HEP FOR BEAVER

wire which moored it to a concealed iron stake. Wading to a nearby breakwater, he laid the trap on a flat rock, stepped down on the springs, and spread its jaws.

"Every trapper wishes someone would invent a tool to set the trap while it's still in the water," he said. "If it could be made, he'd sell it to every trapper in the country. I'd like to invent it myself."

With the trap back in its place, Hap pointed upstream. "Another one around the bend. He set off at a pace that was truly amazing, considering his hipwaders, the molasses-like mud, and the prospect of checking 20 more traps in as many seemingly unreachable places.

Around the bend, over a dam, and farther upstream we located the next trap.

"About time I got this one," he said, wading up to the snare. "I've got something here." He lifted it. "Ah, coon, I wish you were somewhere else." He removed the dripping carcass, reset the trap, and placed it carefully back into position.

"There's a big one around here and I'll get him yet. Look there," he said, pointing to a large stump. "Anything that chews a tree that high off the ground is a blanket beaver."

Heading back to the truck, Hap explained that a "blanket" is a pelt measuring 32 inches or more from nose to tail base. Although a pelt larger than blanket will net the trapper no extra money, he suffers a dollar penalty for every inch less than blanket. The market fluctuates considerably, depending on demand. One year the trapper might get $25 for a blanket, another year $6. When he reached the truck, Hap set about installing chains on the wheels. To reach the rest of the areas, we would be driving some of the distance without benefit of a road.

"By the time you buy traps and pay for transportation," Hap was saying, you're not making much of a profit. That's not even mentioning the time involved. Really, when a guy decides he wants to be a beaver trapper someone should just hit him on the head. But, I guess you just put up with the discomforts if you love it."

Throughout the day, Hap maintained his enthusiasm and brisk stride. "I always think the next trap will be the one with the beaver," he said. "If it isn't? Well then, maybe the one after that, or maybe tomorrow."

The traps we checked were of two kinds —the jump trap and the kill trap. Although he prefers the kill trap, circumstances most often favor the common jump-trap design. These are set on underwater shelves Hap fashions into the bank and secures to long iron stakes. Bait is put on shore above the trap. As the beaver comes ashore to investigate the bait, it steps into the trap and is caught.

The main disadvantage of this kind of trap is the "belly catch". If the trap closes on its belly instead of its foot, the beaver trips it and escapes, minus some hair. Problems come in the spring. Since DECEMBER 1971 such a trap does not immediately kill the trapped animal, if not recovered promptly, becomes prey for others of his kind. For some reason, beaver will not tolerate a living, trapped beaver in their midst in the spring.

Because it kills instantly, the kill trap is used wherever possible. It can be used successfully, however, only where established traffic patterns exist. In water, it may be placed in shallow, fast current, the channel staked or otherwise obstructed, so as to funnel the beaver toward the trap. On land, the kill trap can be set across a known beaver "drag", a place where the animal habitually leaves the water to feed or gnaw.

The bait used is beaver scent. A few drops retain an effective odor for about four days. Just as a dog can't pass a tree where another dog has been without satisfying its curiosity, so a beaver can't pass by without finding out about other beaver in the area.

Most of the traps we visited held no game at all. Some had been sprung by a floating branch or other debris; others contained only the tell-tale hair of a "belly-catch". Hap patiently reset each one> (Continued on page 66)

JOURNEY WITH A MISSION

bass. We ordered steaming cups of local brew and stacks of hotcakes before crossing the massive retaining dam to the lake's only operating marina. All others had been left high and dry after an 11-foot draw on the water to satisfy irriga- tion needs. Everyone we had talked with the night before had said white bass were hitting between 7 and 11 in the morning then tapering off to nothing. We were right on time.

I guess I shouldn't have blamed Ken's jinx for the absence of rental boats, but it seemed like an easy out for my own short-sightedness. We learned one thing from the experience, though-when bass are schooling at Harlan, be it midweek or midnight, you had better reserve accommodations and a boat well in advance.

An apologetic concession operator told us success had been erratic —one boat returning with 40 or 50 or so 1- to Impounders, the next with only 2 or 3.

As we drove back across the darn, half a dozen boats were clumped together off the north shore, working a large bass school. If we had had the foresight to reserve a boat, we probably would have been casting into the same group.

But what we lacked in hick and experience we more than made up for in perseverance. As a last resort, we sped back to Alma and presented Bill Bonsall, the conservation officer for that region, with our dilemma, hoping he might round up a seaworthy craft. Bill gave us the go-ahead to use his boat, but doubted whether we would reach the lake in time.

After 30 minutes of scrounging around for a trailer hitch, we were finally ready to head for the lake —we thought. But, the station wagon moved less than a foot when the radiator hose split, steam-cleaning the car and everything within a stone's throw. We needed no more to confirm it-Ken had not just fallen on evil days. He was the carrier of a curse. Right then I would have bet a month's pay that if Ken had gone into a pet shop to buy a goldfish, the clerk would have turned him down.

Thinking a change of scenery might raise our spirits and shake Ken's jinx, we loaded up without even wetting a line in Harlan's water and headed for Lake McConaughy. The fishing reports had said anglers were having good trout success trolling off the face of Kingsley Dam. A retreating array of fishing vessels, pushed along by hefty whitecaps, marked our arrival at Lakeview on Mac's south shore. A healthy north-easter had whipped up only minutes before and fishing from any boat smaller than the Queen Mary was hazardous to say the least. If things weren't bad enough then, it was only a matter of time before they got worse.

We spent the rest of the day after cats on the river above the reservoir. The day-old, sun-fermented gizzards should have been a knockout on cats, but an unusually low river netted nothing where only two weeks before some friends had cleaned up on the whiskered ones. To top off the day, the wind blew Ken's new open-face spinning outfit off the car as we prepared to leave, bending the bail beyond use. There was little celebration in town that night.

The wind was still raging next morning and white-bass fishing was out of the question. We considered trying the spill-way for trout, but thought better of it after polling the handful of anglers already there. Only one had a fish-a small one.

A few anglers were trolling for trout in calm water along the face of the dam. We were grasping for straws by then, and any fishing would be better than what we had experienced thus far. Renting a boat was no problem and by 11 a.m., we were on the lake. Trolling slabs, spin-o-kings, and flatfish produced a few bumps, but no fillets. Three hours of that was enough.

Ken's report had mentioned some smallmouth action in Big Mac's back coves. The lake was still too choppy to go far from shore, but if we could slip around a few points, the inlets would be calm enough for casting spinners or working some naturals. We had precious little to lose at that point.

We dropped anchor in about 10 feet of water near the submerged remains of an old cedar tree. Ken baited up with a small minnow hooked through the eyes and began casting. I tried hurling a spinner with a bucktail trailer, but was having little success getting enough distance to do any good. Finally, I tied on an ounce of lead with a crappie rig above it. On one hook I loaded a small crayfish, and on the other I skewered a small minnow just behind the dorsal fin. The whole works came to rest in about 20 feet of water and I leaned back to enjoy the wind-protected cove.

Ken's doggedness finally paid off as a scrappy one-pound smallmouth rapped the wriggling (Continued on page 62)

Roundup and What to do

DECEMBER presents Nebraskans with a month of wintertime activities, ranging from traditional holiday celebrations and pageants to exciting high-school, college, and professional athletic competition. And, nature surrounds the month's package of fun with crisp, clean air and serene landscapes.

Wrapping her own selection of holiday gifts is NEBRASKAland's December hostess, Susan Schultz. Daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Jack Schultz of Grand Island, Susan is a Junior at Doane College in Crete, where she is majoring in sociology. During her years at Doane, Susan's name has appeared on the Dean's List for scholastic achievement. Susan's favorite pastimes are well suited for this time of year. She lists skiing as her favorite form of outdoor recreation, and her indoor pursuits include sewing and reading.

A host of activities await Susan and other Nebraskans during December. The month gives sportsmen in eastern Nebraska the final 20 days of a duck season that offers some of the best potential in recent years. Duck hunters in the western part of the state may continue their sport throughout the month, and water-fowlers may add geese to their bag until December 15.

Seasons on Nebraska's two most popular species, pheasant and quail, continue throughout the month. Bag and possession limits of 3 and 12 on pheasant and 6 and 16 on quail should give gunners ample leeway for many fine days of sport. Seasons on cottontail and squirrel are also open throughout December, providing the needed variety for a true mixed-bag hunt.

Big-game hunting is also a part of the Nebraska scene through the month as the state's archers continue their pursuit of mule and white-tailed deer through to the season's finale December 31. Those whose tastes dictate indoor entertainment during this chilly month find the December schedule of events to their liking, with myriad activities ready to be staged.

Sports fans may choose from high-school and college basketball, college wrestling, and professional ice hockey for their thrills. The Omaha Knights get info the act December 4, with a date on Ak-Sar-Ben ice against the Tulsa Oilers, while other games with the Oklahoma City Blazers, the Fort Worth Wings, and the Dallas Black Hawks are also on tap.

College athletes provide a share of the month's entertainment. December 1, the University of Nebraska hosts gymnasts from Wyoming, and the rest of its schedule includes competition against San Diego State, Wichita, Southern Methodist University, and San Jose State. In addition, the Big Red hosts its annual tournament, The Husker Classic, 60 squaring off against Baylor, the University of Idaho, and LaSalle College.

Cultural events dot the December calendar. The Omaha Symphony Orchestra performs at the Joslyn Concert Hall December 14 and 15, and several theater groups present performances. These include "Halfway Up the Tree" December 3 through 5 and 9 through 12 by the Lincoln Community Playhouse; "The Little Prince" December 16 through 18, a children's theater production at the University of Nebraska's Howells Theater; and "Ballad of Sad Cafe" at Nebraska Wesleyan University's Enid Miller Theater December 2 through 5.

Most famous of these events is Minden's "Light of the World Christmas Pageant" December 5 and 12. Each year, "The Christmas City" adorns itself with thousands of colored lights and Christ- mas scenes, while its residents re-enact the story of Christmas and sing its songs.

With this colorful holiday-season highlight, as well as the sporting and cultural events, plus hunting seasons on several challenging game species, December in Nebraska offers enough to suit everyone's fancy.

JOURNEY WITH A MISSION

minnow. What a two-pound bucketmouth would have done, that little critter did double. The green metal band he carried in his lip hampered his style little. A fisheries biologist told us later that the fish was probably four years old, and its slow growth rate was something of a mystery.

Ken hooked onto several smaller bass as I hastily switched spools on my reel to permit casting a minnow or smaller spinner.

By the time I was geared for action and snagged a couple of bass, Ken was showing signs of throwing his jinx. A crappie topping the one-pound mark and several smaller, but still respectable ones fell to the minnow combo. Then it stopped. It didn't taper off. It just stopped! We worked a few other coves during the rest of the afternoon and into early evening. Nothing.

By 7:30 p.m. we were back at the dock and despondent to say the least. It was the end of our third day and still no fishing to brag about. We were ready to write the whole thing off to Ken's jinx and adverse weather when we struck up a conversation with Bob Propst.

Bob guides fishermen at Harlan County early in the season — until about June — then moves to McConaughy, working out of Kingsley Lodge. As we stood grumbling about our run of bad luck, we must have triggered a bit of sympathy or at least some resentment against our statements that Mac just isn't all it's stacked up to be. But whatever the reason, we parted, agreeing to meet an hour or so later at Bob's houseboat for a go at some late-night trouting off the face of the dam.

It was iust after dark when we rendezvoused at the dock. Bob filled us in on some of the area's background as we cut water to the Morning Glory, the impoundment's overflow and safety outlet.

"Lights on the overstructure seem to attract shad to the area at night, which in turn draw in trout and catfish. Usually trout fishing here would have tapered off by now, but this year it seems to be holding on," Bob explained. "Earlier, when it's really going well, you have to be tied up at the gates by noon to get a good spot for fishing around midnight."

Only one other boat was tied to the structure as we tossed our ropes over a steel beam and began getting ready.

"To start, we'll rig up with both minnows and worms and cast out about 20 feet," Bob advised as he whipped his worm offering toward the open gate. The worm had barely hit the surface when a swirl of water and an arched rod marked the first action of the evening.

This is just too good to be true, I thought, as Ken netted Bob's two-pound coho salmon. If things held up, we might have a story and Ken wouldn't get roasted too badly back at the office. But the jinx flared up again. It was after midnight and nothing suggested we might get another fish.

We were discouraged by then and dozing a bit, all except Bob, who didn't 62 really expect much action until early morning.

I couldn't take that snail's pace any longer and decided casting a spoon or anything else was better than just sitting there. It was about my fourth cast when the rod doubled and line sang off the reel as a rainbow ran for the spillway. Tailwalking across the water, just like the old cliche says, the trout put up a good battle before submitting to the net a few minutes later. While only a two-pounder, it was a promise of better things to come. That one fish sparked little interest among the other fishermen who wrote it off as a probable fluke, but the second one within a five-minute period dispelled their thoughts. He weighed about 2^2 pounds and triggered a mass rush for Bob's well-stocked tackle box. Everyone looked for anything silver that would twist in the water. Hammered silver spoons, Kastmasters, and spin-o-kings began pelting the dark water like a hailstorm.

What followed was one of those once-in-a-lifetime fishing sprees some anglers are lucky enough to stumble into sometime in their careers. There were three of us flailing everything we had at the water, and for 20 minutes or so there was a trout on its way into the net or down the spillway all the time. It was a mad jumble of swinging rods, slick-sided trout, and excited anglers.

It was 4 a.m. when the action eased. We had 17 rainbow trout ranging in size from I 1/2 to 3 1/2 pounds, plus a 2-pound coho and a 1-pound perch that slipped into the boat sometime during the night. Ken's jinx was a thing of the past and Bob's know-how on McConaughy trout had done the trick.

Ken had rescued the validity of his fishing reports, not to mention his own self-esteem as an angler. Bob had saved his lake from bad publicity, and we had all spent a night to remember for many a fishing season to come.

By six that morning we had dressed our bragging-size stringer offish, gulped down a dozen cups of coffee, and were on our way back to Lincoln. Maybe a stop at some of the Interstate Lakes would be in line. Ken's report had mentioned cat and bass action there just a few days before, but then that would be another chance for his jinx to surface again. Perhaps it was best to rest on the morning's laurels. THE END

STATEMENT OF OWNERSHIP, MANAGEMENT AND CIRCULATION

I certify that the statements made by me above are correct and complete.

GENEALOGICAL FUN

get special recognition because of the tremendous population explosion," Mrs. Small explains.

Take, for example, the population of Clay County. In 1860 it was 54. But only 10 years later, it mushroomed to 11,000.

Another problem was the language barrier. Many immigrants, or first-generation descendants of immigrants who still spoke only their native tongues, failed to recognize the importance of going to the county office to register their arrival.

Aside from the difficulties, the society offers help by publishing information leaflets telling what is on file. These are handy references for the beginner who, by this stage, knows what he is looking for and can tell immediately if he will be able to find it.

For the budding genealogist, research usually reaches the point where he must decide between carrying on during office hours when museums, libraries, and historical societies are open, or handing over what he has started to a professional. This is much easier, but not as rewarding as completing the job himself, NEBRASKAland and for those who do not have time, there are genealogists who work on a freelance basis. In Nebraska, unfortunately, they are few and far between.

But if you are one of the devoted, determined to continue on your own, it becomes a rewarding pastime. It adds to your personal identification with the past, and sometimes uncovers delightful, long-forgotten characters.

Ethel Williams, author of Know Your Ancestors, describes a genealogist as "a full-time detective, a thorough historian, an inveterate snoop but at the same time a confirmed diplomat, a keen observer, a hardened skeptic, an apt biographer, a qualified linguist, a part-time lawyer, a studious sociologist, and above all, an accurate reporter."

This is your challenge when you begin probing your past. THE END

DESTINY OF THE GOOSE

potential contributor to the increase of "ka honks" over Nebraska.

It has been shown on federal waterfowl refuges in neighboring states that Canada geese reproduce in semi-wild conditions, and a small nucleus flock will grow and spread to neighboring areas. Thus, the feasibility of Nebraska's project seems sound, supported by the initial success of the similar project in South Dakota.

Two objectives were foremost in the minds of Nebraska's biologists when proposing the restoration project. The first and most basic goal was the establishment of a nesting flock. The second objective was eventual establishment of recreational goose hunting in the Sand Hills.

Basically, the restoration project involves planting pen-raised goslings in selected areas and protecting these geese until their population can withstand controlled hunting. Goslings, released shortly before they reach flying stage, accept the area as their natal grounds, returning to nest when they reach breeding age. George Schildman, waterfowl biologist in charge of the project, explained the natal homing theory.

"We don't know exactly why birds return to their natal areas to reproduce. Some navigational sense that we are yet unable to perceive must guide them to the site where they first learned to fly. In the case of our Canada geese, we assume that the first place they learn to fly is imprinted on them and they accept this as their natal area. Somehow, learning the terrain and its relation to the stars or other solar bodies gets them back to the area."

During July 1970, the first 104 Canada geese were released on three different Sand Hills lakes. To insure the program's success, a large portion of the Sand Hills was closed to the shooting of dark geese that fall. This area included most of Cherry County and parts of Sheridan, Grant, Hooker, Thomas, Blaine, and Brown counties.

Birds released that first year were taken from the Sacramento game farm near Holdrege, from the Clear Creek DECEMBER 1971 Waterfowl Refuge near Lewellen, and from Cody Park in North Platte. Of the 104 released, all were preflight goslings, except for the 8 adults culled from the flocks because of inferior characteristics.

Though it is still undecided whether these birds are a true subspecies of the giant Canada (Branta canadanesis maxima), or whatever tag you hang on this group of birds, it is exceptionally large and of high quality, a boon to biologist and hunter alike. Besides being exceptionally large-true trophy birds-the race seems especially well adapted to successful reproduction in the more southerly latitudes where others have failed. Schildman explained that this may have accounted for past lack of breeding success at the Valentine and Crescent Lake refuges.

Valentine had geese for years and years but they never really took hold. This discouraged state and federal agencies from attempting goose restoration programs in the Sand Hills. Then, a few years ago, the Valentine refuge got some new stock and the flock began to sustain itself. The new geese, with characteristics resembling the maxima, took hold and began reproducing where for years other birds had not. All of a sudden the whole picture changed.

Schildman is less concerned about the subspecies as a whole than about how the large birds will survive and reproduce in the future.

"It doesn't really matter if the birds are giant Canadas or not, as long as they reproduce. It is a large goose with slow wingbeat, deep voice, long neck, light-colored breast, and long legs. It decoys easily and is a trophy any man would be proud to take. I don't care if you call him maxima or minima. A goose that will reproduce well in the Sand Hills is all we are after."

There are indications that these larger prairie geese were once the species indigenous to the Sand Hills region, and it is a probability that the successful nesting now occurring is a result of the reintroduction of the same type of geese that once nested naturally in the area. Earlier, geese nested successfully at Crescent Lake Wildlife Refuge north of Oshkosh for many years, but excessive hunting mortality prevented significant flock growth.

"About three years ago they produced well, but that was an exception. A puddle only five or six feet across remained open late into the season and the entire flock stayed there until one day before the season closed, then half of the geese flew down to the Platte River. Hunters took 60 percent of them that one day. Geese just cannot tolerate that much pressure. About 30 percent is the maximum mortality these birds can stand. To sustain a growing population, only 25 to 28 percent can be taken. The breeding population must be protected to provide harvest of geese year after year in an area."

During 1971, 185 geese were released in Cherry and Brown counties —19 adults of inferior stock and 166 goslings produced that spring, bringing the two-year total to almost 300 birds.

Nesting by released birds may occur next year. Usually, the first attempts by

three-year-old birds are less successful than those of more experienced birds, and little indication of the project's outcome is expected.

"We have one band recovery documenting a return," Schildman said. In fact, the bird was captured twice, the first time in January during banding operations at a wildlife refuge in Kansas. After being set free, it was captured again in April at the Valentine Wildlife Refuge where it was originally released.

"There is great potential in the Sand Hills. Some 3,000 lakes suitable for goose nesting are there," he continued.

"By closing the season, you take away a small chance of shooting a goose, but in return you offer the opportunity to harvest more geese in the future if the program succeeds.

"The purpose of closing this region is twofold," Schildman explained. "To successfully establish a breeding population of Canada geese, local closure is necessary until the birds are well established. Secondly, it is probable that South Dakota geese will come down into the northern Sand Hills to nest, thus expediting our own program. Because these birds are important to us, too, it is good business to help them during their establishment phase."

Recent decisions by the Game and Parks Commission have stirred local resentment causing considerable unrest among many uninformed goose hunters.

For the second consecutive year, the season on dark geese is closed in that portion of the state from the South Dakota border south on Nebraska Highway 27 to Ellsworth, east on Nebraska Highway 2 to Dunning, northeast on Nebraska Highway 91 to Brewster, north on Nebraska Highway 7 to Ainsworth, northwest on U.S. 20 to Valentine, and north on U.S. 83 to South Dakota. The reasons for this closing are two-fold. One is related to Nebraska's restoration program; the other to South Dakota's project.

"Sure, I realize that this is the first chance for geese some hunters in this area have had, and right away we're taking it away from them. But, these birds coming in from South Dakota are not established and shouldn't be harvested yet. They just can't build up in numbers with excessive cropping now. I suspect that when we complete these restoration programs in the north, we will harvest more birds than now, but these geese must be established first. We closed this area primarily to protect the birds we are releasing. Birds raised in South Dakota coming across the line naturally decrease the number of birds we have to release. They speed establishment and eventual reopening of seasons. We might as well take advantage of it. South Dakota has threatened to discontinue its program if we do not control excessive kill. It is just a matter of giving up a little now for more and better hunting later."

The second regulation set by the Commission concerning other flocks, which sparked immediate controversy, centered on the decision to limit Keith County gunners to one dark goose daily and two in possession after December 1. This period corresponds with migration of Canadas from the north.

Restoration of nesting populations of Canada geese on the various northern federal refuges has met with considerable success in past years. Most of these birds leave their natal area after all available open water has frozen over.

This means large, late-season pushes of hunter-ignorant birds moving south.

"The problem is going to be one of regulating the harvest to a level that will not jeopardize sustained harvests annually," Schildman predicted. "We may have to go to a one-bird-per-day limit instead of two on dark geese, and a strictly regulated season in the Sand Hills until breeding populations are established. This may mean a 10-day season, opening the first of November, with an initial bag limit of one per day."

When all the facts are analyzed, the whole story is similar to the tale about the goose that laid the golden egg.

The fairy tale goes something like this: Some fortunate people owned a goose that laid golden eggs —one every day. They were living quite well, to say the least. But typical of man's nature, one egg a day seemed rather slow. If the goose were cut open, all the golden eggs could be had at once and there would be no need to wait. So they did, but when they were done, they found no golden eggs inside. Their feathery benefactor was no more. Had they been patient and satisfied with one egg a day, they would have been wealthy while the goose lived, but once the goose was gone, the eggs came no more. THE END

HEP FOR BEAVER

murmured something about "next time", and moved on.

Along with a few muskrats and an occasional raccoon, Hap sometimes finds a snapping turtle, a mink, or even a coyote.

"I don't mind it at all when I find a turtle —turtle soup is delicious. The beaver itself, for that matter, makes a fine meal. You take the steaks from the hind quarter. They're better than beef. Some people ask how I can stand eating beaver, and I ask right back if they like pork. A beaver is a lot cleaner than a pig, is careful about what it eats, and always sticks to moving water, so the meat is delicious. We eat it barbecued two or three times a year."

Hap does not, however, do his own skinning. "It's difficult and I don't have the knack or the time. It takes a good knife —one that will hold an edge. You see, the hair on a beaver's back grows right down into the meat, and that's hard on any blade. Anyway, I think the fur buyer would just as soon do it himself." There were interruptions during the day — a flat tire, for example, in the early afternoon. Hap was unconcerned.

"Have to expect it when you drive through beaver country. Those stakes they leave are sharp as nails." But, for the most part, we continued, driving through fields that were bumpy or muddy or both, hiking through trees and brush alongside streams, stepping over logs or around stumps, wading and sliding along the water's edges, each time expecting the next trap to hold the big one.

It was 3 p.m. when we found success. Crossing a swift stream along a beaver dam, Hap pointed to where a rivulet joined the one we were following. "This is going to be it, I think. I put a kill trap in there a few days ago."

His optimism was justified this time. "This one's a good 80 pounds," he said. Freeing the carcass, Hap hefted it up the slippery bank, then struggled across the uneven ground toward the truck. He was happy about his catch, but not really elated. He took success in stride. "It's a fine animal, but it has been busy around here for quite a while, so the farmer will not be sorry to lose him."

There was another beaver later in the day, smaller, but still a blanket—not a bad day's work for a beaver trapper. Does Hap get discouraged when he does have a bad day?

"I've never had one. Every day is good as long as I've got my health," he said, pouring coffee from the thermos. "The world looks good when you run your traps."

He looked through the cab's window. "If there are beaver out there, I'm happy about it. If not, it doesn't bother me. I still go home happy. Next day will be different. Same with shooting ducks. If a flock comes over, I'm tickled to see them, but if we don't see a duck all day, I've still had a good time."

"Hap" is short for "Happy". It's a nickname Clarence Sanders has carried for years, and it fits. THE END

Outdoor Elsewhere

No More Hunting. A certain tall and lanky basketball player has given up hunting for good, so he says. It all happened last season, when the basketball superstar was hunting in Kentucky. A stranger, shooting past him, blew the boy's hat off. "It didn't bother me," the athlete recalls, "until I suddenly remembered that the only head I own was the one under the hat." So, before you shoot, be positive of your target.— Kentucky

Crop Rotation. A Pennsylvania farmer got sizzling mad last season when he discovered that deer were eating his winter wheat. So, the irate fellow covered his field with manure to keep the deer away. The next night, he turned on a floodlight to see how his deer repellent was working. Then, he went into orbit. The deer were eating his yard shrubbery.— Pennsylvania

The Last Straw. You've heard of the straw that broke the camel's back, but how about this one? A Florida fishing boat captain stepped up to accept the hard-luck trophy awarded his team in the Bahamas Tuna Tournament. Then, as if to prove why his team deserved the trophy, the captain dropped the trophy during the acceptance ceremony. — Florida

Every Litter Bit Hurts! Pest exterminators can take care of just about every type of pest or bug, with the exception of one —the litterbug. Ever since prehistoric man started throwing dinner bones on the ground outside his cave, human beings have been faced with the problem of litter and refuse. Now, New York City alone collects enough refuse each day to fill a seven-mile-long train. And, by the year 2000, San Francisco will throw away enough litter to cover a 50-square-mile area to a depth of 20 feet. It's frightening to say the least. So, remember every litter bit hurts! — Washington, D.C.

Bear Facts. A Pennsylvania couple were out picking huckleberries, and the wife asked her husband if there were any bears around. About that time a shaggy brown head peered over the top of the bush at her. Frantic screams brought hubby on the run, and the frightened bear scrambled off into the brush. No one knows for sure though who was more scared —momma or the bear. —Pennsylvania

Collector's Items. Con artists and swindlers date back as long as mankind, each cheating and conniving to get something for free. And, sportsmen haven't been immune to the thought line of a con artist. For a case in point, four Indiana hunters were relieved of their shotguns recently by a fast talker. The fellow ran up to their doors and asked to borrow a gun to kill a rabid fox he'd seen down the road. You're right, there was no fox and the fellow forgot to return the guns. —Indiana

Chuckling Station. At a deer-checking station in New York, a game biologist was measuring the diameter of the antlers of a small spike-horn buck. The hunter, assuming the biologist was concerned with the legality of the animal because regulations require that the antler be three inches or more long, tapped the biologist on the shoulder and said, "You're measuring it the wrong way, Bud."— New York

Anchors Away. A Wisconsin conservation officer was checking his first boatload of fishermen for the day, and discovered that one of the anglers didn't have a fishing license. When the officer finished writing out the ticket, he turned around to find a surprising sight. At least a dozen other boats that had been on the lake when he arrived, had all mysteriously disappeared. - Wisconsin

Expensive Buck. Venison is often thought of as a delicacy, but seldom is it as expensive as for a California rancher, who figures it's worth about $6 a pound. A 170-pound buck crashed through his glass front door recently. The excited buck gored the rancher twice during a running battle through the hallway and two bedrooms. The foray finally ended when the rancher was able to get to a gun and shoot the buck. Boys at a local youth camp dined on the deer, which accounted for about $1,000 damage to the rancher's home, not mentioning the rancher's body wounds.-California