For the Record... TIME TO ACT

Citizens again have the opportunity to let their views be known as the Unicameral convenes this month. Several bills pending before the Legislature have the endorsement of the Game and Parks Commission and merit passage.

With the current concern about the state of our environment, Senators George Syas and William Hasebroock introduced LB 247 during the last session. It provides for a vote of the people to amend the state constitution, thus directing the Legislature to enact necessary legislation to guarantee a wholesome environment. Senators Syas and Hasebroock also joined Senator Ramey Whitney on LB 123 for a constitutional amendment to insure a citizen's right to bear arms.

Another bill dealing with the environment, LB 439, would require the licensing of custom applicators of pesticides and fungicides. Applicators would also have to take an examination to determine their qualifications before a license is issued. Since it is becoming apparent that the federal government will step into this field if the states do not act, it behooves Nebraska to initiate a program that provides for the needs of our state before federal legislation is forced upon us.

The Nebraska Game and Parks Commission has consistently supported legislation which is geared for the preservation of wildlife, and wholeheartedly endorses LB 619. This bill provides for the control of prairie dogs where necessary, but it also repeals previous harsh legislation calling for the extermination of these colorful creatures. Prairie dogs are part of our Western heritage and deserve some protection. In fact, their disappearance from large portions of their range prompted the U.S. Department of the Interior to place them, for a time, on its list of rare and endangered species.

Some extremely important measures are contained in LB 777. 1 he act updates the law dealing with the regulatory powers of the Game and Parks Commission as they relate to game and fish, lowers the age to hunt deer to 14 provided the youth is accompanied by a permit-holding adult, limits antelope permits during the initial application period to those who did not have a license the previous season, expands the Commission s powers to open or close a season in an emergency, and raised the cost of a nonresident annual fishing permit to $10.

Finally LB 864, like its predecessors, will again stir considerable debate. This is the "dove bill." In effect, this legislation would remove the mourning dove from the protected list thus allowing hunting seasons to be set. Amendments to LB 864 would provide a $5 dove stamp for hunters. This provision however, should receive a long, hard look, as it may weaken the intent.

These are a few of the bills which the 1972 Unicameral will consider this session. The Game and Parks Commission is working for their passage, but you, too, can help. A letter to your state senator might make the difference between failure or new law.

HABITAT CONSISTS OF: Cover, Food, Water, and Living Space, which are provided by Sunlight, Soil, Rainfall, and Plants. NATURE did a fine job of providing HABITAT until man began needing room for "improvements," such as Homes, Factories, Highways, Cities, Golf Courses, Airports, Pastures, and Crop Fields.

WHAT CAN YOU DO? Join forces with your buddies or act on your own, but do it now. The cover you save today will be more important than what you build next year.

Unless the cry is raised to stop it, thousands of acres of cover, roadsides for example, will be burned, sprayed, or mowed this year. Much of this destruction serves no real purpose.

You can also help a farmer return some land to permanent cover. You can speak up in favor of programs to retire unneeded agricultural land, like the soil bank program.

Speak Up

NEBRASKAland invites all readers to submit their comments, suggestions, and gripes to SPEAK UP. Each month the magazine will publish as many letters as space permits. Pictures are welcome. NEBRASKAland reserves the right to edit and condense letters.-Editor.

BEAUTIFUL LAKE-"Thank you for the beautiful picture of Cottonwood Lake in the November issue of NEBRASKAland. We lived in Merriman from 1912 to 1926. Then, in 1919, we moved up to a Kinkaid claim 3 1/2 miles north of town.

Through the years, fishing was good in Cottonwood Lake. One year was the exception, though. An early freeze came and a heavy snow carpeted the lake. No one cut a hole through the ice and the fish smothered. That spring dead fish lined the banks of Cottonwood Lake. The lake was restocked, but there was no more good fishing for a couple of years or more. When it improved, we caught bass, crappie, and bullhead. We sorted the bass for size and salted down the larger ones for use in winter." —Mrs. J. M. Dart, Concord, California.

DIRTY WORDS-"Concerning Mr. Barbee's column entitled 'Why Hunt' (For the Record, September 1971), he used the words 'instant ecologists and protectionists' as though they were dirty words. If it were not for these so-called instant ecologists and protectionists, environmental protection would not be an issue today, Mr. Barbee would not have written his column, and his conscience would not have been aroused." —Kurt Ellison, Modesto, California.

WILD RIVER-"Recently John Grace and I took a canoe trip on the wild portion of the Missouri River between Yankton, South Dakota, and Sioux City, Iowa. Our trip lasted 2xh days and was a real pleasure. At least it was until we reached the congestion of speedboats from Ponca to Sioux City. We were also disappointed to see that many junked cars are still used to 'stabilize' the river banks — especially on the South Dakota side.-Tom Fitzsimmons, Omaha.

OOPS-"In 1904-05,1 was a cadet at the now-defunct Kearney Military Academy. My ambition was to be a bugler, but since the school had four very competent buglers who alternated their duties, there was no chance for me to be appointed. However, I did have an opportunity to perform one day when all four were off.

"I asked T. H. Elson, commandant of cadets, if I could play the calls the following day. He readily granted permission, and I was in seventh heaven. I had no alarm clock, but felt sure I would awake in time.

"Next morning, I looked at my watch and discovered it was just five minutes until reveille. Throwing on my clothes, I paraded up and down the halls of the dormitory and felt that never before had reveille sounded so beautiful. Then I proceeded to the main building, ready to shatter the morning air with my rendition of reveille again.

"To my surprise, a window raised in Old Main and the Head Master himself called out, 'Bugler, what time is it?'

"I replied, 'Why, it's a little past seven, sir.

"'You had better look again, bugler, then go behind the barn and kick yourself,' he said.

"To my chagrin, I then noticed that it was only a few minutes past six, and I had let loose with reveille a full hour ahead of time. I never lived down my blunder as long as I was at the academy." - Julius Festner, Phoenix, Arizona.

PICKLED-"We followed the directions published in one of your fish-pickling recipes exactly, but the bones did not soften. We used a six-pound carp —not scored - and vinegar bought in Nebraska City. We want to try again, so we would appreciate knowing where we went wrong."-C. E. Mincer, Hamburg, Iowa.

There were not enough details in the letter to pinpoint the problem. However, we imagine that the fish was not left to cure long enough. Like pickles, carp must remain in the brine for some time if it is to turn out. — Editor.

YOUNGTIMER- "I have read many letters in NEBRASKAland relating to early settlers. I sometimes think a person shouldn't write of his early days until he is old enough to have something to tell. Since I am only 75 years old, I will not dwell upon my experiences other than to say(Continued on page 12)

Cover: The Niobrara, one of the most picturesque rivers in Nebraska, wends its lazy way through the McKelvie National Forest at Nenzel. A bobwhite quail descends into brush on page 7. Both photos were taken by NEBRASKAland's Lou Ell.

BLITZ BLIZZARD

A hunter recalls unusual and unexpected visit to farm on first anniversary of storm

I WILL NEVER forget it. That blizzard during the New Year's Day weekend last year was the worst I have ever experienced. It was bad enough for people snowed in at home, but Gene Modugno, my hunting partner, and I were caught afield.

After pheasant or quail, we arrived at Pawnee Lake, four miles northwest of Emerald, Sunday at 7 a.m. There were already 2 inches of snow on the ground and the wind was whipping to 15 miles per hour. A pheasant burst out of a draw less than five yards from the car just as we got out, so we expected a good hunt. Weather forecasts had predicted no more than four inches of snow.

We started hunting north across a field. The snow cover made walking tricky and I stumbled over a hidden rock, sending 4 quail into the crisp, 23-degree air. They darted away before I regained my balance, and Gene was 200 yards west, too far away for a shot, but the small covey promised better things to come.

Wind velocity increased. We had been out only an hour, but during that time the gusts grew stronger, hitting 30, maybe 35 miles per hour. Reaching the end of the field, we worked our way back along a fencerow, hoping to flush a pheasant or two from under the cedars. No luck.

Crossing the section road, we continued south past Pawnee Lake's dam, disregarding the weather for the moment in our eagerness for success. Little did we realize that the wind was growing ever stronger, pushing us farther from the car.

Visibility dropped to an eighth of a mile. We suddenly realized our hunt was finished and turned back, upwind, toward the car. Coming to an abandoned shack near the dam, we rested for about 10 minutes on the leeward side, reaching the car half an hour later to find the motor packed with wind-driven snow. It wouldn't start. Wires must have shorted and the battery died with a forlorn groan.

The wind howled ferociously. We knew we must find shelter. Bracing ourselves for the worst and hoping for the best, we bailed out of the car and headed east along the section road. The biting wind cut right through our heavy jackets. Gene had no headgear, so I gave him my wool cap, pulling the hood of my ski parka over my head. My legs were numb and Gene complained of the sting from wind-blown snow on his face.

Covering about a quarter of a mile, we came to a ranch house that suddenly appeared from nowhere in the blinding, fast-drifting snow. What a relief! Marlene MacDonald welcomed us when we knocked on the door, asking what in the world we were doing outside. Severe storm warnings were being broadcast on radio, she said. We borrowed her car, drove the short distance to ours, and tried to start it with jumper cables from her battery, but it was dead.

It was getting to be dangerous outdoors, with winds gusting to 50 miles per hour. We realized that we were stranded and drove back to the MacDonald home. Telephone calls for emergency towing service proved fruitless.

I called my wife, Genny, in Lincoln, and told her of our predicament, and she was glad to hear that Gene and I were indoors and said that she and Ricky, our two-year-old son, were O.K.

But Gene's wife, Kay, was worried. Little Katie, their two-year-old daughter, had developed a cough and there was no way to get to the doctor's office. Fortunately Gene's mother was visiting. A registered nurse, she offered advice. The best thing Gene could do was tell Kay to call the family doctor and follow his instructions until after the storm passed.

There was nothing to do but wait. We couldn't move and the storm was getting worse. By mid-afternoon it NEBRASKAland became national news. Cars were ordered off all roads and motorists were advised to find shelter. The wind was blowing well over 50 miles per hour and more than 10 inches of snow had fallen. The temperature dropped steadily.

Our hostess was very kind and told us to make ourselves comfortable and stay until it was safe to go out again. Her husband, Larry, was stranded in downtown Lincoln only 10 miles away. The Dallas-San Francisco game was on television, so we watched the Cowboys take the National Football Conference title from the 49'ers, 17 to 10.

The world closed in when darkness came. There was nothing for Marlene to do but put us up for the night. The wind raced across the prairie until dawn, shaking the house continuously, and freezing the outdoors to a sub-zero chill.

Monday morning a neighboring farmer arrived with a blade-equipped tractor, opened the road to our car, and towed it to Emerald, leaving us there at noon. With no chance of getting the car serviced, we left it and hitched a ride to downtown Lincoln in a pickup after snowplows cleared one lane along the 6V2 miles of West O Street. It was 3 p.m. when we arrived. Traffic was at a standstill except on a few main arteries that had been cleared. Taxis and buses were inoperable.

Gene called home. His 65-year-old mother offered to try to make it downtown to pick us up —she's a spunky one —and by 4 p.m. she was there. She dropped me off two blocks from my house. I finally reached home by 5 p.m. The wind had died, and the only sounds in the ghost white city came from distant snowplows snarling their way through six-foot drifts.

My neighbors, of course, had talked with Genny and knew of my unexpected overnight stay at the ranch. They greeted me with questions and what they thought to be very funny remarks (I guess they were funny) about winter vacationing at Emerald, as they shoveled snow from their sidewalks and driveways.

Traffic began moving Tuesday morning, so Gene took me to Emerald to get my car, which started right up after a bit of defrosting. We got back to Lincoln none the worse for wear but much wiser in the ways of prairie storms. Both of us were raised in the North and are accustomed to driving in deep snow, but certainly not used to such wind. Next time we'll know better, even if the weatherman predicts only four inches of snow.THE END

HOW TO: COOK WITH A THERMOS

Supper from a jug can be a mighty intoxicating experience, especially after long day afield

DON NORTON set his bow in the corner of the pickup camper and shrugged off his camouflage jacket. "Tonight," he announced, "you get your supper out of a jug."

Tired and chilled, despite a beautiful, two-inch tracking snow that lay over the Pine Ridge, we had returned to camp empty handed after a day of deer hunting and I was in no mood to argue. "Suits me," I replied, jerking at a bootlace. "Go easy on the mix."

"That's not what I mean," Don countered, unscrewing the caps of a gallon-size, insulated jug and a quart-size vacuum bottle sitting on the fold-down table. "You need solid food."

"I'm ready for that, too," I grumbled, "What's with this jugbit?"

"The jug cooked the rabbit stew, and the vacuum bottle cooked dried fruit for dessert while we were ridge running," Don smirked. "Hasn't an old camper like you ever heard of cooking in a vacuum bottle?"

Up to that point I hadn't, but it was three bowls of stew later before I got around to asking the question: "How?"

"It's an adaptation of the old fireless cooker principle," he explained.

"Fresh food brought to a rolling boil on the stove, slapped into the jug fast, and capped quickly, continues to cook in the trapped heat. High-quality jugs work best because they retain the heat much longer than cheapies covered with only a thin layer of styrofoam. My cooking jug has an enameled liner, three quarters of an inch of firm foam insulation, and a metal jacket. It loses very little he^t in 6 hours, and remains steaming hot for 24."

"Isn't your phrase 'cooking in a vacuum bottle' a little loose then?" I asked. "What you've used is just a well insulated jug."

"Perhaps," he conceded. "Actually, when one wants smaller quantities of food, conventional wide-mouthed vacuum bottles should be used. Of course, the container should be completely filled so that no air space remains to bleed off the heat."

"What's the advantage, really?" I frowned. "Wouldn't it be simpler to open a can of beans and heat them?"

"Don't forget, rabbit stew doesn't come in cans," he said. "Fresh meat and vegetables always taste better than canned stuff. Just because we are camping doesn't mean we have to give up good food. Then, too, think of all the cooking fuel a camper can save by using the jugs. Take that stew for instance. In top-of-the-stove cookery, it would have to simmer for two or three hours. With the jug, it is simply brought to the first rolling boil. Then the stove can be shut off. We can hunt or fish without having to worry about the food being overdone, the pot cooking dry, or a fire breaking out. And, we have a hot meal ready for us the minute we get back."

Don shoved a knife and a small chunkof smoked ham across the 10 NEBRASKAland table toward me. "Cut this into half-inch-square pieces," he instructed. "We'll have jug-cooked ham and beans tomorrow night."

"Why the small pieces?" I asked.

"They need to be small to reach cooking temperature by the time the water boils. Both meat and vegetables should be diced for jug cookery. If the interior of the chunks are not up to boiling temperature, which they would not be if they were too thick, they simply keep absorbing heat after being transferred to the jug. That lowers the overall temperature below cooking level, and you end up with a raw dinner."

He emptied a cup of dry navy beans into a pan, added the diced ham, some ketchup, seasoning, and water to cover, and set it on the little stove. He filled the jug with hot water and capped it.

"The hot water heats the jug liner," he said, "so that no heat is bled from the food to be cooked."

"It's easy to see that jug cookery is limited to food that is boiled. What foods lend themselves to it best?" I asked.

"There's little limit," he answered. "Macaroni and noodle mixes are a cinch. Cooked breakfast cereals, rice and potato dishes, dried fruits, and the like are all candidates. Most of these absorb a lot of water, and may need a little room for expansion within the jug or bottle. Only experience enables you to judge the amount of space needed. I experiment with various foods at home to determine this, and of course another trick is to learn just how much water to use with each type of food so the proper consistency is achieved in the cooked product. In jug cookery, no water evaporates as it does from an open kettle, so this must be taken into consideration. Dried fruit, for example, must fill only half of the vacuum bottle, with water to the top. While cooking, the fruit absorbs the water and expands to fill the container. Stew, on the other hand, expands very little and needs no headroom. In fact, stew should be covered with as little water as possible to prevent it from turning into thick soup. At the outset, I always add what thickening agents are needed for body."

The beans and ham on the stove broke into a vigorous boil. Don dumped the hot water from the jug, quickly poured in the food and its liquid, and capped the jug. The whole transfer took less than 10 seconds.

"Those are the basics of jug cookery," he concluded. "Now, while tomorrow evening's meal cooks, let's talk about tomorrow morning and where to look for that five-point buck." THE END

SPEAK UP

that I was born in a dugout on a homestead southwest of McCook.

"When I was 4, my Dad built a covered wagon and we traveled to North Platte, better than 100 miles by trail road. We more or less camped on the outskirts while Dad built a sod house on a lot he bought nearby. Times became very hard and he was out of work most of the time. Knowing Bill Cody, he got a job on the ranch in 1902. I was six and walked to the North Side school from the Buffalo Bill Ranch when I was in the first grade." —A. J. Stenner, Powell, Wyoming.

HERE'S HOW —"I am enclosing an article on how Nebraska City got its name. I hope you can use it in NEBRASKAland. — Eugene E. Lutz, North Bend.

How Nebraska Got Its Name It was many moon ago, and I was a small boy in a far-off country on the blue Mediterranean. One day as I lay on the beach watching the surf break on the shore, an old man came along, crying, "I need 20 men to go new world with me." Pretty soon 20 men came. Old man say to men, "Get axes and go to forest and cut down many trees to make big raft with mast for sail on it so we can go to new world.

Men say, we do.

Then old man goes to bank (he owns bank, is very rich) and says to man in bank, "Get me big sack of mullah to buy much land from Indians in new world." Then old man goes to grocery store and buys barrel of caviar, six bottles of wine, and many sandwiches, so will not get hungry.

Raft is all done. Men say to old man to get young woman for cook—is long voyage to new world. He do.

Old man say to me, "Boy, you be our cabin boy."

I say, I do.

Men load up barrel of caviar, six bottles of wine, and many sandwiches on raft. Old man, young woman who is cook, and me, who is cabin boy, and all men get on raft. East wind blows strong on blue Mediterranean, raft goes fast. Pretty soon see big mountain by sea. Old man say is Rock of Gibraltar. Pretty soon come to big ocean. Wind blows stronger, raft goes very fast. Pretty soon come to new world. See sign on beach—say is Miami, but see no hotels, only fat man on beach. Fat man say name is Jackie. Old man say he makes funny talk.

Old man say, keep going, soon get to smaller ocean. Men do. Old man say to men, look for big river. Men say, O.K., we do. Pretty soon men find big river. Old man say, take a right so we get on big river. Men do. But young woman, who is cook, says is afraid of big river. Old man say to men, look for smaller river. Men say, O.K., we do. Pretty soon men find smaller river. Old man say to men, take a left, so we get on smaller river. Men do. But old man don't like smaller river, is very muddy. Say to men, look for clean river. Men say, O.K., we do. Pretty soon men find clean river. Old man say, take left, so we get on clean river. Men do. Men take big drink, but water is very shallow. Pretty soon raft get stuck on sandbar. Old man say to men, carry six bottles of wine, barrel of Caviar, and many sandwiches to land. Men do. Old man say to me, cabin boy, take mullah to land. I say, I do. But young woman is afraid she get miniskirt wet. She say to old man, carry me. He do same.

Then old man say to men, build igloos, maybe bad winter is coming. Men do. Then old man say to men, plant potatoes for food. Men do. Old man likes French fries. One morning Jackie (that is young woman's name) is digging potatoes for dinner. Pretty soon see many, many Indians coming. She runs to old man's igloo. Ari (that is old man's name) she cries, many, many Indians coming, better hide mullah, and bring Tommy gun, maybe Indians scalp us—is very painful, then will have to wear wig. He do right away.

Indians stop, say "how" to Jackie. Jackie say, I don't know you fellers. Big Indian on spotted horse say, me is Chief Sitting Bull. Jackie say, who is Indian on yellow horse. Chief Sitting Bull say, is Chief Rain-in-the-Face. Then Jackie say, who is man with Stetson hat and white beard on big white horse. Chief Sitting Bull say, is Buffalo Bill, is Indian trail boss. Indians get lost without him, is very good man.

Ari comes out of igloo, say to Chief Sitting Bull, what you Indians want. Chief Sitting Bull say, see sign, say is Paradise. Indians don't like name, say should be Nebraska. Ari say, we vote. Buffalo Bill counts votes, but many, many Indians. Indians win. Chief Sitting Bull pull up sign, say Paradise, and put up big sign, say Nebraska.

That's how Nebraska get name. For me, will always be Paradise.

JOURNAL —"I have recently come into possession of a journal of a trip to California's gold fields via the Oregon Trail. The journal is by a group from Ray County, Missouri, who started from home on April 16, 1850.

"The party was composed of 15 men, wagons, and oxen, though others joined this train as it moved west. They traveled up the Missouri River to Iowa Point, and then westward through Fort Kearny and on to Fort Laramie. Approximately 50 miles west of that point, the journal becomes illegible." —Lester L. Joy, Stafford, Kansas.

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THE SKY IS HIS HOME

When not in the confines of his office, this Lincoln dentist can probably be found drilling holes somewhere in the air

MAN HAS come a long way since the day he stood atop a cliff, wistfully watching birds soar overhead and wishing there were some way to free his featherless frame from terra firma.

Nowadays, children seem surprised when they learn that man had so much trouble in those struggling, early years. In this age of supersonic jets and journeys through space, those puny efforts, when a man leaped off a cliff with a pair of wings strapped to his arms, seem almost unreal. But now, even the birds stare in disbelief as they watch man perform fantastic maneuvers in their domain.

One of those who specializes in such aerial gyrations is Dr. Charles Carothers, a Lincoln dentist. After a stint in military service, Dr. Carothers

found he didn't want to be totally earthbound, even after returning to civilian life, and there was little enjoyment in merely flying a light aircraft from one place to another. As a result, he eventually became interested in aerobatics, the performance of spectacular airborne acrobatics.

Now, using the third airplane he has bought for this purpose, Dr. Carothers is convinced he owns the best. Although small, the craft has amazing capabilities. It is a Pitt biwing, barely 15 feet long, with a 17-foot wingspan. At first glance, the bright red plane, with white stripes on the wings and along its fuselage, appears to be a novelty.

That impression doesn't last long, though, when seeing it perform. For precision flying, the diminutive one-seater really shines. It goes through snap rolls as quick as the snap of a finger and withstands stresses that would rip the wings and tail from inferior craft. The pilot, of course, must also withstand these stresses while putting the plane through its paces.

The image of a stunt pilot is that of a loud-talking, swaggering, scarf-swinging, devil-may-care rascal with dark, wavy hair and an Errol Flynn moustache. Dr. Carothers is different. He is tall and thin, speaks softly, is cleanshaven, and doesn't even wear a scarf.

"I want to stress that I am not a stunt pilot," he insists. "Basically, I perform specific aerobatic maneuvers or routines. It's precision flying at safe altitudes. Stunt flying includes dangerous, even foolhardy tricks, and I consider it stupid. Pilots who do that sort of thing don't live long, which speaks for itself, I think."

Many people consider all flying dangerous. Any time you can't step out and walk when the engine quits is dangerous, they say. Professional flyers, however, insist that flying is safer than driving a car. They claim that a light plane can land safely on almost any terrain in case the motor dies. Dr. Carothers is one of (Continued on page 54)

Paper Chief

A half-breed never adopted by tribe, Logan Fontenelle still ruled behind the scenes

HE DIED too soon. Logan Fontenelle may have gone on to greater things, but his colorful, 30-year life was snuffed out in 1855. Half Omaha and half French, he was killed by warring Dakota Sioux, archenemies of the Omaha, while hunting in what is today northeastern Nebraska.

During the past century, history has treated Logan unfairly, calling him chief of the Omaha, a position he never held in the eyes of his mother's people. He was one of their leaders, true, but in order to be a chief, he would have had to be the descendant of an Omaha chief, or would have had to be a formally adopted heir. Logan missed out on both counts.

While the chief's title attributed to him is a misnomer, the title United States Interpreter is correct in all its implications, but this position is probably what led those who knew him well to call him chief after his death. While the image of this half-breed has been obscured so as to elevate him to a higher position than he actually held, there is no doubt he was an extremely influential person within the nation even to the point of being a de facto ruler of the Omaha after the 1846 death of Chief Big Elk, his maternal grandfather.

Son of Lucien Fontenelle, a French fur trader, and Meumbane, Chief Big Elk's daughter, Logan was born with a dual heritage. His grandparents were French. Members of high society in Marseilles, they left Europe after the French Revolution, arriving in New Orleans in 1800.

Living with relatives at first, they soon established a plantation near the city and became part of French society in the New World, living comfortably in the aura of New Orleans aristocracy at its height. Logan's father was born into this environment in 1803, the year Louisiana Territory became United States land through the Louisiana Purchase ratified by Napoleon Bonaparte, emperor of France, and United States President Thomas Jefferson. Then tragedy struck. The Fontenelle plantation was wiped out by a hurricane which took the lives of both grandparents. Young Lucien, however, and a baby sister were visiting an aunt in New Orleans at the time. This aunt was left with the responsibility of raising the two children. She must have been a dictatorial woman, one Lucien disliked, because at 16 years of age he ran away, leaving New Orleans for good. Accounts say he argued with her one day, got his face slapped, and decided to leave.

Working his way up the Mississippi and Missouri rivers on paddle wheel steamboats, he arrived at Fort Atkinson, an early military post 16 miles north of present-day Omaha, and soon discovered the value of fur. It didn't take long until he became a shrewd and highly successful trader between Fort Atkinson and St. Louis.

In 1823 an Indian agency was established at Bellevue, and the Omaha moved downriver to get farther away from northern, Dakota-dominated territory. Lucien mixed with them and two years later took Meumbane as his wife, thus bringing together under one roof two widely opposed life styles and setting the stage for Logan's birth in 1825.

The 1,500-strong Omaha were peace-loving, their warriors preferring to fight only in self-defense. Big Elk was a diplomatic chief, wise in Omaha tradition, but increasingly aware of the fact that his people must contend with the white man's influence. When Meumbane gave birth to his half-breed grandson, he envisioned the infant as a future mediator who would help the Omaha through their transition from outdoor, prairie existence to civilized life, and taught Logan accordingly.

Meumbane was intelligent and fond of her husband, but never forgot her Indian origin. Although she agreed to live in Lucien's house rather than in a tepee, she favored her people, (Continued on page 54)

CONFLICT

Change for profit's sake or stability for survival's sake. These are issues over which factions are divided and the battle lines drawn

Preservation vs. Development The Environment vs. The Economy

EVEN THOUGH NEBRASKA lies in the heart of the United States, for the most part it has been on the fringes of environmental conflicts raging through the nation.

Today, however, the state faces three environmental issues which have become the object of considerable contention. They are popularly known as: 1. The Mid-State Reclamation Project; 2. The O'Neill Unit or Norden Dam, and 3. The Missouri River Channelization Project.

Although these projects are located in different parts of the state, they share common features. Each calls for alteration of a Nebraska waterway — the Platte, Niobrara, and Missouri rivers. The primary purposes of all three programs are basically the same—to benefit the state's agricultural community through irrigation and bank stabilization.

The three projects share the notoriety of controversy as each faces opposition from environmental groups which generally urge that the rivers and adjacent areas be left alone.

Only a few years ago, propositions such as these may have proceeded unopposed. But the words progress, change, and development no longer have the magical power to sway the public toward acceptance of environment-disturbing proposals. No longer are the pronouncements of federal and state agencies or industry-sponsored experts accepted without debate.

But the questions which these issues raise are not easily answered. Often, the facts which both sides espouse conflict with each other and with reality. Occasionally, emotion takes precedence over accuracy. Both factions feel they are absolutely right, with little thought given to opposing arguments.

Certainly these proposed projects are serious enough to deserve the careful study of everyone in the state. All three call for decisions—decisions which involve large amounts of money; decisions which may affect the lives and livelihoods of many citizens, and decisions which, once made, may be irrevocable.

Known officially as the Mid-State Division of the Missouri River Basin Project, the Mid-State Reclamation Project has been on the drawing boards for about 30 years now. As in other irrigation works in the state, it would consist of a diversion dam, storage reservoirs, and a system of canals. Located near Lexington, the dam would divert a large portion of the Platte River's waters into reservoirs from which it would be made available for irrigation.

In 1967, Congress passed the authorizing bill. Advanced planning has not been completed, however, and funds have not been appropriated for construction. At 1967 prices, the estimated cost exceeded one hundred million dollars.

According to promoters, including the Nebraska Mid-State Reclamation District, the benefits would include the capability for irrigating 140,000 Platte Valley acres, some of the nation's finest agricultural land. It is also believed the plan would help stabilize the water table which, in some areas, has reportedly declined from 5 to 20 feet. Thus, the project would offer opportunities for increased crop yields on   newly irrigated lands, and theoretically insure that yields will not decrease on acres where the water table is dropping. Proposed works would also bring flood protection and recreational benefits similar to those now offered by other Platte Valley lakes.

It is difficult, especially in Nebraska, to argue with any proposal which might improve the lot of the state's farmers. However, it is obvious that not everyone involved sees the project as a needed improvement, since a group which claims to represent the majority of the concerned farmers, Mid-State Irrigators, Incorporated, opposes the project. The argument has also been presented by project opponents, such as the National Audubon Society, that it seems inconsistent to spend millions of dollars to increase productive areas when the government continues to pay farmers to keep thousands of others idle.

Yet primary opposition does not concern agricultural or economic aspects of the project. Rather, it is what will or could happen to the Platte River and its associated wildlife habitat and recreation resources that bothers the majority of those who would like to see the scheme discontinued.

The portion of the Platte which would be affected, from 50 miles east of Lexington to perhaps the entire river, is a special part of Nebraska. The wide, shallow, multi-channeled river is a unique natural area of islands, sandbars, woods, and wetlands. Though the Platte is subject to natural fluctuations, it is feared that diverting its waters would leave it essentially dry for extensive periods throughout the year. The bars would grow up in willows and cottonwoods and thus reduce the channel's capacity to pass flood flows. This would so drastically alter the environment that it could seriously jeopardize the many forms of wildlife which depend on the river and its adjacent habitat.

Every year, more than 200,000 sandhill cranes, a wildlife resource of international significance, use this portion of the Platte Valley as a staging area in their migrations. If the Platte River were dry or greatly changed, the cranes might not stop, and Nebraska would lose wildlife assets which cannot be measured in dollars.

The area is home, temporary or permanent, for many other kinds of wildlife, according to the Wildlife Management Institute. Large numbers of ducks and geese use the shallow waters. Shorebirds and songbirds, deer and beaver, and a host of other species could suffer if the river were changed.

To the north, another controversy has taken shape. The O'Neill Unit, sometimes referred to as Norden Dam, is another Bureau of Reclamation-administered plan which brings up the same sort of conflict, with irrigation boosters on one side and defenders of the natural environment on the other.

The project calls for a dam near the town of Norden which would back up the Niobrara River, forming a reservoir 19 miles long. The pre-authorization plan for the O'Neill Unit, part of the Missouri River Basin Project, has been essentially(Continued on page 63)

The eye does not always see what the camera captures. Odd things sometimes happen when creatures are involved

Critter Capers

LOOK AT A spectacular wildlife photograph—the owl, wings outstretched and talons set, about to seize upon an unsuspecting mouse. Or, note the regal pheasant bursting from brush cover, head erect and wings straining for the sky. Such subjects, it would seem, can be portrayed in no way mother than as sculptured, elegant, and breath-taking poles. No way, that is, until you try to take such pictures.

What the camera captures is seldom what the eye remembers. And, when it conies to wildlife photography, the camera acquires a mischievous sense of humor, preferring the absurd rather than the serious. Examples run a wide range. Goslings, following mamma and pappa down  

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Now you see me, now you don't says playful, great-horned owl

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You don't think they originated the term "goose step" do you?

[image]

Lanky avocet thinks there's a snake in the grass somewhere

to the water, suddenly become goose-stepping fascists. An avocet, wading out to dinner, encounters a water snake, and both pause for a neighborly chat.

Or perhaps it is a great-horned owl, returning to his nest one dark night, who spots the waiting camera and demonstrates his imitation of Count Dracula.

Sometimes the ludicrous-loving camera solicits outside help to fell the most carefully laid of photographic plans. Imagine Lou Ell spotting two elk standing in a stream at the Fort Niobrara National Wildlife Refuge. A cautious, time-consuming stalk is made and finally he is in position where he exposes several sheets of film. Perfect! But when the film is developed, a monstrous ant  

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Up, up, and away—those helicopters do no better than this old chukar

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Photographer didn't hear patter of little feet inside his camera

hob-nobs with the elk. This little hitch-hiker was picked up by the camera, it seems, for the sole pleasure of prancing across the film. How else could this prankster camera wheedle a laugh from a shot of two conservative, upper-class elk?

With disappointment the normal fare for wildlife photographers, it is a wonder that so many people become enslaved in such pursuit. There mu|t be a reason. Perhaps it is thai nobody really likes easy success. Or it mm be love for an especially cantankerous camera. And, there is always the hope for a smashing failurfe. After all, one Count Dracula is worth a dozen wise, respectable owls. THE END

Necessity to Novelty

Pioneer Village at Minden still carries on crafts that settlers termed a drudgery

HOUSEWIVES NOWADAYS may complain bitterly when their automatic dishwashers go on the blink, or when their fancy clothes dryers blow a fuse, but they certainly would get no sympathy from their pioneer counterparts.

About three-quarters of a century ago, there really was a need for women's liberation, but no amount of ballyhoo or sign waving helped. Self-sufficiency back then was a way of life rather than a motto for women's libbers, and it took a few inventors and mechanical dabblers to relieve them of their hardships.

What was done out of necessity then would make modern women blanch in agony, yet those old ways are not entirely forgotten. Lois Nelson and Maggie Benson are cases in point. Men are not totally out of the picture either, as exemplified by Tom Jacobs. These people are employed at the Harold Warp's Pioneer Village in Minden as colorful reminders of a day when money didn't grow on trees, and clothing wasn't bought in stores.

Amid thousands of pioneer curios, these three people bring to life an era nearly forgotten and little appreciated when common household items were made, not purchased. Lois operates a spinning wheel —that strange machine which turns wool into yarn. Processing a heap of raw wool right off the sheep's back into a sweater for an active pioneer lad required many tedious hours, but her efforts now amuse thousands of tourists.

Maggie pulled a lot of strings to arrive where she is — on the business end of a loom. What is now a pleasant job for her was once an almost formidable but everyday challenge for frontier mothers. Wearing apparel which could not be knit or crocheted had to be woven, and the family loom was the answer. While it did provide a sitting-down job, which (Continued on page 62)

67-POINT PRONGHORN

POPE AND YOUNG it wouldn't make, but it was a buck, probably a young male forced from its herd by a more dominant buck, now that the rut was underway. He was young, inexperienced, and undoubtedly the most susceptible pronghorn buck a bow hunter might hope to approach. Bewildered by the necessity of fending for himself, eager to join any herd that would have him, the young antelope was, unknowingly, being studied through a pair of 8X field glasses. To Clyde Storie, Thurston County sheriff, and Dick Turpin, conservation officer at JANUARY 1972 33  

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Clyde's 13-inch-plus pronghorn won him national as well as state recognition

Ponca, he represented retribution for a week away from the comforts of home, a reward for the innumerable sandbur spines lodged in their palms and rock scars scratched across their knees.

It was a mile or more from their position on top of the rim to the buck in the rolling basin below. Browsing on sage and other herbs, the pronghorn showed every indication of working the ravine long enough to permit a stalk and a shot from the ridge 20 yards above him. It looked promising —at least worth the effort.

A wide arc behind the unsuspecting pronghorn took the two men over rolling grassland that flowed away from the rocky rim they had just descended. Fields of exposed agate tempted the hunters, but antelope was the order of the day. The carefully planned route of the stalk was much more of a test after being viewed from another position. Every hill resembled the one that hid the buck. Several sterile stalks preceded the approach to the ridge above the feeding pronghorn. Spaced 40 yards apart, the bowmen crawled to the lip of the ridge. The accelerated pace of the stalk and the anticipatory flow of adrenalin quickened the pulse and heightened the excitement. Easing forward, inches at a time, through clumps of Western wheatgrass and over what seemed to be a carpet of prickly pear, they reached the top. With arrows nocked and mental reminders to pick a spot, the bowmen slipped into a crouch, then finally stood upright, ready to let fiberglass and feather fly.

Like so many stalks before, the episode ended without a drawn string. The buck had vanished, either spooked or lured another way by better browse.

Dick had hunted the Oglala National Grasslands north of Crawford for pronghorn with a bow several consecutive years. While shots had been plentiful, he had yet to tag an antelope. Last year was Clyde's first hunt for pronghorn in that area as well as his first outing with a bow.

Turpin claims the credit for sparking the sheriff's interest in hunting Indian style for pronghorn. Dick put his big-game rifle aside in 1957, but he has yet to miss a deer season, nor has a season passed without fresh venison in his freezer. While he prefers bow hunts because of the challenge of hunting at close range, Dick confesses that his main reason for hanging up his rifle was to avoid the crowd during the short firearm seasons.

This time the pair had borrowed a four-wheel-drive pickup and camper. Other years they had camped in tents on the Gilbert-Baker Special-Use Area just north of Harrison, but the camper allowed them now to stay right in the area from one day to the next.

It was their third day out when that small buck gave them the slip. Marked with numerous promising but unsuccessful stalks, enough acceptable shots to keep spirits high, and an abundant supply of flighty pronghorn, it was proving to be a good hunt.

In years past, Pasture No. 1 had been their traditional ground, not necessarily because it is better than other pasture units, but because it is as far away from civilization as possible. They were like that, just as interested in the quality of their hunt as in the outcome. An extended dry spell during the previous month had changed their plans this season, though. Dry conditions had forced the antelope into the southern pastures nearer Crawford and into the Pine Ridge where irrigated pastures supplied moisture requirements. Even though a liberal shower had swept across the entire corner of the state a few days before, the antelope were just beginning to move back north into their normal range.

Through the years these hunters have developed and refined different approaches and techniques which they prefer for hunting the wary pronghorn. Perhaps the simplest, 34 NEBRASKAland yet most effective technique they know well and like to employ is to locate and stalk a lone, young buck. As small summer groups are absorbed into a larger harem controlled by a mature, vigorous buck, young males that for the first time are large enough to be considered competitors by the herd patriarch are driven out and forced into solitary life. These orphaned, small bucks are susceptible to the hunters' tricks until they adjust to their new way of life. Dick, if given his choice, favors stalking such individual animals. Eager to join any herd that will have him, the young buck often responds to doe-like bleats, and is thus drawn into bow range. A bit indecisive and unaccustomed to making decisions on his own, he often makes mistakes that become the bowman's boon.

This same dislike for competition can sometimes be used to bring a herd buck within bow range. Last year, Turpin and a partner exploited a unique set of circumstances with success. After locating a mature buck and his jealously guarded harem, they would sneak up the hillcrest or ridge nearest the herd. While one archer would raise a pronghorn silhouette in full view of the herd buck, the other bowman would prepare for a shot. In theory, and occasionally in practice, the buck, eager to protect his does from challengers, would investigate the intruder, intent on running him off. In the process the buck would sometimes come close enough to afford the hunters a shot.

Another tactic they have found to be successful is a modified drive. After spending several days in the same area, each herd takes on a personality of its own, watering at the same hole, bedding down in the same general area, and crossing fences at the same point. Once these crossing points are established, hunters can rely on continued use. Placing a bowman at one of these slides while the other spooks the animals in that direction often provides a close shot for the concealed archer.

Dick and Clyde used this strategy about midweek.

Glassing from a towering rim that offered a wide view over several miles toward the Pine Ridge, they spotted a herd of 15 or more pronghorn. Held (Continued on page 55)

that's what it's all about

BITES, MISSES, NIBBLES, and snags are tough customers to bring into a frying pan. But each occupies a strategic position in the army of obstacles between anglers and the resident channel catfish of giant Lake McConaughy, located northwest of Ogallala. The art of enticing Big Mac's cats from their comfortable, watery homes onto a dinner table was exemplified a year ago in an early May campaign waged by two veteran anglers Paul Temple and Ace Erb.

"For starters, it takes a little luck, some patience, smelly shad, fairly good weather, more patience, and a touch for catfish. Mix all these ingredients together in precisely the right amounts, and you've got a decent chance of landing those sneaky catfish," Paul expounded, as he kept a keen eye on the tip of his rod.

Retired from the judge's bench at Lewellen, Paul is a lifetime area resident and has fished Big Mac for more than 30 years. His angling experiences leave a listener open-mouthed as he relives excursion after excursion.

Paul reached to tighten his line. "I guess cats are my favorites," he continued. "The rascals are hard to catch. It seems as if they come up with a new trick every day. If there's a way to fish for them that I haven't tried, I'd be darned surprised."

"Paul and I spend a lot of hours out here," Ace followed, breaking the peaceful silence that engulfs fishermen on any huge expanse of water. "During the off-season, and especially now that Paul is retired, we really invest a lot of time in these fish. Around the first of April, catfish here generally get right with it, keeping up the action until mid-May when it tapers off. But, how many or few we catch is irrelevant. I've never fished with Paul without having a boatful of fun."

Ace, too, is far from being a stranger to the mysteries of the big lake. Since he is proprietor of Ace's Cedar View, Big Mac has been at his doorstep for the past 12 years. And, prior to becoming a concessionaire beside the lake, Ace called Lewellen home. Like Paul, he has been fishing the lake since its beginning. Ace keeps busy during summer months providing fishermen with bait and tackle, and handling trailer rentals on his area. Even then he always manages to sneak in a bit of fishing.

A misty, cloud-covered morning greeted the pair, along with a stiff, westbound breeze. An early suggestion to scrap the excursion was put aside by the dogged determination of the two outdoorsmen. The fishermen got aboard Ace's 14-foot boat and headed west into the choppy, wind-whipped water. Paul was in the bow. Ace was in the stern, steering. Even though prohibitive swells laced the sprawling lake, they hoped to find some protected waters in the far western reaches. As planned, they motored to a relatively quiet area behind a large grove of partially submerged willows and tied up. Both soon cast baited offerings into the water. They fished in about 2 1/2 feet of water.

At exactly 9:45 a.m., Paul started the action. He caught a snag. After due joshing from Ace, he finally snapped the line, calmly rerigged it, threading on a shad, and sent it back into the water.

"Sometimes I wonder if Paul will eventually pull all the snags out of this lake," Ace continued his gentle ribbing.

At that moment, Ace's line went taut as the tip of his rod swooped down. With the cool of a true pro, Ace played the hit. Wham! He heaved back, hoping to set the hook into whatever was nibbling his bait. Preparing for victory, his jaw fell.

"Miss him?" Paul asked nonchalantly. They both laughed.

"Ace, are you still rolling those bites and misses in flour before you fry them?" Paul asked innocently, his eyes beaming. Ace rebaited and cast back to the same spot.

Dash... dot... dit... Paul's rod tip began dancing with a telegraphic beat. The pole shivered with short choppy action. "Those rascals are just mush-mouthing it," he whispered. "They've (Continued on page 64)

Call of WINTER

Excitement rides the wind as cold invades the state

PITY THE POOR unfortunates who have felt neither the bite of swirling snow nor the sting of a howling north wind. Weep for those who have never heard the crunch of ice-webbed grass beneath a boot or the echo of expanding ice cracking across a vast and silent lake. Lament their deprivation, for here passes perhaps the most beautiful of all seasons—winter in Nebraska.

There are those, however, who know the splendor of the season. They are kin with snow and wind; one with a crystalline world that is bathed by a frigid sun. For them, hiemal surroundings become staffs of life—nutrients which feed the spirit and stir the soul. How dreary, they must think, are the temperate zones where little-changing JANUARY 1972 39  

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Muskrats find shelter in houses, above, while grasses, below, brave the elements

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Only earth remembers oldest of winters as at snow-flecked quarry near Lincoln

 

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Frosty panorama portrays winter on Middle Loup River in Halsey Forest

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Sheathed in ice, rose hips must rue the season that brings such torment

42 NEBRASKAland

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Simplistic beauty lies in suspened snow, above, and calm of reflected rays, below

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Snow runs down to the Platte River's edge as if afraid to venture farther

seasons harbor an uncanny ability to dull the senses and taint perspectives. So, they look to the northern latitudes for stimulation and confirmation of long-held beliefs.

In Nebraska, members of this cold-weather cult are not disappointed. Here they find the inspiration they seek. For almost a quarter of the year, fertile valleys and towering, wooded bluffs lie locked beneath a mantle of snow which seemingly stretches forever; temperatures plummet and the inner man finds a new 44 NEBRASKAland

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Skeletal remains of a leafy giant of summer strains rays of a frigid sun

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Winter's Midas touch turns leaky water tank near Ogallala into ice

  vitality amidst an elegance that those of warmer climes may never know.

Many subtle scenes which strike deeply into the memory are most imposing. Along any country lane, even casual observers find a charm which only winter can bring to the land. Wind-packed snow, lashed into a fencerow, sparkles under a sun which illuminates, but does not warm. And those who abandon the security and warmth of vehicles find a whole new vantage. Clustered in the lee of a skeletal elm, a tiny clump of grass recalls distant spring. To the eye it seems as though growth goes on, but to the touch, the knife-edge of winter rises again as brittle blades shatter under the gentlest of prodding. The search through a wonderland of winter continues, each explorer finding something new to treasure, something which must forever remain intimate and silent.

Pity those who will never know the limitless tract of wintery Nebraska. Weep for those who have never trod the fields of virgin snow. Lament their deprivation, for here passes perhaps the most beautiful of all seasons.THE END

STAMPS OF STATE

IF STAMPS interest you, and if you enjoy Nebraska history, it follows that you should be fascinated by postage stamps depicting the state's colorful past. One need not be a philatelist to collect these miniatures of history, a veritable picture gallery of Nebraska's greats. Yet knowing what to look for is an important part of such a hobby.

Six stamps were issued for the Trans-Mississippi and International Exposition held in Omaha in 1898. Maize and wheat designs fill the lower corners and upper areas. The scenes shown are Marquette on the Mississippi, farming in the West, Indian hunting buffalo, Fremont on the Rocky Mountains, hardships of immigration, Western cattle in a storm, the Mississippi River Bridge, troops guarding a train, and the Western mining prospector. The last two were taken from paintings by Frederic Remington, noted Western artist. Since Omaha was the site of the exposition, it was only fitting when these stamps were placed on sale there for the first time June 10, 1898.

Although the U.S. Postal Service, the issuing agency, was founded in the late 1700's, commemorative stamps frequently appear long after the events they picture took place. Three such were issued to recall the Louisiana Purchase, and were placed on sale 101 years after the land was obtained from France. When they appeared in 1904, these cachets portrayed Robert Livingston, U.S. minister in charge of negotiations; Thomas Jefferson, then President of the United States; and James Monroe, special ambassador to France in the matter of the purchase, and who, with Livingston, closed the deal. The 10-cent stamp showed a map of the territory.

Several events pictured in these Nebraska commemoratives occurred outside the state. Yet, one was as much a part of Nebraska as the man who originated it. Sixteen years after Arbor Day was begun at Nebraska City, the Postal Service issued its salute to the day. The stamp, which first appeared for sale in that southeastern Nebraska city April 22, 1932, depicts the planting of a tree on what was the shadeless prairie of Nebraska. Perhaps it is most fitting, since the issuance also came on the hundredth birthday of J. Sterling Morton, the man who originated the idea.

Two stamps which bring back the days of thundering hooves and brave young men deal with the epic journey of the Pony Express across Nebraska. One, a three-center, was issued in 1940, 80 years after the fastest mail run of its day began. Found in many collections across the nation, it shows a mounted rider leaving a relay station with his consignment of mail. Twenty years later, another stamp drew from the same basic theme to show a rider racing from St. Louis to Sacramento, a map of his lengthy route laid in behind him.

Though the Pony Express lasted less than a year, its successor was destined to become a vital and lasting part of American transportation and communication. On the 75th anniversary of the driving of the last spike in the trans-continental railroad, stamps were 48 NEBRASKAland offered at Omaha, headquarters for the Union Pacific, and San Francisco. The date was May 10,1944.

Long before the railroad made its debut, hordes of travelers used Nebraska as a highway to the promised land of the West. As these immigrants trudged along myriad trails, the United States Army took up the role of protector, establishing many frontier outposts to offer security against the Indians. One such was Fort Kearny, which served as the "Guardian of the Pioneer" after its establishment in 1848. On September 22, 100 years later, the Postal Service released a commemorative at Minden, a re-creation of the post surmounted by a sculpture of pioneers on their journey taken from the facade of the State Capitol.

Two commemoratives dealing with Nebraska were issued in 1954. One, boasting the Sower standing atop the State Capitol as the central figure, recalled the organization of Nebraska Territory in 1854. The other depicted the 1804 journey of two of the best-known explorers in history. Meriwether Lewis and William Clark were pictured with their Indian guide, Sacajawea, and the keelboat they used on their trek to explore the vast interior of a nation in the making. This stamp illustrated the exactness with which likenesses were reproduced, since the boat was drawn from John Bakeless' book Lewis and Clark.

Nebraska has had its share of men and women who have made outstanding contributions to history. Two such men have been featured on postage stamps. They are General John J. Pershing and Senator George W. Norris. General Pershing was Commander-in-Chief of the American Expeditionary Forces in Europe during the First World War, and was also a Reserve Officer Training Corps instructor at the University of Nebraska. And, Senator Norris has been described as one of the great independent statesmen of American public life. The stamp, which bears his likeness, also carries this tribute from former President Franklin D. Roosevelt: "Gentle knight of progressive ideals." In the background is a view of the Norris Dam north of Knoxville, Tennessee, named in honor of the senator for his part in bringing the Tennessee Valley Authority Act of 1933 into being.

A stamp commemorating the centennial anniversary of the Homestead Act was first placed on sale at Beatrice, Nebraska, May 20, 1962. The act, which played a major role in the settlement of the West, was signed into law by President Lincoln exactly 100 years earlier. Shown on the stamp is a sod house, typical of the early homestead dwellings, with a man and woman standing in an illuminated walkway. The bluish-gray color of the stamp represents a late-evening scene, and emphasizes its bleakness.

Perhaps the most important commemorative among the Nebraska stamps is the one issued in 1967. It honored a century of statehood and recalls the agricultural pride of a people. An unhusked ear of corn and a fat Hereford set the tone for a people tied to the land, and a state which prides itself on farming prowess. But it is people who make the state great. THE END

NOTES ON NEBRASKA FAUNA. . . BURBOT

Eel-like predator, member of cod family haunts Missouri River

THE BURBOT, Lota lota lacustris, is a strange-looking fish that resembles a cross between an eel and a catfish. A sure way to recognize the burbot is to look for its single barbel, or whisker, near the tip of its chin. Other characteristics that identify it are two separate dorsal fins and an anal fin with more than 60 rays.

The color of the burbot is olive to dark brown on the back and sides with a white or yellowish-white belly. The long dorsal and anal fins are the same color as its body. At first glance, the burbot appears to be a scaleless fish like the cat, but close examination shows that it is actually covered with very small scales.

In areas where the burbot is common, it has several names including eel pout, pocket eel, lawyer, and ling cod.

The burbot is a cold-water-loving species that inhabits the depths. It is found in great abundance in waters such as the Great Lakes and the deeper lakes of Minnesota and Canada. This species is distributed over an extensive area of the North American continent. Its range includes all the area north of a line from southern Oregon on the West Coast through central Missouri to northern Virginia on the East Coast.

Within Nebraska, the burbot is found in the Missouri River, most frequently in the tailwater area of Gavins Point Dam. The species is not prevalent enough to justify fishing specifically for burbot. But, when they are caught, they are usually picked up by fishermen using minnows, crayfish, or worms while fishing for some other species. Commercially, they are often caught in traps.

The cod family, of which the burbot is a member, is an important commercial and sport fish in both the Atlantic and Pacific oceans. Some of the Atlantic species reach a weight of 70 pounds. There are seven species of saltwater cod which are economically important.

The maximum size of the burbot is 14 pounds and a length of 34 inches. However, the average is smaller —6 to 8 inches at 1 year of age, 10 to 15 inches at 2, with a weight of 1 pound or more at this time.

In lakes, burbot live in the deep, cold parts during hot summer months. In winter, they move to the shallows for spawning. According to observations, burbot concentrate in high numbers during the spawning season. Females produce large quantities of eggs, as exemplified by one measuring 27 1/2 inches which contained 1,153,000 eggs. Spawning usually takes place in streams over sand or gravel. The young hatch in May or June.

Very little is known about the life history of the burbot in the Missouri River. Such things as specifically where and when the fish spawn, what the fish eat, and factors affecting their reproduction and abundance are all relatively vague.

In the 1800's, the burbot, commonly caught by sport and commercial fishermen in the Lake Erie area, were considered a trash fish with little or no economic value. However, in the 1900's, the burbot became a valuable commercial fish. In a 10-year period from 1939 to 1949, the commercial catch in Lake Erie within the state of Ohio was 180 tons per year. The burbot is caught commercially in the Missouri River as far north as North Dakota, but the commercial catch in the Missouri River bordering Nebraska is almost negligible.

During the mid-1950's, the burbot was a common catch for people fishing below Gavins Point Dam, but since then the catch has dwindled to only a few per year. It is assumed they spawn in cold-water tributaries running into rivers such as the Missouri. The burbot is known to be a predatory fish, one that feeds on other fish. The burbot in Nebraska feeds mainly on minnows and other small species.

While the burbot is not a common fish in Nebraska, it is the only freshwater cod in existence and adds to the variety of species found in the state. THE END

HEAT, GLASS, AND BREATH

Basic ingredients of ancient trade are unchanged. Modern craftsmen keep art alive

RAINBOWS OF COLOR encircled the glistening glass tube as it slowly rolled in the hissing burner's intense heat. With ease and precision, the long shiny cylinder was turned and turned again by fingers familiar with the task. One end of the tube was sealed. From the other end, a length of slender rubber hose ran to the puckered lips of Lloyd J. Moore.

Moore is the University of Nebraska's glassblower. His lab is a small office in Avery Hall on the Lincoln campus. The doorway is flanked by an assortment of green and red tanks, like those used by welders, and a dusty showcase holding some of Moore's artistic creations, as well as paraphernalia of the glassblowing trade.

The cramped and cluttered lab holds a conglomeration of equipment and materials. An annealing oven, a cutting wheel, and a stout wooden rack holding an assortment of glass tubing and rods take up much of the room's already scarce floorspace. The tables and benches are littered with tools and miscellaneous scraps of glass. But the disarray is not reflected in the quality and quantity of the work which daily flows from this lab.

Orders are received every day from many different branches of the university. The laboratories of the chemistry and physics departments, as well as different divisions within the School of Agriculture, all need his specialized services. Because of the heavy work load, the university recently added another glassblower to the staff, Tim Grauer. Grauer now shares the diminutive quarters with Moore. Both are members of the American Scientific Glassblowers Society, and both put out work every day that meets with the highest standards of their profession.

Moore has now been at the university for more than 10 years. Though very well established in his trade, he followed a rather circuitous route to reach his present position.

Born in the midwest, Moore has strong ties with the land and the earthy elements of rural life. His parents were ranchers, and young Lloyd became a good horseman, breaking and training horses.

"Rural life was the only life I really knew, recollects Moore. "When school was out for the summer I would work in the hay fields."

Hard work has always been part of his life. After the death of his father, Moore was able to continue his schooling, but the burden of supporting his mother, two sisters, and six brothers became part of his responsibilities. Throughout his high-school years, Moore worked part-time before and after classes at a variety of chores, including milking cows, planting crops, and similar farm tasks.

Refusing an offer to become a partner with the farmer for whom he worked during the summers, Moore attended the College of Emporia on a track scholarship. He originally intended to study for the ministry, but events during the summer after his freshman year forced changes in his plans Deciding that being a minister would not be to his liking, he again worked in the fields when a fall from a truck injured his back. The athletic scholarship was lost, and Moore had to look elsewhere for his education.

Lawrence, Kansas became his new home, and after working for a time at a lumber company, the ambitious youth enrolled at the University of Kansas. There he took a job working in the Chemistry Department, and eventually began glassblowing.

Glassblowing is not an easily acquired art. Only so much knowledge can be gleaned from books or even from a good teacher. The rest must be learned from experience. Moore was intent on becoming a good glassblower.

"It took 3 1/2 years of constant trial and error and continuous practice just to learn the basic fundamentals before I felt I was able to seek a job as a scientific glassblower," he recalls.

Moore remembers his initial failure when he sought a position at the University of Nebraska. "After the first interview, I (Continued on page 63)

THE SKY IS HIS HOME

these believers, despite the fact that he has experienced 12 engine failures during the past year, although none of them occurred during an air show, and he got the engine started again every time without having to make a forced landing.

"You really start grabbing for things in a hurry when it dies," he admits. In his cockpit, there are only a few essential instruments, a far cry from commercial planes equipped for instrument flying. In fact, the panel looks more like an automobile's dashboard. Fancy equipment is unnecessary and its absence keeps weight down. He flies visually, and his maneuvers happen too fast for a dial to keep up with them.

Without doubt, the most spectacular and difficult gyration Dr. Carothers performs is the Lomcevac, which is appropriately named because it is Czech for "headache." While it takes only a few moments, this single maneuver puts more stress on plane and pilot than any other. It is a combination of motions in which the plane climbs steeply, then tumbles in spiral, end-over-end flips.

Some maneuvers are solo exercises; others a series of different flights. A combination of light weight, small size, and high horsepower enables his plane to move quickly, sometimes faster than the eye can follow. To help spectators appreciate just what it does, an oil-injected exhaust system leaves a trail of smoke. In calm weather, Dr. Carothers often fills the sky with a maze of crisscrossing, white corkscrew stripes.

There are literally thousands of distinct moves he has had to learn, many of them included in aerobatic competition. Dr. Carothers enters national matches each year, as well as regional contests. Winning a meet brings honor, but hardly compensates for the amount of expense, practice time, and work involved. Despite all this, he attends as many as possible. The biggest obstacle is getting there if it's far away. He flies every day, except when the weather is bad or the plane is dismantled. If repairs are necessary, the plane is put together again within a day or two because skipping even a few days of flight can cause a loss of timing — perhaps the most important aspect of precision flying.

"I can tell when I have had an interruption in practice," Dr. Carothers says. "That is why I try to fly every evening after office hours. My routines go in sequences, and a few seconds here or there make a lot of difference. Miscalculation means the plane covers more ground than it should, and the smoothness is gone."

"My flights require a lot of split-second timing in just the right order. The plane, of course, must be in top condition, and that takes a lot of time, too. My mechanic, Ed Mooring of Wahoo, keeps it in good shape. Experimental planes like mine fall into a special category, and the stresses created by this kind of flying cause problems. The propeller flange, for instance, must be checked frequently. Flying upside down as much as right side up requires a special fuel system. And, the small size of the airplane means there is no room for conventional equipment. In theory, my little plane should not even be able to get off the ground, yet it does — very easily.

"For its weight and size, this is perhaps the most powerful propeller plane made. The Lycoming engine cranks out 180 horsepower at 2,700 rpm's, and I usually keep it turning a little faster than that. Empty, the plane weighs about 750 pounds, so with me and the fuel, it still weighs only about 1,000 pounds. Once aloft, there is little it cannot do."

Watching him perform at an air show confirms that statement. There are few contortions the plane is not put through. Twists, loops, rolls, spins, dives, climbs, glides —all are there. Sky-gazing spectators hold their breath in wonder and delight during his aerial antics. And, the more familiar a viewer is with flying, the more he appreciates the difficulty of such feats.

"At air shows, I usually perform the first half of the routine I use in aerobatic competition. It is new and fresh for the audiences, but I have it down pat and it's comparatively easy for me."

Dr. Carothers performs at an increasing number of shows each year. His 1971 schedule included 12 shows in Nebraska, 10 in Kansas, and several in Iowa and Missouri. A busy dentist during the week who is willing to perform almost every summer weekend, he is a rare one indeed.

Watching a performance of the little red-and-white plane leaves little doubt about the value of dedicated practice. The 15-minute demonstration is startling. A spectator is not concerned with the tremendous forces the pilot is fighting, or the stresses on his plane. He is only amazed at the spectacular end result—loops, upside-down or knife-edge flight, and a multitude of tumbles and flips. He wonders why the pilot doesn't fall out, although there isn't much time to think about such things.

Dr. Carothers insists there is no danger involved, but a spectator would be hard-pressed to believe that, and there would be few volunteer passengers even if the tiny plane had room. After all, not everyone likes hanging upside down several hundred feet above the ground Even having a tooth pulled would be more pleasant than that. THE END

PAPER CHIEF

often too generously Lucien thought, with gifts from his stores. And, she always returned to stay with her people whenever he went away on business.

Each time she went she took young Logan with her. The boy, as a result, grew up under the influence of both the stories of luxurious life told to him by his father, and the stories of wilderness life with all its mysteries related to him by his Indian grandfather.

After his father's death in 1842, Logan chose to live with the Omaha, although he dressed like an Indian only for ceremonial occasions. Otherwise he wore white man's garb. In 1843, when he was barely 18 years old, he married Gixpeaha, a comely Omaha maid.

Then came the crucial point in Logan's life which decided his status within the nation. Chief Big Elk died in 1853. Who would succeed? Although he was as 54 NEBRASKAland much a part of the Omaha community as any full-blooded Indian, Logan had never been formally adopted by Big Elk. Iron Eye (Joseph La Flesche), on the other hand, had the advantage. He, too, was the half-breed son of an Indian mother and a French father, but he had been adopted. Thus, the chieftainship went to him.

Even though Iron Eye was chief, Logan had influence throughout the villages. During that time there were two kinds of chiefs — regular ones who attained their positions through inheritance or adoption, and "paper chiefs", who usually had white man's documents assuring them a position of leadership. Logan had been named United States Interpreter in 1847 and, being highly respected by both his mother's people and white men, he became the silent power behind Iron Eye.

Logan had been taught well by his grandfather. He was uniquely fitted to be an interpreter, having command of English, French, and Omaha, as well as some knowledge of several Indian dialects. Because of the psychological differences between the English and French, an inept or scheming interpreter could employ shades of meaning to bring about misunderstanding or deception. There were such interpreters. Logan, however, was neither inept nor insincere.

Furthermore, he understood a serious Indian difficulty. The Omaha's contacts thus far had been with French or Spanish people. Explorers and traders had come and gone, had mingled with the Indians, had married their women, and had earned their good will. The English, on the other hand, were arriving with definite intentions to stay, wanting land, caring little for the rights of the Indians. This often led to quarrels, attacks, retaliations, and eventually war. All this Logan took into consideration in negotiations between the races.

A third qualification was his dislike for liquor. Too often he had witnessed the demons it made of men. He used stern reprimand whenever liquor was used for barter between the traders and his people. Thus he ruled with wisdom from within the ranks of both Indian and white communities.

Encroachment of white settlers became an increasingly difficult problem. An 1834 congressional act had declared all land west of the Mississippi as Indian territory, but that did not keep out the squatters. And, in 1846, 3,000 Mormons arrived. The chief recognized them as harmless, believing their promises to move on within a year. Their brief presence, however, heralded the arrival of other Easterners who had every intention of staying.

There was nothing the Indians could do. It was an almost predetermined deal when a delegation of 8 chiefs, led by Logan and Louis Sanssouci as interpreters, went to Washington in 1854 to sign the treaty whereby approximately 4,000,000 acres from the Missouri west to the Sand Hills and from the Platte north to Dakota territory were sold to the United States government. The price was $846,000 to be paid to the Omaha over a period of 40 years.

In exchange, the Omaha were to move onto a 300,000-acre reservation in northeastern Nebraska within one year. Military escort and provisions for the move were promised them.

In the spring of 1855, it was obvious the provisions would not arrive in time for them to move that summer. So Iron Eye and Logan, with advice from their counsellors, agreed to stage another annual hunt to provide the Omaha with food for the forthcoming winter. There was an omen of unrest in the air. Some Indians had already moved north, others were still at Bellevue, and the hunt would have to take place on prairie nearer the hostile Dakota.

Sure enough, the Sioux attacked them during their hunt. Time after time they charged after Omaha braves, killing some, sometimes carrying their own dead back.

Logan finally fell victim to the Sioux in the summer of 1855. Tracking a herd of elk, he was overpowered by five enemy who killed and scalped him. Iron Eye carried his remains to Bellevue where Logan was buried not far from his father's grave in what is today the Fontenelle Forest Nature Center. Thus the Omaha lost one of their most respected leaders who might have continued as their protector and mediator.

Probably the best authority on Logan Fontenelle, who has gathered all material referring to him and drawn conclusions about the real role he played, is Charles Charvat. In his book Logan Fontenelle, he describes this paper chief as "... a spark of Gallic spirit engendered upon Amerind stock, where it gleamed..."

The Omaha moved to their reservation shortly after Logan's death. A few remained at Bellevue a year or two more, but most of them left before the 1855-56 winter. Charvat, having studied Logan's life, says that although he would have offered solace and guidance during the inevitable move, Logan would not have been equipped to help the Omaha adjust to their new life on the reservation, confined to a small area where once they had roamed at will. Better attuned to the robust, straightforward French traders, he would have found it difficult to continue negotiating for his people with Eastern settlers. On the other hand, he may have developed his capabilities to take into account the subtleties of settling civilization. Whether he would have risen to the challenge remains an unanswered question because of his early death. One fact, however, argued by Charvat with irrefutable evidence, is that Logan was never a chief. He was a wise leader. THE END

67 POINT PRONGH0RN

in tight formation by the doting attention of an amorous buck, they were feeding at the base of the rim. As the hunters watched, a young buck approached, either trying to join the herd or attempting to claim some of the band's does as his own. Whatever his intentions, he was rudely chased from the vicinity by the persistent charges and butts of the herd's male. An approaching rancher checking his cattle interrupted the affair, and the herd bounded off to the south, sliding under the singing strands of barbed wire.

The large buck, sporting horns that would have hit the 15-inch mark, trotted up and down the fence, reluctant to crawl under as his does had done. Finally, as the pickup drew near, he jumped awkwardly across, scratching his white underside on the top strand. He displayed little of the innate grace that whitetails and mulies would have exhibited while crossing the same fence.

This left only the young buck on the hunters' side of the fence. By this time Dick had slipped over the rim and down to the fence line. Clyde remained on top, serving as spotter and signal man. Dick was within 200 yards of the young buck as it paced back and forth along the wire strands before Clyde caught Dick's attention and motioned for him to get down. Positioned just along the fence and behind a small knoll, Dick was in an excellent position for a shot as the buck worked his way east in search of a crossing. Dick readied his bow, a 63-pound Bear Kodiak. It seemed just a matter of time before the pronghorn would appear on the rise.

He that giveth also taketh away. Just about the time things looked sewed up, the rancher came over a crest, spooking the pronghorn. Doubling back, the buck crossed the rim about 400 yards west of Clyde, finally stopping about three-quarters of a mile out in the next pasture.

The two held a quick conference to plan a new attack. Dick would take up his position at that point in the fence where the young buck had crossed, and Clyde would be the driver, circling around the antelope and trying to spook him back. If he were to cross the fence at the customary point, Dick should draw a shot.

Again the skittery pronghorn's unpredictable nature threw a monkey wrench into the scheme. Sensing that all was not well, or just jangled to the point of abandoning routine, he made tracks east, never once looking back. The frustration of another unsuccessful stalk was the hunter's grim reward.

While many stalks ended without success, shots were plentiful, as the pronghorn population seemed to have flourished.

Historical records indicate that pronghorn once ranged across the entire state. In 1834, antelope were reported abundant near the mouth of the Platte River. Antelope were also numerous in the Sand Hills. Harvested indiscriminately by market and sport hunters, pronghorn range narrowed to the northwest corner of the state by the 1880's. Protective laws were first enacted in 1873 and the antelope was afforded full protection in 1907. By then, they were reported occurring only west of the 101st meridian, which crosses the state north and south from just west of Valentine to just west of McCook. Even (Continued on page 59)

Where to go

RECREATIONAL BENEFITS derived from the Salt Valley Lakes around Lincoln are growing more apparent each year. Initially used by only summer sun worshipers, these 13 lakes are fast becoming popular with winter sportsmen as well, and Ice Fishing is as much in vogue beneath the Capitol's shadow now as it is on the snowy stretches of the Sand Hills.

Particularly suited for urbanites harried by slow, skidding traffic, all Salt Valley Lakes are within half an hour of winter driving time from city limits. They offer respite from bleating horns and snarling snowplows. Daytime businessmen become twilight fishermen when they leave their office cares behind and head out onto wind-blown ice with the tools they need to chop a hole and a simple, rod-and-reel rig.

Ice fishing is a sport that can be executed with a minimum amount of equipment and clothing designed for maximum warmth. Junior's sled makes an excellent carryall for hauling tools and tackle to a favorite spot on the lake, and long Johns are one of several layers of clothing necessary for comfort in temperatures around zero.

Regular rod-and-reel rigging can be used, but shorter, cut-off rods work best, and without doubt, Stagecoach Lake, located 1 1/2 miles south and 1/2 mile west of Hickman, is the most popular in the chain. As many as 100 anglers were counted on Stagecoach one afternoon last season, probably because they had fished the lake with good success in summer, and figured their luck would carry on in winter.

Conestoga, located 3 miles south and 1/2 mile west of Emerald, is also a popular lake resulting in good crappie, blue gill, and occasional redear catches.

With water temperatures colder, it is possible that fish tend to school more in winter than in summer, maybe because, as the saying goes, there is comfort in company. This, of course, is a highly speculative theory, but action usually comes in spurts. If the fish are not biting, an angler might sit for hours without success. On the other hand, once they start hitting his offerings, he's sitting right on top of them and the bites come hot and heavy until the school moves on. Although this theory is not proven, fishing experts tend to put emphasis on it because of the marked difference between hot action and none at all.

Three other popular Salt Valley Lakes are Pawnee, Branched Oak, and Blue stem. Pawnee is located 2 miles north and 1 1/2 miles west of Emerald. Branched Oak 3 miles north of Malcolm, and Bluestem 2 1/2 miles west of Sprague. Crappie and bluegill are as predominant in these three lakes as they are throughout the Salt Valley chain. In addition, Pawnee and Branched Oak hold northerns ranging in the 10-pound category. A popular way to bring them in is to catch a little bluegill that weighs about an ounce first, then put it on a larger hook and hope for a big northern.

Twin Lakes, especially the eastern arm, hold promise. Although summer searches for walleye and bass have met with success on these lakes 1/2 mile north and 1/2 mile west of Pleasant Dale, winter fishing has been light, so it might be worth a try this season for anglers who wish to probe the unknown.

It is illegal to drive a vehicle onto any of the lakes. Nebraska Game and Parks Commission regulations demand that automobiles stay on hard-surface roads and park in designated areas. All lakes except Holmes in Lincoln's city limits are within the commission's management jurisdiction.

Shelter is a matter of choice. Some anglers enjoy the sensation of bracing their backs against the brisk breezes of winter, while others build elaborate, mobile shacks to keep the cold from closing in. Building permanent shelters on the Hard-water angling is just one of many facets of Salt Valley Lakes Salt Valley Lakes is prohibited. Anglers must take whatever shelter they use off the lake after they finish each excursion.

Wagon Train, located 2 miles east of Hickman, holds numerous small, white perch and occasional bullhead, while Yankee Hill, 2Vfe miles east and 1 mile south of Denton, holds channel cats and nice bluegill.

Whatever a man's profession, there is ample opportunity for him to leave the cares of city life behind and enjoy the nip of Jack Frost's presence without driving far.

Although there are numerous ethnic groups in Nebraska, few are as prominent as the Czechs, who are proud of their European ancestry and keenly aware of their American settlement history dating to the middle of the Nineteenth Century. Two examples of their pride are the Wilber Czech Museum and the Dvoracek Memorial Library in Wilber 35 miles southwest of Lincoln, where more than 75 percent of the town's 1,400 residents are of Czech descent.

The two projects came about through the efforts of Milo and Lillian Stastny of Wilber. To start the museum, they purchased what used to be a furniture store in downtown Wilber seven years ago, moved their heirlooms into it, and began what has become one of the most unique collections in the state representing early, pioneer life.

The museum is divided into different rooms. A barbershop includes the chair used by Barber Safranek during the first half of the Twentieth Century when haircuts still cost only two bits, and a shave just a dime. Other rooms feature living-room, kitchen, and bedroom furniture, much of it from the former homes of both Milo's and Lillian's parents. The museum also features collections of glassware, guns, Czech costumes, photographs of Czech pioneers, and musical instruments gathered primarily from the immediately surrounding area, although some out-of-state items have found their way into the museum for preservation.

It is open from 2 to 5 p.m. Sunday afternoons throughout the year or by appointment during the week. Milo Stastny is the person to call at (402) 8212591. He will act as guide or delegate the responsibility to some other member of the museum's board. (This museum, incidentally, is also used to store decorations and displays used during Wilber's Czech Days the first weekend in August each year.)

Located at the opposite end of Wilber's main street, the Dvoracek library was built with money left to Lillian Stastny by her parents, the late William and Anna Dvoracek, and some of Milo's own funds. Except for a $60,000 federal grant, interest from a trust account keeps the $142,000 library in operation.

One of its outstanding features is the Czech Heritage Room where books and records, even some costume jewelry, are stored. Most of the books are in the Czech language, brought to the United States by pioneers who emigrated from Europe and settled in Nebraska beginning in 1868.

The library also features a 75-seat auditorium which serves as focal point for community functions such as art shows or concerts.

Open Mondays through Fridays from 3 to 5 and 7 to 9 p.m. (Saturdays from 10 to 12 a.m. and 1 to 3 p.m.), the Dvoracek library is an outstanding example of what can be done by combining ethnic history with modern literature. Both the library and museum are well worth a visit.THE END

67-POINT PRONGH0RN

here they were reported rare. In 1953, the pronghorn population had recovered to the point that strictly controlled hunting was once again permitted. A 5-day firearm season was held and 150 permits issued. That next year, the hunting area was enlarged and the number of permits increased to 500.

At present, Nebraska's pronghorn seem to be making a steady recovery, again extending their range eastward into the Sand Hills. The first archery antelope season was opened in 1964, and since that time only 425 permits have been requested. Permits are issued on an unlimited basis, statewide. In the past 7 years, 71 have been checked in, establishing a 17-percent success ratio.

Antelope abundance presented no problem, but getting within bow range offered all the challenge Clyde and Dick wanted. In fact, they began passing up antelope on the basis of whether a worthwhile stalk could be made. Pronghorn on flat, open terrain were as good as gone even before the stalk began. They passed up herds unless the lay of the land made a stalk look promising. Often, even though the herd was bedded down under a lip or next to a deep ravine, either situation suggesting a superficially good stalk, it always seemed that one or more kids were away from the herd. Invariably they spooked at some point during the stalk, warning the rest.

Both archers consider well-maintained gear and razor-sharp broadheads essential for effective kills. An elaborate display of replacement and repair equipment stashed in their camper would have made many a sporting-goods store manager blush.

Files and honing stones in varying degrees of coarseness sharpened the broadheads and razor inserts to surgical perfection. Vehement defenders of their own sharpening techniques, the pair has convincing theories.

Contrary to some information in print, Dick believes that edges should be honed with forward and outward strokes from the rib of the broadhead. This, he maintains, leaves many small, jagged edges facing forward. More tissue and blood vessels are ruptured with such an edge, leading to rapid hemorrhaging and quick kills. Even when putting the finishing touches on the edge with fine oilstone he strokes in the same direction.

Both avoid the traditional pointed tip in favor of a more rounded, but razorsharp end. This, they believe, is less prone to bending or breaking when striking bone.

Right or wrong, their gear was good, ready for action.

It was early Thursday afternoon when Dick and Clyde pulled into Pasture No. 40. Following a dry wash etched into the land, they drove a mile or so into the pasture, intending to stop and glass the surroundings. They had yet to reach their destination when a bachelor group of four bucks feeding in the arroyo sprang into view. All four high-tailed it west along the bottom of the flat flood plain. After running half a mile or so, they broke to the north for a short distance, then split, two continuing north and two going off to the west. The bowmen left the pasture, planning to return after the antelope settled down.

Several hours later, they made their move. Dick took off on foot from the road, following the fence line west. Clyde drove on to the gate where the antelope had last been seen. Parking the pickup, he walked about 1/2 miles northwest in the direction the two had headed. Seeing nothing, he returned to the pickup and began glassing, trying to spot either Dick or an antelope. Finding neither, he drove south to the fence line, still looking for his partner. Back where they had first sighted the four, Clyde came face to face with another buck. Spooked, the pronghorn headed east. Then Clyde spotted Dick. He had seen the buck and had been in the process of stalking him.

Figuring he was gone for good, the archers were about to give up. But, after spotting him again, they decided on another sneak. Splitting up, Clyde going south and east, Dick north and east, they thought one might send the pronghorn toward the other.

After discreetly working his way through a herd of grazing sheep, Clyde edged in close to the buck. It was then he noticed the animal favoring one leg. When first seen, the buck had been running even pace with the other antelope. The injury, while noticeable, was definitely not much of a hindrance. Perhaps it was just a minor battle bruise or sprain from a run-in with a competitor.

Eventually, the buck ambled out of the dry wash and onto the plain, walking east. Knowing that if the buck went farther north there would be little chance of ever approaching him, Clyde gambled on a long shot, hoping the pronghorn might parallel the wash long enough for him to drop into the gully, run east to where the buck was, and come up over the edge close enough for a shot. Clyde jumped into the eight-foot ravine and began his race.

Had the buck not stopped to watch Dick, the sheriff probably would never have caught his quarry. As it worked out, things couldn't have been planned better. When Clyde thought he was directly across from the pronghorn, he worked his way up over the edge pulling his 56-pound Bear Super Magnum to a full 28 inches of wooden shaft and tried the 50-yard shot. The first fell short but the second went true, sliding into the liver region. The buck dropped hard, got up, walked 15 yards, then dropped again. Another arrow in the neck finished him.

The horns were symmetrical and both taped out around 13 1/2 inches. Dick made the necessary measurements to score the buck for Pope and Young, the international archery competition, and came up with satisfying results. An antelope scoring 50 points or more qualifies it for a Nebraska citation, and 7 points more enters it in Pope and Young competition. When all the figures were computed, the total for Clyde's trophy came to slightly more than 67 points green. Unlike that first young antelope, Pope and Young it made. THE END

Roundup and what to do

JANUARY 72 BOOMS into NEBRASKAland with all the chips on the table for National Collegiate Football Championship Number II. While Nebraska's biggest January fanfare is set for the Orange Bowl in Miami Beach, when the top-rated, defending National Champs meet the rolling, second-ranked Crimson Tide of Alabama for the Orange Bowl Crown and the National Championship, every Big Red fan will be there in spirit.

Lynne Ann Smith, captain of Big Red's cheerleaders and NEBRASKAland Magazine's January hostess, will be there in person to cheer the Huskers on to victory.

Daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Edwin T. Smith of Lincoln, 21-year-old Lynne is a senior majoring in elementary education at the Lincoln campus. A member of Alpha Phi Sorority, her hobbies are skiing on both snow and water, and swimming.

Of course, Lynne's biggest interest is football. She has attended every game of the Big Red's 1971 undefeated season, and is all set for the exciting 60-minutes of super cheering at the Orange Bowl. And if Lynne and her colleagues have anything to do with it, the Cornhuskers are sure to emerge as winners.

Omaha, during January, is the scene of two performances that are worthy of note and attendance. The first of these is the Omaha Playhouse rendition of Arthur Miller's "The Price," which runs January 7 through 23. And, on January 20, noted pianist Horacio Gutierrez performs with the Omaha Symphony Orchestra in the Civic Auditorium's Music Hall.

Sports buffs have a wide variety to choose from during the month. The Associated Master Barbers of Lincoln sponsor a boxing smoker January 5 at Pershing Auditorium in Lincoln, and more boxing action erupts there January 26 and 27 during the Southeast District Golden Gloves Boxing Tournament.

Collegiate athletics offer even more during the month, with competition in basketball, wrestling, and swimming on the agenda. The University of Nebraska opens its 1972 basketball season with home clashes against the Oklahoma State Cowboys January 8, followed by a January 10 tilt with the Sooners of the University of Oklahoma. January 15, Big Red's roundballers play host to Colorado's Golden Buffaloes. Creighton University provides Omahans with topnotch basketball action, competing against San Diego University January 10, MacMurray College January 22, and Regis College January 29.

January 28, University of Nebraska wrestling fans have a rare chance to see their favorites in action in one of only two home appearances scheduled for this season. The Cornhuskers tangle with Kansas State, the University of Minnesota, and the University of Missouri in a meet in Lincoln.

The university's swimmers also get into the act during January, taking on Drury College January 15 and Southwest Minnesota January 28.

Pros, too, can be counted on for sporting thrills during January, with the Omaha Knights scheduled for seven hockey clashes on Omaha ice during the month. The first of these is a January 8 date with the Oklahoma City Blazers, followed by a clash with the Dallas Black Hawks the next evening. Other hockey action during January includes battles against Kansas City January 15, Tulsa January 21, Oklahoma City January 23 and 26, and Dallas January 30.

Outdoorsmen find plenty to do during the month, with the season on ducks continuing until January 9 in the western part of the state. Pheasant and quail hunters have until January 16 to round out their season, while squirrel hunting continues until January 31 and cottontail season runs on into February. Anglers are back in action, too.

Though their state may be in winter's icy grip, Nebraskans need not be bored during January, as a wide spectrum of activities awaits them throughout the month.

Outdoor Calendar

NECESSITY TO NOVELTY

was rare in itself, weaving was the long, slow process of turning thread into cloth.

When Tom goes to work he demonstrates yet another task once performed by hand —broom making. While not a routine chore, converting straw into a sturdy tool for sweeping up after-dinner crumbs was once a business much like blacksmithing. Many communities across the state boasted broom factories from whence peddlers made wide sweeps through the territory, hawking their wares.

Equipment Tom uses comes from such a factory. There are three basic tools now used at Pioneer Village. Straw is trimmed to rough size on a cutter, which looks much like a paper trimmer. A handle is then clamped into a spindle much like the chuck on an electric drill. This device is turned by a foot-operated wheel, or treadmill, allowing the operator to attach wire, straw, or nails to the broom evenly on all sides.

Once the broom is formed, Tom releases it, trims it again, then clamps it onto the stitching rig. Now, wearing two leather palm guards, he grasps a large needle and colored thread to install those traditional strings. A little more trimming with a knife and a brief combing to take out loose straw, and the broom is ready for sale, and business is not lacking. Visitors to Pioneer Village buy every broom turned out in Tom's little room. During 1971, Tom and another broom maker, Chris Hanson, produced more than 6,500 finished products. These were made in four sizes-whisk broom, child's broom, and floor brooms in two sizes. All sold. In addition to being souvenirs of the village, the brooms have special meaning for buyers who watch them being made. This is unique in an age of mass production when most everything comes from factories.

For Tom, Pioneer Village has a special meaning, aside from his broom making. A few doors down from his little shop is the school he and Harold Warp, founder of the village, attended together as boys. But like his craft, the one-room school is a part of the vanishing American scene. For 4Vfe years he has demonstrated the art of making brooms, sometimes turning out more than 20 a day. This rate of production may not have sufficed in the olden days, but it allows him to explain the procedure for visitors and joke with youngsters.

When Lois runs her spinning wheel, people stop to watch. Having done it for about eight years at the village, she can count her visitors to more than a million. "Shortly after I started here," she explains, "the millionth visitor came through. About 1 1/2 years ago, the two millionth was counted."

Few devices were once so common in the home, yet disappeared so rapidly with the advent of the machine age as the spinning wheel. The main reason, of course, was that spinning wool, cotton, or flax into yarn or thread was difficult and time-consuming. It took hundreds of hours to spin enough yarn for one garment — at least for a gal not too adept at the art. Lois, however, loves her work.

"It is really relaxing for anyone doing it as a hobby, and it is for me, too. Of course, it takes several weeks of steady practice before you learn to do it right, but after that it's really enjoyable," she says.

Wool is obtained in the immediate area, much of it from around Kenesaw. After shearing, Lois trims the best wool from the fleece, saving only that from the back, sides, and shoulders. She then washes it with a mild detergent and takes it to work.

Although she dyes some wool with natural agents once used by Indians and pioneers, this is for display only. Her dyes produce muted shades of red, tan, brown, and yellow, and are made of such things as chokecherries and elderberries, walnut husks, onion skins, goldenrod blossoms, clay, roots, bark, and fruits.

A native of Minden, Lois took up the art of spinning for the specific purpose of giving demonstrations at the village. After questioning his older workers about this art, Harold Warp sent Anna Warnstrom, a Swedish woman who worked for him in one of his Chicago factories, to teach Lois. Anna agreed to go if her husband could accompany her, since they had never been separated. Warp readily agreed, and that's how Lois learned the art. Now, Lois has her own collection of wheels, but still uses a Swedish-style wheel built in the 1800's while working at the museum.

Almost everyone shows a genuine interest in her work. Most people stop to watch as the wool is carded on the little nail-covered boards, rolled into a loose tube, then turned into yarn by the twisting action of the wheel. She mixes a few traces of black wool with white, and applies tension to stretch the tube of wool into several yards of yarn. Later, two, three, or four spools of yarn are again fed into the wheel to form the heavier, plied yarn. Then it is put onto an allwood device which cranks it into a skein, and from there it is wrapped into a ball.

By adjusting the tension, she can twist the yarn into a fine thread or a thick yarn, all without lumps or weak spots. Although no yarn is sold, finished articles such as ponchos, caps, and Afghans, made of the yarn, are for sale.

While most viewers are impressed, some are downright intrigued. Several years ago a man watched her demonstration, asked a lot of questions, and adopted spinning as his own hobby. Since then he has been back to the village, and has become an expert on the subject. He makes wheels, demonstrates how to use them, and has become a design authority. Indeed, the spinning wheel is again gaining in popularity, this time as a hobby for housewives, or for mechanically inclined men.

Such is also the case with weaving. Unlike the spinning wheel, however, the loom has never completely faded from the picture, as it has long been used by hobbyists and ethnic groups to produce rugs and blankets.

Once the multitudinous strings are formed into a web, a weaver can whip NEBRASKAland 62 along at a steady clip and create a product that grows right before one's eyes. Maggie worked at Pioneer Village several years before taking up weaving.

"I wanted to run the loom before, but they didn't need me," she explains. Then, six months ago, an opening came up.

"I just love it," she says with enthusiasm. "And, I never get tired of it. Actually, it is better when not quite so many people go through because then they have time to stop a while and really see what's going on."

As Pioneer Village is open every day of the year the loom is operated daily, too. A winter slack in the number of visitors doesn't mean a slowdown in weaving, though, since time is needed to work ahead for the summer rush.

"Another operator and I can turn out 3 or 4 rugs a day, measuring about 21 by 40 or 42 inches. Sometimes we switch to place mats or tote bags. We could sell more than we make."

Her loom is an unusual model, handmade by an early settler. The heavy framework was made from the timbers of his family's sod house after a new home was completed. The loom is held together with wooden pegs instead of nails. John Abrahamson, who lived southwest of Axtell (Minden's neighboring town), was the builder. Everything but the metal reed, or beater, he fashioned himself.

Now, strips of material used on the loom are cut from cloth obtained from discarded sheets and dresses. These strips are of many colors and designs, so each rug takes on individual character

"It's fascinating work," Maggie says. It must be, for many people become fascinated while watching. Perhaps that is the secret of all three crafts. They make people pause, elicit their interest in the work at hand, and bring to mind the people of a former time who used the equipment. When Harold Warp put Pioneer Village together, his purpose was to keep these crafts alive and to preserve the items which helped make America great. THE END

CONFLICT

completed. Congressional approval and several years of detailed planning are required prior to construction.

Irrigators, who have formed the Niobrara River Development Association and the North-Central Nebraska Reclamation District, are looking for stabilized water tables to provide moisture for 77,000 acres which have a relatively low crop production potential without supplemental irrigation water. The Norden Dam, they say, would boost productivity and bolster the area's economy. The other side argues that additional yields are not needed since there are already farm surpluses.

Proponents, including the State Soil and Water Conservation Commission, the Nebraska Irrigation Association, and the Nebraska Reclamation Association, point out the value of the lake which would be created. It could offer thousands of eastern Nebraskans recreational possibilities found only at a large, easily accessible reservoir — fishing, swimming, boating, and water skiing. Yet, opponents like the Quality Environment Council of Omaha and the Nebraska Chapter of the Wildlife Society, contend that the new lake would inundate an ecologically unique area. Paper birch trees, an oddity for this part of the country, are found here. The valley is an area where Eastern and Western species of plants and animals overlap. Also, the lake would flood more than 6,000 acres of bottomland, habitat for significant numbers of deer and turkey, and the 60 mile, concrete-lined irrigation canal, if not fenced or covered, would become a death trap for hundreds of deer.

There is also concern that there would not be sufficient downstream releases of water to maintain the integrity of the river below the dam.

Opponents, such as local groups of the Sierra Club, point to the fact that the Niobrara is one of Nebraska's most beautiful streams and, in their view, the entire river deserves to be kept in a wild state. A 20-mile stretch of top canoeing water would be lost and the beautiful spot which, until now, has remained relatively untouched, would be, according to them, altered into an over-used, despoiled recreation area. This group feels there are already plenty of facilities for people who enjoy large reservoirs and related types of recreation. They reason that there is little left for those who enjoy unspoiled areas and would like to see that portion of the Niobrara Valley set aside and protected.

Another Nebraska river, the Missouri, has been in the verbal crossfire of a third environmental battle. The project under attack was an Army Corps of Engineers proposal to improve the Missouri's channel from Gavins Point to South Sioux City.

The Corps would like to control some serious bank-erosion problems along this relatively uncontrolled stretch of the river. Unless corrected, many acres of farmland could be lost and several manmade structures close to the river at Yankton, South Dakota, could be endangered.

The Corps' proposals were returned to them by Congress last year for further environmental studies. Indeed, it was the possible impact which channelization could have on the area's ecology that made it a matter in dispute. The two state agencies directly involved, the Soil and Water Conservation Commission and the Game and Parks Commission, recognize the need for a project to protect adjacent land from erosion, but feel that the plan, as proposed in 1970, could result in irretrievable losses to the river's fish, wildlife, and outdoor recreation resources.

The Game Commission, along with private, environment-oriented organizations, maintains that this stretch of the Missouri is the last part of the river that looks remotely like the stream that Lewis and Clark knew. The watercourse still has some of its original character with sandbars, islands, chutes, and other areas which serve as resting places for waterfowl and spawning grounds for fish. That portion of the river supports such relatively scarce fish as the lake, shovel-nose, and pallid sturgeons, blue catfish, blue suckers, and paddlefish. The project's foes feel that much would be lost if the Corps' designs were carried out.

In all three disputed projects, the basic conflict is the same — environment versus economics, preservation versus development. Should what could well be an irreplaceable resting area for cranes, a fragile band of unique river valley, or the last unchannelized stretch of Lewis and Clark's Missouri River below the mainstream reservoirs be sacrificed for the sake of economic development?

Nebraskans must now face these issues and decide for themselves. The arguments of both sides should be studied and questioned. Alternatives must be examined. In any case, decisions must be made, decisions which could affect many generations to come. THE END

HEAT, GLASS, AND BREATH

found out how little I knew about glassblowing." Six months of intense training led to another interview and the job.

Though many years of glassblowing experience are now behind this craftsman, the next day may bring a challenging request for a piece of apparatus which is completely unique. The glassblower must be an artist, as well as a technician, in order to fashion something that has never been made before. He has only those materials which glassblowers have always had—glass and imagination.

Moore feels a certain kinship with the glassblowing masters of the past. An old print of a vintage glassblowing laboratory hangs on his wall, a testimony to the pride he takes in his work. The glassblowers of renaissance Europe were the finest workers in glass the world had known up until that time, and perhaps their equal has not been known since.

The Phoenicians are often mistakenly given credit for the discovery of glass. It seems that the crew of a Phoenician ship stopped at a sandy beach to cook a meal. With no rocks handy to build a fireplace, they used chunks of soda from the ship to support their cooking utensils. The heat of the fire fused the sand and soda, producing a stream of transparent liquid that hardened on cooling. While this story sounds feasible, the Egyptians apparently had worked with glass long before this incident could have taken place.

No matter who gets credit, the discovery that sand mixed with soda yields glass was but half the achievement. Equally important was the discovery of the exact proportions required to obtain transparent glass; no haphazard mixture would work. So precise were the formulas worked out by the early-day chemists, that some are still in use.

While most civilizations apparently used glass, it was not known that it could be blown until about 20 B.C. This discovery proved to be revolutionary. From JANUARY 1972 63   that time to the Venetian masters of the 16th and 17th centuries, glassblowing became a flourishing art.

But despite the technical advances made since that time, glassblowing is in a period of decline. The manufacture of glassware has made the glassblower's talents too expensive. Yet, two areas remain untouched by the uncreative hand of mass production — the exacting demands of scientific glassblowing and the individuality of artistic creations. Lloyd Moore has proven himself a master in both areas.

Though surrounded by up-to-date equipment, the bearded glassblower still uses ingredients that have always been basic to the trade: heat, glass, and breath. Working a piece of glass in his hands, Moore is the modern counterpart of ancient craftsmen. The flame comes from a burner which mixes natural gas and oxygen or hydrogen, but knowing when to heat the tube and when to let it cool only comes from experience. He uses a variety of modern types of glass, but his hands must turn and stretch the rod as only those of a trained artisan can. A piece of rubber tubing carries his breath to the turning glass, becoming a breath of life, forming symmetry and grace in glass.

Craftsmanship cannot be removed from artistry. When Moore does his scientific glassblowing at the university, the artist is still at work; for the blowing of an intricate condenser for a chemistry experiment is like making a ship in a bottle. And when he goes home to work on something like a delicately drawn swan, his craft goes with him, because the art and the techniques he uses cannot be separated.

At his home, the Pear Lab on Pear Street in Lincoln, Moore combines his abilities. He does custom glassblowing and repairs broken glass objects. He also spends time on artistic endeavors, producing a variety of novelty items. Presently he shares his skills with a group of potential glassblowers at the Lincoln Recreation Department. For the past two years, he has taught classes in creative glassblowing.

Moore cannot escape his ties with this unusual profession. His bond with history is more than coincidental, for he is concerned about keeping the craft alive. "My main goal in life is to teach others about glassblowing so that it won't die out," he says.

With craftsmen and artists like Moore around, there is little likelihood that it ever will. THE END

THAT'S WHAT IT'S ALL ABOUT

got to hit me a little harder or I'll take forever putting one on the stringer."

Swoosh! The rod went down. Paul jerked it up. "Got him now," he whooped. His light, five-pound monofilament sliced the water as he reeled steadily, expertly playing the fish.

"A bullhead," Ace shouted with glee, "a little old bullhead. For a second there I thought your shad had come to life, but I guess I was wrong."

"Sticks and stones," was Paul's quick rebuttal as he threaded his pound-plus bullhead onto his stringer.

As far as fishing success was concerned, the next hour passed catchless with only a few butter-soft bites. But, to the surprise of both seasoned veterans, the wind broke to a trifling breeze, and the sun squeezed through the cotton-thick cloud cover.

"I've said it a million and one times, if you don't like our weather here at Mac, just wait a few minutes," Ace smiled.

"It's exactly what you ordered now, Ace. I think the weather boss knew you'd never catch a cat here. Let's swing down east to our lucky clump of willows," Paul said.

As they headed east, Old Man Sun bounced his golden rays off the rippling water in a brilliant display of intricate mosaics. While making their way through the willows and trees, huge snow-white pelicans soared gracefully overhead, a pair of mallards quacked hello, and the myriad tunes of songbirds floated through the air.

As they approached a large grove of partially submerged willows in the last of the west-end headwaters, Ace slowed the craft and headed for a tie-up limb. He killed the motor and the boat glided perfectly to the tree. Paul tied up, and without further ado, both anglers threw two lines each into the water.

Ace was still making himself comfortable when his rod bent deep. 'Yahoo!" he shouted as he yanked the rod back over his head and put the touch of trouble to the hungry fish.

Both fellows watched enthusiastically as Ace reeled in his catch. "Uh-oh," Ace mumbled, as the finny fellow surfaced.

"Well, unless I'm mistaken, that looks like a bullhead," Paul taunted. "Another half to three-quarters of a pound and you'd probably keep it, wouldn't you, Ace?" Laughter again bounced across the water.

"This is quite a catfishing expedition," Paul chuckled. "Two hours of fishing for two bullheads. Of course, I had better count those bites and nibbles," he continued.

Just then, the line on Paul's righthand rig tightened. He picked it up gently. The line began moving slowly to the left.

"Darn little thief. Hit it. Don't just fool around," he whispered.

Swoosh! He yanked his rod up, and the line held tight. Paul had a fish. His line cut the water to the left and Paul yanked again, reeling fast to stop the run before the fish made it to the snags and safety of the submerged willows. Before long the duo's first long-whiskered, much-sought-after channel catfish was aboard, bearing Paul Temple's credit line.

Paul was about to continue his ribbing when Ace's rod suddenly took a dive. Ace slammed his taker and landed a fine catfish in the two-pound category. Paul's catch had weighed about 1 1/2 pounds.

"Hang on to your hat Paul," Ace advised. "We're going to town now." Just then Paul converted another good hit into a catfish on the stringer. It was high noon.

During the next hour, the two anglers kept busy as proverbial beavers, wearing mile-wide smiles. The channel catfish at McConaughy were hungry and the experienced anglers were cashing in. It was almost as if the cats had a sense of fairness the way they hit first one angler's bait and then the other's offering. Everything was perfect.

All catfish tipped the scales at around two pounds, give or take a few ounces. "Just the right size for frying," Paul said.

"I've always thought cats school by size," Ace added. "This adds a little backbone to that theory, don't you think?"

The action continued until 1:30 p.m. when, as fast as it had started, it died.

"How about that pelican?" Ace said, after it became apparent that they would have to entertain themselves with something other than fishing. "Those bigbeaked birds are really handsome. They usually arrive in mid-April and then leave in late July. But, they come back for a final visit when the shad school again in September.

"A person can really get an education in wildlife out here," Paul added. "No matter how big or small, important or unimportant any individual species, each plays an important role in nature's cycle. Sometimes it's discouraging, though. The bald eagles that come here for winter are diminishing in numbers each year. But, on the other hand, ducks seem to be gaining in population, as well as big honkers and sandhill cranes."

Both anglers were gazing at the pelicans. Like jet bombers, the big birds soared smoothly through the soft, blue sky, playing on shelves of light wind.

The warm May sun felt good as the fishermen reminisced about a few ice-fishing expeditions the previous winter. But, gradually the wind came up from the east again, sending ever-larger swells through the willows. Paul bobbed high in the bow of Ace's boat.

"Probably time for lunch, wouldn't you think, Ace?," Paul asked.

"Sure," Ace replied, as he dug into his lunch box for a sandwich.

Another hour of fishing after their break produced two pound-plus perch, three more bullheads, and another cat. "Where do we stand?" Ace asked.

Paul hoisted his fish-laden stringer. "This last fish makes an even limit of 10 for me, and I'll bet you have 8. Ace checked his stringer and said that was right. He had eight nice cats.

"That's good Ace. We don't have to catch them all today. Two short of our limit is perfect."

Both agreed it was time to head for home. They knew it would be a wet trip because by this time, the wind was pushing swells that could not be ignored. It was 3 p.m. when Paul untied the boat.

"That finishes another one," Ace said, as he and Paul beached the boat back at the launching site. "We got them today, but I remember times when we caught only those darn snags. A lot of fish, no fish, or few fish, we always have a good time, rain or shine. Isn't that what it's all about?" THE END

NEBRASKAland TRADING POST

Classified Ads: 18 cents a word, minimum order $3.60. February 1972 closing date, December 9. Send classified ads to: Trading Post, NEBRASKAland, 2200 N. 33rd St., Lincoln, Nebraska 68503, P.O. Box 30370.

AFRICANS 3 1/2 up, $12.00—1000. Beyond 3rd zone 25 extra. Postpaid. Clif's Worm Hatchery, Lawrence, Kansas 66044.

AKC Vizsla pups, excellent hunters and pets, stud services, Freeman Guide & Sports Servioe. Valentine, Nebraska 69201. Phone (402) 376-2703.

COUNTRY Records and Tape Cartridges. Fiddle-Tunes-Blue Grass-Etc. Free Circular. Uncle Jim O'Neal, Box A-NM, Arcadia, California 91006.

DEER to deerskins . . . your trophy! Place will tan your deerhides into soft supple leather and create a complete fashionable wardrobe at reasonable prices. Send for free catalog. W. B. Place and Company, Hartford, Wisconsin 53027, Dept. N.

ENGLISH pointers. Excellent gun dogs. Pups, dogs, and stud service. M. D. Mathews, M.D., St. Paul, Nebraska 68873.

FREE gift catalog. Jewelry, other items. Nebraska made. Quality workmanship. Rock-Art Jewelry, Rte 3, Box 54, Curtis, Nebraska 69025.

GUN or fishing rod tie clip. In gift box. Yellow, $3.95 each postpaid. M-B Products, Box 806, Tarzana, California 91356.

HUNTERS: deer butchering wall chart—$1.00, or deer butchering manual, shows how to prepare deer from field to freezer—$2.00. Gredzinski, 3301 North Rorer Street, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania 19134.

OLD fur coats, restyled into capes, stoles, etc. $25.00. We're also tanners and manufacture for garments, buckskin jackets, and gloves. Free style folder—Haeker's Furriers, Alma, Nebraska.

PARKERS, Krieghoffs, Perazzis, Browning trap, skeet, and field grades, old Winchester, year list $1. Bedlan's, 14th & E, Fairbury, Nebraska 68352.

PLAYBOY Magazine. Some worth $100 to $300. For authentic list, giving market prices of all old issues send $1.00 to: Ostfeld Publication Research, Suite 1301, 29 E. Madison Street, Chicago, Illinois 60602.

WAX worms; 250, $3; 500, $5; 1000, $9; Postpaid. Add 2ty.% sales tax. Dean Mattley, 618 5th Street, St. Paul, Nebraska 68873.

$25.00 per hundred addressing, mailing, possible. Work at home, your hours. Sample and Instructions 25c and stamped self-addressed envelope. CHASMAR, Dept. VG, Box 263, Elkhart, Indiana 46514.

"A" FRAME cabin. $500 for material. Any lumber yard. Completely illustrated instruction manual, including material list. Moneyback guarantee. Send $2.00 to Dependable, Plan # 1403, Box 113, Vista, California 92083.

FOR sale; New, contemporary 3-bedroom home located on a 4-acre wooded site along the Minnechaduza Creek in Valentine, Nebraska. Keith Titus, Architect, 136 South Lincoln Avenue, Loveland, Colorado 303/669-0598.

GOVERNMENT lands—low as $1.25 acre! Available for recreation, investment or homesteading. For latest report, send $1.00. Western Lands, Box 1555PT, Tacoma, Washington 98401.

3,400 acre ranch in northern Knox County, Nebraska, adjoining Lewis and Clark Lake for 3 miles. Good improvements on hard-surface highway. Priced under $80 per acre by Executors of Estate, Tina O'Connor, deceased-Vernon McDowell, Kirkman, Iowa 51447; Henry F. Reimer, Center, Nebraska 68724.

BIG Bear Taxidermy, Rt. 2, Mitchell, Nebraska 69357. We specialize in all big game from Alaska to Nebraska, also birds and fish. Hair on and hair off tanning. 4 1/2 miles west of Scottsbluff on Highway 26. Phone 635-3013.

OLD West Taxidermy. Remember that great hunting or fishing trip for years to come. Game heads, birds, fish, small animals mounted in true-to-life manner. Years of experience. Richard H. Vestecka, 2600 Washington St., Lincoln, Nebraska 68502. Phone 423-4404.

TAXIDERMY work—big-game heads, fish-and-bird mounting; rug making, hide tanning, 36 years experience. Visitors welcome, Floyd Houser, Sutherland, Nebraska. Phone 386-4780.

TAXIDERMY work, game heads, birds and tanning at lowest prices. Joe Honcik, 2724 Olive Street, Omaha, Nebraska 68147.

WORLD'S most complete taxidermy supply house. We have everything! Big full color catalog only 50 Vandyke's, Woonsocket 18, South Dakota 57385.

OUTDOOR NEBRASKAland of the Air

Outdoor Elsewhere

Triple Play. A triple play in baseball ignites roars of screaming cheers from fans, but how about a triple play during a dove hunt? That's exactly what happened when a trio of Maryland hunters were having a scrap with mourning doves. One of the hunters downed a dove with a perfect shot, and casually stuffed the bird into his game pouch while accepting congratulations from his companions. Suddenly, the bird wriggled free and catapulted from the pouch. The hunter took clear aim and fired at the fleeting bird, but missed. A second companion shouldered his gun and fired, but to no avail. Finally, the last shooter put the dove in the bag after the bird had scored a triple play. — Maryland

The Guessing Game. An Ohio Game Warden in plain clothes was patroling a duck marsh after shooting hours when he happened to notice several wood ducks flying overhead. Suddenly, from out of nowhere a voice said, "Hey, guess what? I thought you were a game warden or I would have shot those ducks. Did you see them?"

"Yes," replied the plain-clothed warden.

Just then, several more wood ducks flew overhead and the hunter raised his gun and shot one of the birds.

"Hey, guess what?" the warden said, casually reaching into his coat pocket for his Conservation Officer's Badge. What?" the hunter asked.

I am a game warden." That ended the guessing game right there. — Ohio.

The Red Hunters. In a small town in Montana, some hunters stopped in at a local tavern after a successful day of antelope hunting. The sportsmen, each dressed in brilliant red, briefly celebrated their day's hunt and left the establishment to return to their camp. As they walked out the door, a lady tourist from the east coast saw the hunters, and asked a fellow why they were all wearing red. The fellow explained to her that it was state law for them to wear red. At that, the lady exclaimed, "That's wonderful. Drunks everywhere should be made to wear red!" — Montana

A Friendly Cat. Cats make popular pets, and for the most part, are extremely friendly animals. However, odd as it might seem, a Michigan couple decided that their pet cat is a little too friendly. Their cat apparently slipped out through an open window one night and during his foray, tangled with a skunk. The overly friendly cat then returned to his home and for consolation crawled into his owner's bed, with the owner in it. The couple spent the rest of the night holding their noses and spraying the house and cat with deodorizers.— Michigan

Where The Money Goes. Although not very often, once in a great while a sportsman might be overheard bemoaning the high price of hunting or fishing permits. Needless to say, most of these complainers base their gripes on little or no fact. The real truth is, that of money a sportsman spends for hunting and fishing fun in a one-year period, only about 3 1/2 cents of each dollar spent go toward permit costs, based on a study made by Washington State University. Most of the money the sportsman puts out is for transportation, which accounts for 24 cents out of each dollar. And, equipment claims 3 1/2 cents of every dollar spent. Any way you slice it, permit fees are a very nominal part of hunting and fishing expenses. — Washington, D.C.

The Fluttering Heart. It was late afternoon when the Pennsylvania deer hunter suddenly felt a rapid vibration in his chest. He reached under his heavy clothes to feel his heart. Years of thought flew by in seconds. Then, the frightened hunter sighed in relief as his hand touched an alarm clock in his pocket set for 4 a.m. The case of the mysterious "heart condition" was solved.— Pennsylvania

Females on the Trap Line. A Pennsylvania game warden recently made some astounding discoveries while trapping for predators. Every day the officer made a note as to the sex of the trapped animals. After a month, he found that 86 percent of these predators were females. The officer concluded that females aren't as smart as they think they are, and that curiosity proves the downfall of the fairer sex. However, it should be mentioned here that the officer's wife doesn't believe a word of it. —Pennsylvania

Oregon Trail

OREGON TRAIL MIGRANTS knew well the significance of this point on their epic journeys. Not far from this historical marker, located a few miles west of Hastings on U.S. highway 6 and 34, is the hydrographic divide between the drainages of the Little Blue and Platte rivers. Once this divide was crossed, it meant the Platte Valley and its easy traveling lay ahead.

In the middle of the last century, at the peak of westward migration, all roads led to the Platte. The most important of these feeder routes were those which led from Independence and St. Joseph, Missouri, to their junction with the Great Platte River Road just east of Fort Kearny. The Independence and St. Joe roads joined in northern Kansas. Their common route, part df the classic Oregon Trail, then followed the northwesterly course of the Little Blue River to a point south of present-day Hastings. From there, the trail headed directly for the Platte across the sandy prairie.

Certainly not a formidable barrier by modern standards, this divide like many others, meant a hard, uphill climb for the pioneers and their oxen. Going down was often just as difficult because the weighty loads and poor brakes tended to run the wagons up over the oxen.

Travelers frequently found that the best and often the only way to continue their journeys was to dump cherished, yet heavy portions of their cargoes overboard. In recent times, occasional remnants of the years when the Oregon Trail was its peak, were found. Dressers, bed frames, cooking utensils, and a thousand other items recall the days when the promise of a distant land and the lure of a new life caused the desertion of heirlooms and, with them, family traditions.

At first, there were no settlements to speak of along the Oregon Trail. Only in 1859 were the stations established to service stagecoach and freight companies and the Pony Express. The last of these stations before reaching the Platte was known as Sand Hill, and later, Summit Station. Both names reflect the nature of the terrain. The hills which border the Platte are sandy indeed, and the edge of that last bluff before the great valley must have seemed like the barren top of some lofty mountain.

Leaving the relative lushness of the Little Blue behind, the pioneers had to cross those last desert-like 20 miles before reaching the Platte without the wood and water to which they had become accustomed. But their efforts were rewarded upon reaching the summit. Before them lay their dreamed-about highway to the West, the overwhelmingly vast Platte River Valley. The journey would now be easier; but in reality it had just begun. THE END