Cover: Prairie spiderwort, also called trinity, is native across entire state. Pair of pelicans takes off into flight near Hyannis on page 3. Both photos were taken by NEBRASKAland's Greg Beaumont.

For the record... Conservation Unity

A decade ago, the field of wildlife was assumed to be the sole province of sportsmen. Recently, however, those in the hunting and fishing ranks find that they no longer occupy an exclusive position. They are being joined and even jostled by new groups claiming concern for wildlife. In fact, controversies are erupting between established and somewhat complacent hunters and fishermen on the one hand, and the so-called protectionists on the other. Protectionists have probably been around for as long as sport hunters, but until recently, they have been relatively obscure. It is not surprising that in recent years there has been a sharp rise in both numbers of protectionists and their visibility. We are in a period when people feel keenly and sincerely their responsibilities for the preservation of natural things, and they are eager to make themselves heard by those in policy-making positions.

I do not feel seriously threatened by this controversy because I see in it the potential of an urgently needed coalition of interests. I seriously doubt whether protectionists alone can protect the interests of wildlife and habitat just as I also feel that sportsmen cannot do the job by themselves. In recent years, sportsmen have taken considerable pride in noting that licensed hunters and fishermen constitute about 20 percent of the nation's population. But the other side of the coin, which shows that non-hunters and non-fishermen make up 80 percent of our populace, has been consistently avoided. As long as the 80 percent remained disorganized and passive, hunters and fishermen presented an impressive force as wildlife protectors. But today the protectionist faction is neither totally disorganized nor passive. The 80 percent poses a powerful voice which is being heard by increasingly sympathic ears.

In the controversy, I see a possible change in the adoption of new yardsticks to measure wildlife values. I believe we are at last realizing that the universal use of economic criteria to define values cannot, in truth, fix the long-term priorities of today's society. The ultimate test is what people enjoy the most. This is a valid yardstick with which we must measure many of our wildlife resources. This is the yardstick that lends itself so admirably to the strength of diverse groups having a common concern for wild things.

I firmly believe that from the controversy now going on will come new public support and reshaped philosophy that will equitably embrace the full spectrum of ecologically sound interests in wildlife. The early 1970's will be recorded as an important transition period in conservation —hectic, but essential to the attainment of a new and broader perspective of popular appreciation for wild resources.

Our central concern, then, must be the perpetuation of a rich diversity of wild animals and environments, and the utilization of them for the betterment of present and future societies. The ecologically sound wildlife interest groups, whether they be sportsmen or non-sportsmen, have identical objectives. Collectively, we are indispensable allies capable of accomplishing our goals. But as separate, quarreling, go-it-alone interests, the prospect of success is dim indeed.

help pheasants have a population explosion!

Hold off mowing until July 15th. Early mowing of road sides, dry water basins, and odds-and-ends areas will cut the pheasant population.

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.

REPRINTS-"Do you have reprints available of the article Conflict in the January 1972 issue of NEBRASKAland? I would be interested in obtaining a number of them for distribution to local members of Prairie Audubon Society in Hastings. It is an excellent, impartial coverage of the three projects." —Elsie Rose, Hastings.

Mrs. Rose's letter prompted reprints of the article and they were sent to her. These are now available to other readers, free of charge, by writing to NEBRASKAland Magazine, 2200 North 33rd Street, Lincoln, Nebraska 68503. — Editor.

REMEMBER WHEN- The article The Mill at Champion in January, 1971, recalled many memories for me. I was familiar with the mill many years ago and remember one incident well.

"My sister, Pearl, was a tall, skinny girl of 13 when she had a near-tragedy on the iron rods which ran from the mill to the big wheel. At the time, there were no coverings over the rods, but they were between large planks and rolled very rapidly. One day I was in my usual place by the big wheel, fishing with my younger sisters. Two neighbor girls and Jay Hoke were playing farther on. All at once we heard awful screaming and when we arrived there, Pearl stood in her long, white drawers, trying to hide herself behind her hands. Fortunately, she had on separate skirts, or she might have been drawn into the rods. Even at that, it took super-human strength to hold on until her skirts ripped off. When the miller stopped the wheel, and her skirts were unwound, they were all in tiny shreds. Someone ran up to the miller's house and borrowed a dress for Pearl to wear home. She was so embarassed at others seeing her in her drawers tbat shame dulled all sense of fear and tragedy, and the experience was seldom mentioned. Pearl would turn over in her grave if she knew the scarcity of pants on girls today. I mean underpants —I do not like pants on women."—Gladys Schaefer, San Francisco, California.

LOOK ALIKES- 'We thought you might be interested in the similarity of the enclosed snapshots. One is Hole in the Rock near Honolulu, Hawaii. The other is a point at Lake McConaughy." — Robert Osborn, Sidney.

OLD PERMITS-"Recently, I came into possession of Nebraska hunting and fishing licenses dating from 1916 through 1958, with only 1954 missing.

"From 1916 to 1927, these read 'license' to fish and hunt. Those from 1928 to 1958 read 'permit' to fish and hunt with 1954 missing. I also have a 1923 license to trap.

"If there is any historic value to these, I would gladly part with them." —K. B. Mellman, Gothenburg.

The Game and Parks Commission is gathering such permits for a display which will ultimately be placed in the new headquarters complex in Lincoln. We are missing permits only for the years 1901 to 1906, 1909, 1910, 1963, 1967, 1968, 1969, and 1970, and would (Continued on page 8)

Speak up

appreciate having them for our office collection. Also, permits for 1932, 1934, 1937, 1939, 1946, and 1947 which we have are in poor condition and we would like to replace them. Should readers have any of these in good condition which they might wish to contribute, they can do so by contacting Miss Elizabeth Huff, Chief, Special Publications Section, Nebraska Game and Parks Commission, 2200 North 33rd Street, Lincoln, Nebraska 68503. -Editor.

In the February 1972 Speak Up column, a reader requested a recipe for either beef or venison summer sausage. Another subscriber responded, but did not sign his or her name. Here, then, is the recipe from a reader in Seward. —Editor.

Grind meat, mix together, and season. Then, take a patty of this meat and fry it —this way you can test the seasoning. Stuff seasoned meat tightly in casing and tie off at intervals to form sausages. Smoke for 10 to 1 5 days, depending on the heat inside the smoker.

MORE SAUSAGE- "I saw in the Speak Up column in February's NEBRASKAland that you are asking for a summer sausage recipe, so I am sending you one that I have used for years.

"We enjoy your magazine very much. When we have read it all, we send it to our son and family in Kansas '-Fred Bortz, Weeping Water.

Grind meat twice and add salt, pepper, and sugar. Add saltpeter to sausage. Stuff in beef casing about 18 inches long, then let stand in 10-gallon jar and pour on fairly strong salt water until sausages are covered. Let stand for seven days, then remove and retie each casing. Hang sausages for one day, then smoke to desired taste. If garlic flavor is desired, soak four cloves in a cup of hot water overnight and mix in with meat during initial steps.

FEELING AND LOVE-"The following poem and photograph are submitted with great feeling and a special love for the state of Nebraska.

"This poem is in no way a condemnation of the fine people in the eastern part of the state. I was prompted to write it after a recent visit to Omaha. A lifetime native of that city asked me where I was from and when I answered, his reply was, 'Chadron where?'" —N. Henry, Chadron.

This Nebraska I love. No, not "Go Big Red," nor Lincoln, nor Omaha, but this, the west of the state, the forgotten end of the state. I love the people of my small town, their faces tawny in summer from hours in the sun, rosy from winters cold. I love their conversations, "Tried a great new chicken feed. Sure hope it don't hail." And their innocence and astonishment as they openly stare at a daring lass in hot pants, but in low voices comment, "Them crazy shortshorts."

This Nebraska I love.

I love the highways, narrow and twisting through the ever-changing hills; the hills sometimes warm yellow, or cool green, or cold, brown, and barren. And the bluffs which suddently erupt but confine themselves to God's chosen area; beyond the bluffs, more and more hills.

This Nebraska I love.

I love the history. A place where I can stand and know that on this very site, in centuries past, walked the giants of creatures; a world so long ago and yet so present. I love the fort where a ghostly bugler still sounds taps from another time. At sundown, the proud silhouette of an ancient Indian, long gone, little remembered.

This Nebraska I love.

Yes, let "Big Red Go," and all the east of the state be content in pollution and confinement. May this, the west of the state, the forgotten end of the state, always remain so, for...

This Nebraska I iove.

Ball of Trouble

DANGER WAS the farthest thing from our minds that fine spring day two years ago. We were just a typical bunch of frisky teenagers kicking up our heels at a class party planned to celebrate the end of our freshman year at Maywood High School.

About 20 of us were cavorting on the banks of Medicine Creek Reservoir north of Cambridge, trying to set up a picnic. But, when interest in that project waned, attention shifted toward the lake and a stretch of inviting and apparently shallow water nearby.

Although it was not an authorized swimming area, about a dozen of us waded into the shallows. Soon a redhot game of keep-away developed, pitting the boys against the girls. As the little white tennis ball zipped between us, no one ever imagined that disaster was stalking two of our number, waiting to mar our frolic. The game grew more boisterous, when suddenly the soggy ball zipped into untested water a bit farther from shore. That skittering ball set off a chain of events that led to near tragedy and would be a lesson to all of us for years to come.

Almost without thinking, we churned out after the ball. With just a few strokes, I passed two of the boys who seemed to have paused after going only a few yards. I remember wondering why they stopped. Apparently I was the only strong swimmer in the little group pursuing the ball, so I won the race.

As I made my way back to the game, I again approached the same two boys. One was clinging to the other, and he yelled "Help!" just once. But to me it

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appeared as if they were just clowning around, so I continued toward them without changing my pace.

Within a few seconds, the truth of the situation dawned on me. Intense panic gripped one of the boys as he struggled in the water. As I swam within reach, he grabbed me and pulled me beneath the surface. Only then did I realize that the three of us were in very deep water, apparently beyond a shelf that dropped off sharply only a few yards from where we had been wading a few seconds before.

One of the fellows could swim well enough, but he was helpless with his buddy clinging desperately to him, for the second boy couldn't swim a stroke.

My reaction to the situation was almost automatic. There was not even time to consciously form a plan. After shaking off the first compulsive grasp, I began pushing them toward shore.

Although I'm fairly small—only about 5 feet, 2 inches-I am a strong swimmer. I can usually go a considerable distance without tiring. But propelling two flailing classmates through the water was quite another matter. When we finally passed over the edge of the shelf within the reach of a companion standing in shallow water, I was exhausted. By that time, I needed help myself to make it the rest of the way to shore.

Shakily, we clambered onto dry land. A serious accident had been averted, and the drama was over. It seemed eerie, but that little stretch of water looked just as innocent and inviting as it did when we first arrived. The gradual slope of the bottom near shore still disguised the dropoff and the deep water that had clutched at my friends and me just minutes earlier. But, that shelf is still there, a potential hazard to any swimmers or waders that might give in to the tempting waters on a warm day.

Now I understand the reason for clearly defined swimming areas, and the regulations that prohibit swimming anywhere else in large reservoirs. Good swimmers, as well as non-swimmers, can be taken by surpirse by underwater hazards in unfamiliar waters, especially when involved in what would normally seem to be a harmless game like tag or keep-away. Approved swimming areas are free of these dangers.

Swimming is still one of my favorite pastimes, but that experience at Medicine Creek Reservoir two years ago has made me realize what hazards to avoid. THE END

How to: Boat in Rough Weather

A GREAT DEAL has been written about what to do in stormy weather when on the water, ' but by far the best advice is to stay home. If there are any misgivings lurking in your mind, listen to them and don't go near the water. Your new boat may be tempting, the sun may be shining brightly, and the water may be smooth and blue, but if you have reason to believe that there will be troubled waters in the not-too-distant future, drop anchor in a quiet, sheltered cove and prepare to ride out whatever nature sends your way.

There are several ways of obtaining information about weather conditions, some of them reliable, others less valid. The most dependable source of such information is the local National Weather Service. Contact with this bureau before a voyage, no matter how short, may spare the sailer a great deal of grief.

Listening carefully to the weatherman on radio or television can also be of great benefit. If rough weather is on the way, then follow the same advice — stay home and don't go near the water. Storm-warning signals are given in case of approaching foul weather at weather stations, Coast Guard stations, yacht clubs, ports, and large marinas. Flags are used during the day and lights at night. If any of these weather signals are displayed, stay home —and stay off the water.

Whatever the weather for your voyage, be sure to take certain precautionary steps before departure: 1. Be sure your boat is fully equipped and in seaworthy condition; 2. Be sure you have plenty of fuel; 3. Don't overload your vessel; 4. Notify a responsible person of your estimated time of return and the area in which you will be cruising so that if you don't return on time he dispatch a search and rescue team.

There are, too, some natural indications which an observant old salt may generally rely upon. Some useful tips are: 1. Bright blue sky —fair weather; 2. Red sky at sunset —fair tomorrow; 3. Red sky at sunrise —foul today; 4. Grey sky at sunset —foul tomorrow; 5. Cloudless sunset —fair tomorrow; 6. Ring around moon —storm coming; 7. Weak sun —possible rain; 8. Diffused, glaring sun at sunset —storm coming; 9. High clouds going in direction opposite to that of low clouds — unsettled weather; 10. Fleecy, light clouds —fine weather; 11. Small, dark clouds —rain; 12. Large, dark cloudsstorm; 13. Streaks and patches of white clouds on horizon after nice weather-change of weather with wind or rain; 14. Wind before rain —mild storm; 15. Rain before wind —rough storm; 16. Rising barometer —fair; 17. Falling barometer — storm.

If, however, you are caught on water during a severe blow, there are several steps you should take, depending on the circumstances. First of all, if possible, head rapidly to shore. Beach your boat and head for shelter.

If the storm is electrical, take cover in a draw or low spot and lie flat. Another safe place is in the center of a group of trees, but avoid isolated trees, posts, or walls, since lightning has a tendency to strike the highest spots.

If the storm builds up to a tornado, head away from it at right angles and, again, seek the lowest spot available, ideal shelter being a road culvert.

If you can't make it to shore, then head your vessel into the wind angling into the waves. Have all persons either lie down or sit on the bottom of the boat. If your motor fails or if you have no motor, use a sea anchor which may be a bucket, a shirt, or a pair of pants knotted at the ankles. This sea anchor should be tied to a line over the bow of the craft so that it drags in the water, keeping the boat facing the wind.

All boaters should remember that state law requires all youngsters under 12 wear life preservers at all times. It's also not a bad idea for adults.

If your boat capsizes or swamps, stay with it, since most boats float. It may be a lot farther to shore than you think. If you have a radio, signal Mayday. If you have a sound-producing device or a light, flash either the emergency distress signal, which is four or more short blasts or the same with lights, or the internationally known distress signal SOS consisting of three short, three long, and three short blasts or flashes of lights.

Remember, as the saying goes, there are many bold sailors and many old sailors, but only very few bold, old sailors. THE END

NEBRASKA-NUMBER ONE

by Francine Skorka, Omaha. This poem, excerpts of which appear here, was judged winner of the 1971 Mari Sandoz Essay Contest sponsored annually by NEBRASKAland Magazine. The 1972 contest, open to all 7th through 12th graders in Nebraska schools, is presently underway. Rules are available at schools or by writing NEBRASKAland, Box 30370, Lincoln, Nebr. 68503. Deadline for entries is May 12.

Crappie Cradle

STAY IN YOUR bed and catch fish? It sounded like fantasizing by a lazy fisherman, but this was actually Irvin (Smitty) Schmidt's advice on how to creel Midway Lake's crappie.

Two days on the lake with Smitty and his fishing partner Milton (Ross) Ross, convinced me that "bed" fishing leisurely and productive, but definitely not for the lazy. The fruits of hard work lay, literally, beneath the surface, and we were reaping the rewards of past efforts.

Despite the weatherman's prediction that the skies would clear, a cold, mid-May rain was still falling when I   arrived at Smitty's home in Cozad. He informed me that Ross wouldn't be able to get away until the next morning, but suggested we give it a try later in the afternoon if the rain let up. By five o'clock we had convinced ourselves that the weather was improving, so we loaded our fishing gear in the car and headed south on Highway 21. Four miles south of town we turned west on a county road. Several consecutive days of rain had turned it into a quagmire, and for several miles we slipped and slid along, trying to stay in the ruts. Finally, turning south again, we climbed the bluffs and headed toward the lake.

Donning rain gear, we backed Smitty's 16-foot craft from the boathouse at Midway Resort and headed slowly out onto the lake, taking a random, zigzag course.

"The lake used to be deep here," Smitty pointed, "but it has silted in badly and now you have to be careful to stay in the channel. I marked the channel several weeks ago, so we shouldn't have any trouble."

As we entered deep water, Smitty opened the throttle and the boat leaped forward. A light rain was still falling, and the boat's speed turned the drops into tiny bullets that stung our faces. After five minutes of this pelleting we turned into a cove and idled slowly toward the bank.

"We'll try a few of these areas close to home and save the rest for morning," Smitty said, as he pulled out his spinning rod.

I watched slyly as he rigged up —a No. 4 hook baited with a 2-inch minnow, a pair of split-shot weights, and a bobber set for a depth of just under 3 feet. He advised me that the beds extended three feet down from the surface and that fishing any deeper almost always results in snagging. Following Smitty's lead, I set up my outfit and cast to a spot about 10 yards from the boat's stern where he said there was a good bed. Meanwhile, Smitty had rigged up a second rod with a heavy sinker and larger minnow, and had cast it into deep water at the mouth of the cove.

"I always fish my second line on the bottom," he explained, "and sometimes I come up with a good catfish or walleye."

Raindrops were still marking the surface of the lake when I saw my bobber dip quickly several times in succession. Instinctively, I set the hook but succeeded only in sending my bobber, weight, and hook flying into the air.

"Let them work on it a little longer," Smitty suggested. "A crappie will usually bump the minnow several times before inhaling it. Wait until the bobber goes completely under and then set the hook quickly but gently. Crappie have tender mouths and if you set the hook too hard you'll rip it out."

Minutes later, Smitty demonstrated his advice. His bobber dipped cautiously several times and then lay still. Waiting patiently, Smitty watched the float. Seconds later it dipped again several times in succession and began moving slowly away from the boat. Playing out line, he continued to wait. Finally, the bobber disappeared completely and Smitty lifted his rod tip smoothly, hooking the fish. The light rod bowed sharply as the crappie bored for deeper water. Smitty, obviously enjoying the fight, let the fish wear itself out, then led it to the boat and lifted itaboard.

"They put up a good fight for their size," Smitty said, unhooking the nine-incher and dropping it into the fish basket hanging over the side of the boat.

My attention had been diverted by the action, and when I looked up my bobber was gone. Lifting the rod tip carefully I felt the hook drive home and the fish dive. In a minute I was lifting the scrapper aboard.

"Looks like a twin to the one I just caught," Smitty observed, as I unhooked the fish and dropped it into the basket.

For the next hour, the crappie bit well. The action wasn't furious, but it was fast enough to keep it interesting. Most of the fish measured from 6 to 10 inches. Smitty, however, landed one — more than a foot long — which topped the pound mark.

By 7:30 p.m. the muddy sky was turning dark as the hidden sun sank lower. A few drops of rain still splattered down, but it was obvious that the brunt of the strom had passed.

"Let's give it about 15 minutes more and then head in," Smitty suggested. "We've (Continued on page 64)

Morel Madness

PICKUPS LINED THE river roads and hunters swarmed the fields. It was late in the season and competition had grown keen. Morning dew swept across the grassy river bottoms in twisting trails. The first hunter to that special area would be the one to return with his bag filled. But what was this madness? The woods had just greened and it was only May.

With orders to seek out and discover what all the excitement was about, NEBRASKAland photographer Bob Grier and I were dispatched to the Columbus area to search out the elusive morel mushroom. Bob, a greenhorn as far as mushroom hunting goes, and I were both determined to sample the gustatorial pleasures of this delectable wild fungus. I had reached that awkward stage in a mushroom hunter's life, when he knows what the spongy little devils look like and starts to formalize his own theories on when, where, and how fo find them.

Light of heart and short on mushrooms, we set out to tail the mushroom purists, the veterans in the field.

An earlier conversation by phone with Max Wunderlich, Jr., of Columbus, was somewhat less than encouraging. The tail end of the season was at hand but he volunteered to serve as host for our expedition. It being mid-week, Max could not get away from work until five, so we agreed to meet in Columbus then. That would still give us threeor four hours of daylight, hopefully enough time to do some good.

We were approaching the Columbus area by mid-morning. That left almost half a day to kill before our meeting with Max and his crew. A self-guided expedition was soon launched and we headed for the Loup River south of Monroe. The Platte River was an ominous sign of impending failure, since muddy water boiled from bank to bank, and in spots spilled over onto the surrounding flatlands. Those flatlands were our mushroom grounds-the situation was not at all encouraging. "Won't have to wash them off that way," Bob quipped.

An eastern extension of Sand Hills country glided by us as we traveled through undulating pastureland between the Loup and Platte rivers. Timbered suggestions of the Loup rose ahead of us. A pickup off on the side of the road hinted that we had reached our destination-mushroom country.

Parking opposite the pickup, we plunged into the green mass of cottonwoods and rank, herbacious undergrowth. Trampled grass and trails through the weeds told of many feet and eager hands that had probed the ground in quest of the fleshy fungi. Three days had elapsed since the weekend rush, and new, pear-shaped delicacies had forced the moist earth aside.

My minesweeping technique was interrupted as Bob plucked the first prize of the day. "Is this what we're after?"

"That's our baby," I confirmed, moving closer to his area.

A dozen more were added to our bag before we decided to head for town, grab a sandwich, and hunt the same territory that afternoon.

Mushroom hunters must think on similar wavelengths. The fellow with the pickup across the road was just coming out of the timber with a sack full of mushrooms when we reached the road. "Didn't do too badly for just being out an hour or so," Harley Bruhn responded to our query. "First time I hunted over on that side of the road."

"You've got enough there for several good messes," I guessed, after looking into the wrinkled paper sack. Most were two-inchers, nice and fresh. He culled a few of the old, dried ones while we talked.

"If you fellows want someone to go out with this afternoon, try checking at the gas station. They were talking about going out at noon to pick a few. I'm going there now to fill up.

You can follow me if you want," Harley offered.

Thoughts of a noon break and chow were dispelled at a moment's notice with that statement, and we headed for town.

Gas stations are a bit like the old general stores. Hunters, fishermen, and sportsmen at large gather to rehash old times, plan new ones, and check on their cohorts' success. An attentive ear often pays big dividends for the tinhorn.

"We got about a peck of mushrooms down in one pasture south of the river last Sunday. There was a scad of little devils around all the fallen cottonwoods. They should be ready by now," Keith Bruhn thought aloud, as several locals came out to check the results of Harley's efforts.

A hint of opening-day deer season — small-town style —lingered strong in the air. Hunters come and go regularly and a group is usually on hand at any given time to peer into the pickups, checking on the other fellow's fortunes. The game may have changed, but the rituals were the same.

"I was figuring on going out for a while during my lunch hour," Keith led with an inviting tone. "You guys are welcome to come along if you want. There will be plenty of mushrooms if all those little ones are any size by now." A second invitation was unneeded. Bob and I loaded into Keith's "bush" car and were being taken to his mushroom grounds a minute later. A glance into the back seat confirmed that we were dealing with an optimist of the highest order. Three large, plastic buckets and one plastic basket, washtub-size, were stored in the back seat. Expectations for the noon hunt looked bright.

Mushroom grounds are something like favorite fishing holes or reliable brush piles that foster a covey of quail — they are to be guarded with the deepest confidence. Keith's mushroom ground was no exception, though he did forego the formality of blindfolding Bob and me as we wound through the greening pastures to the river's wooded edge.

"They cut some large cottonwoods here a year or two ago hoping to encourage a denser grass stand for pasturing cattle. Most trees were left to rot where they fell. That makes for prime mushroom country," Keith explained as the car ground to a halt at the edge of a passive slough.

Moist, warm weather and decaying humus are prerequisites for the mushroom fruits to force their way to the surface. The week preceding was spotted with gentle showers. Humid, warm weather had followed. The area was covered with a deep accumulation of leaf litter and newly fallen cottonwoods. The weather had been ideal and the location looked perfect. Everything promised mushrooms, even though it was late in the season.

"Doesn't that beat all!' Keith said, looking over a bed of mushroom (Continued on page 55)

Nature's Patterns

NATURE is a clever woman who fashions myriad patterns as she goes about her business of tending the great outdoors. Some patterns stand out in bold challenge against a stark, cloudless sky, while others melt shyly and unobtrusively into the camouflaging blotter of forest, field, and hill.

She begins with the barren earth. Spring rains bind countless particles into viscous masses interpreted by man as simple mud. The polished surface glows and glares as a slanting, warming sun begins the work of stealing away the moisture. Unable to withstand the stress,  

[image]

Finally exposed in death, the roots appear in gnarled, confused mass

[image]

Water and broken roots form fearsome masks to stare back from the shallows

[image]

Ultimately designed to supplant their protectors, small hints of life emerge

the crusting, upper layer crazes and curls like shavings from a carpenter's plane, disintegrating noisily under the tread of man or beast. Left undisturbed, the cracks below widen and deepen, splitting the ground into a million eccentric blocks which, in a whimsy of remorse, the designer seeks to reunite with a mortar of healing snow.

Sometimes, in the light of early morning before the wind hounds break from their kennels, fearsome masks, built of mirror water and broken roots, stare balefully from the shallows of quiet ponds. Even  

[image]

A single leaf, stripped of its covering, leaves a naked skeleton that gives it form

[image]

Blazing stranger is engulfed in whirlpool of bisqu it-colored leaves

[image]

Crimson-lined pod, spiral snail shell complement each other

the fish seem to avoid these demon-like creations, though a flick of the fin would shatter them to limbo.

The cottonwoods scattered along a shoreline sit in stoic acceptance of their immobility, their wrinkled legs and arthritic knees incapable of extracting their feet from the binding soil. Farther away, serving outpost duty for a field, another stands in battle against lightning bolt and pummeling gale, its spidery outline always crouched against renewed attack. Despite its rough, no-nonsense character, the tree is ornamented with a useless loop, a toy through which squirrels or mice may dart and play.

It is within the plan that designs created must also be destroyed, and in this process still other artistry is revealed. A single leaf, stripped  

[image]

Woody fragments retreat to earth in stony dignity

[image]

Swelling, brawling streams display brilliant patterns

of its covering, is a naked skeleton. A trunk, brown and crumbling with decay, betrays the careless thrust that attached a branch to its heartwood, while the last fragments disintegrate into the earth.

The gnarled limbs of distant oaks release biscuit-colored leaves that swirl together in a brazen whirlpool wjth a flaming ivy leaf at its vortex. A seed pod husk, crimson lined, falls wearily beside a spiral snail shell, where for a time they lie together, each accenting the other's beauty. In a matter of days, all these will crumble and sink into the anonymity of dark humus.

The designer now uses the congealing chill of outer space to smooth the surface of the earth. The water battles to retain its flow, but

[image]

Drained of their strength, streams are embraced by crystal caskets of winter

 

[image]

The designer's signature is of earthly form, its creations of delicate beauty

twigs and grasping roots capture it and seal it beneath a crystal casket.

Each new spring calls for sharp acceleration. Swamp grasses spear green exclamation points from the warming earth, the swelling, brawling stream displaying brilliant foam patterns. Greening earth builds swiftly, and in secret places, rich verdure frames velvet shadow boxes in secret places that hold dewy rhinestones suspended from cobweb strands.

Again the rain mixes with the earth. Nature's patterns build, destruct, and build again according to the expansions and contractions of the cosmic forces that measure the heartbeats of eternity. The only changeless thing is change itself. THE END

They're at the Post

Each year, a pulse-pounding action reigns supreme as the sport of kings takes throne

THE SNOW IS hardly off the fields when Nebraska starts to buzz. Names like those of the late M. H. Berg, all-time dean of horse racing in the state; Rose's Gem, said to be the greatest racehorse ever to come out of Nebraska; and Fonner Park, the track that starts it all each year, replace everyday language all across the state. And, a host of hard-core racing fans settle down with last season's racing programs to chart this year's path to success at the track. Some call such goings-on symptoms of spring fever, but there are those who know that it goes much deeper than that. They are members of the cult whose racing interests never die, simply lying dormant throughout the winter to be reborn in spring.

Horse racing in Nebraska has long since lost the stigma of gray, pin-striped, double-breasteds and broad-brimmed fedoras. It is good, clean family fun —a close relative to football in the crowds it draws each year. In fact, 1971 saw more than a million in estimated attendance pass through the turnstiles at Nebraska's six tracks. And, native horses are again expected to dominate Nebraska turf in all-or-nothing runs for the money. That in itself would seem enough to generate fever-pitch excitement among those who frequent the state's racing plants, but the $2 bets are the ones that really bring on the screams and shouts. Maybe, though, the simple fact that man is a competitive animal is the clinching factor. After all, the whole thing started long before modern currency was born, and the history of horse racing fits into the development of Nebraska's pulse-pounding sport.

Horse racing, some say, actually began some 1,500 years before the birth of Christ. Ancient Hittites reared and raced spirited steeds for a multitude of prizes —not the least of which was a "woman skilled in women's work". It was in the British Isles, however, where modern racing developed. The earliest English contest evolved around 1154 during the reign of Henry II. Upper classes were the only people

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Omaha's Ak-Sar-Ben draws honors as state's biggest racing plant

 

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Glass-enclosed grandstand at Fonner Park allows early runs

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Fans flock to Lincoln's State Fair Grounds for third opening

with either enough gold or enough station in life to participate, and the races drew only the aristocrats as far as wagering went. That's the time when the name that has carried over into present vernacular — the sport of kings —was attached to the sport. Equal status was accorded to racing when it spread into Ireland and the European circuit long before Columbus stumbled onto the New World.

In the puritanical view of several of the American Colonies, pitting two horses against each other was sin personified. Others, however, adhered to the royal scheme of things, and horse racing was among the traditions they were reluctant to relinquish. So, the sport of kings essentially became the sport of everyone and racing had a foothold in the Americas. As time passed, the sport spread westward onto the wild plains of the West with a new twist on ancient competition. Probably the first horse race in Nebraska was between two weathered cowpokes and their wilder-than-tame mustangs. Stakes ranged from a month's wages to a slug of redeye, but the premise was the same: "My horse can beat yours". Time has a way of changing things, though, and the thinking along racing lines took a more organized course. It is that course that brought Nebraska to the stature it enjoys among racing buffs of today, and in its development was born one of the most unique success stories in the annals of the state.

To control and regulate the sport in Nebraska, a three-man commission was established within state government. Each member is appointed by the governor for a three-year term during which the prime responsibility is running the tracks of Nebraska. The phenomenal thing about the Nebraska State Racing Commission, though, is the revenue the agency generates. The smallest of state organizations in manpower, the commission is the largest moneymaking group in that structure. Last season, the Nebraska State Racing Commission poured more than $2 1/2 million into the state coffers. That's not bad when it is considered that the whole affair is governed by such a small group and the money-making season was only 171 days long last year. Obviously, there are ways such feats can be accomplished, and the racing structure of Nebraska is just one of them.

First of all, no private individual can own a horse-racing track. Each must be established by a non-profit, civic organization and revenue is channeled into community benefits and upkeep for the track. The first $1 million to cross the betting boards is tax-exempt, so this money can be used for both city and plant betterment. Thereafter, however, 4 percent of every dollar is scraped off the top as a mutuelhandle tax which goes into the state's general fund. At the end of the year, commission income, after expenses, is divided equally 93 ways and distributed among Nebraska's counties without regard to population or size. There are no strings attached, except that, once again, the revenue must be spent for qualified county fairs or 4-H shows. At the end of the last racing season, the racing commission had $177,978.75. Divided by 93, that meant each county, whether a track was located within its boundaries or not, received $1,913.75, seemingly out of the blue. So, while the areas that boast tracks would seem, on the surface, to be in fat city as far as revenue is concerned, it just isn't so. Everyone gets a fair share, and the racing fans who bet are the ones who control the amounts.

There are probably only a handful of bettors in the state who know they are wagering in a rather unique way. Most fans know it is called pari-mutuel, but they would be hard pressed to explain the process, though it is one reason for the success of horse racing and the tracks in Nebraska. Since no one individual owns the facilities, pari-mutuel betting is ideal. In essence, the track is only an agent for the money that passes through the betting (Continued on page 55)

No Place to go

The bison's posture was always the same — his shoulders were always huge and his head was always below them. But his stance is strangely symbolic of his tragic history. Never, on the face of the earth, was there such a collection of large animals belonging to the same species as on the North American continent, and never was there so much wholesale massacre.

As white men moved in, they brought the bison to his knees. Although his range had stretched from coast to coast, the bison was forced beyond the Mississippi River by 1820. And, when the railroad fingered out across the West toward the Pacific Ocean, it brought white men who cared not a hoot about the bison's future.

The 1870 decade was the worst. Hundreds of thousands of bison were killed for hides which sold at $2 apiece. Untold thousands were hunted down for just their tongues, a

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Supportive nutrients that enrich grasslands attract bison to licks

 

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Mock battles of calves are prelude to future, serious confrontations

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Wallowing in dust rids the beasts of insects, forms future potholes

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Surviving a century of persecution, the bison's future now seems secure

delicacy frontiersmen relished at the expense of entire animals left to rot in the sun — a monarch of the plains destroyed each time to please the palate only once.

The "great slaughter" continued for more than a decade so that by 1889 it was estimated there were less than a thousand bison left alive on the entire continent.

In 1902, Congress earmarked $15,000 for the protection of a bison herd in Yellowstone National Park, and then set aside other sums for herds to be established in wildlife refuges elsewhere in the West. One of them found sanctuary in the federal government's wildlife refuge at Valentine.

The trend caught on. State governments, too, began taking notice and established their own wildlife refuges. As a result, a second bison herd was established by the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission during the 1930's in Nebraska's Wildcat Hills.

While the bison is also called buffalo in North America, the name is zoologically incorrect. The bison — Bison bison — should not be confused with the European wisent — Bison bonasus — or the distantly related buffalo species. All, however, are members of the Bovidae family.

Vicious when vexed, yet capable of domestication, bison cannot be trusted. Sportsmen know they can walk to within 100 yards of a herd without spooking it. More often, though, the herd will gallop away in a stampede at speeds up to 40 miles per hour upon seeing an adversary as far as half a mile away.

Bulls are larger than cows, their horns spreading wider —sometimes to three feet — and their weight much greater. They are also more vicious. Cows are relatively calm, aggressive only when chaperoning a newly born calf, and even then charging a foe only when provoked. Bulls, on the other hand, may charge at a moment's notice for no apparent reason, and the foe might be a youngster from the same family who shows a bit too much competitive spunk.

A calf is born with almost no hump. He scampers about through the grasses, running to his mother when danger approaches or when he is hungry. Only when he grows older does his hump become larger, thus telling year by year and with increasingly obvious symbolism, the tragic story of his species.

Once he was free to move from range to range across the prairie's expanses, but today the bison is penned inside small sanctuaries. Although he is free from wanton waste, it is only because he is now protected by man — his killer a century ago. THE END

Hens in a pen

Although far from new, the concept of breeding game-farm birds to wild ones may someday prove workable to boost state's ringneck crop

THE HEADLIGHTS of the pickup swept across the dew-laden alfalfa, paused briefly on the mulberry tree ahead, and faded. In the west was darkness, but from the east came a faint glimmer of light along the horizon. Time: 5:09 a.m. Temperature: 47 degrees Wind: 5 miles per hour. Skies: clear. Slowly, the sky began to brighten, colored by hues of pink and gold, as the sun inched its way above the horizon. A slight breeze stirred Suddenly, the two-syllable crowing of a cock pheasant echoed across the field. A hurried grab for the spotting scope and some fast focusing soon brought the gaudy, ring necked pheasant into view. Encounters such as this were to become quite routine during the next few months.

The initial proposal called for tracts of one to five acres of acceptable nesting cover inside predator-proof fencing to be stocked with wing-clipped, game-farm hens. Breeding or insemination of the hens was to be dependent on the resident population of wild males. This "wild breeding" concept (use of wild cocks with game-farm hens) was not new. The method was first adopted in 1932 by B. K. Leach, a private game breeder, who perfected and used this system for wild turkey in Missouri. The wild breeding system with pheasants had not been tried, though, until now.

In certain areas of the state, such as the central Platte River Valley, the problem of deficient nesting cover is compounded by intensive agricultural operations which doom not only the nesting attempts but often the hens as well. Confining production to small, protected acreages would reduce these losses and partially compensate for the lack of nesting cover. Game-farm hens were used in the experiment because of their ability to nest under high-density conditions. Previous studies had shown that wild hens seldom nest successfully in high-density situations.

Field work began in the fall of 1970 with selection of the Cornhusker Game Management Area near Grand Island as the study area. Cornhusker included 815 acres with the majority of them managed for wildlife.

Because of abundant cover, choosing pen sites was not difficult. Six plots, each an acre in area, were selected with three plots in the northern half of the area and three in the southern half. Each pen was divided in half to facilitate statistical analysis. Fence trenches 8 to 12 inches deep were dug around each pen that fall.

During the ensuing winter months, conferences were held, materials were contracted, and plans for project implementation were studied. By late February, field work resumed. Between snowstorms, an effort was made to count the cocks in the study area—10 to 15 were sighted.

Adverse weather delayed pen construction until late March. Then two-inch mesh wire six feet high, and buried in trenches to discourage (Continued on page 54)

the cedars are coming

LIKE EMERALD SOLDIERS their columns marched the ravines, ragged ranks conquering naked expanses —a battle locked in time. Trees braced against the emptiness, against the elements, and against the hostile plains suited only for grasses green, their needled legions amassed for the assault.

The first of many to follow, the parent tree clung stubbornly to a mere foothold on some neglected corner. Stoically it bore the attacks of its adversaries, its body ripped by menacing livestock, stunted by toxic sprays, and mutilated by cutting steel. Its badgesof courage were many.

The attack was imminent. Strategy was drawn from countless conflicts. Silently, the charge began.

Hardly an imposing force at first, the potential giants, guised as seeds, swarmed the battlefield, brought by way of earthly elements, fowl of air, and creatures of land. Unnoticed, they assumed their stations, awaiting individual tests. Years passed, and still they held their lines.

Victory came with startling awareness. Overnight, it seemed, they conquered. Now they blanket the hillsides and cloak the lowlands;  

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Come spring, cedar becomes a remote recess for robin and her tiny brood

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Cedar waxwing seeks cedars' safety and abundant fruit during winters

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Freckling hillside, pastures, these junipers contrast grassland expanse

  knee-size cedars converged and conquered. Not to be routed, the land is now theirs!

A conifer by heritage, juniper by title, the cedars have come to stay. Freckling hillside pastures, filling river-bottom voids beside fallen elms, and clinging tenaciously to rocky canyon walls they stand. Garbed in irregular uniforms, they are prostrate creepers veiling rolling hills, or twisted mutants of infinite variation, or massive giants of river forests.

Lineage mixes and mingles in the Midwest. Hybrids emerge from crossings of the Eastern red cedar and the Rocky Mountain juniper of the West, muddling any attempt at lucid classification.

Ornamental junipers adorning homes, commercial varieties like Blue Heaven, Chandler, or Pathfinder little resemble the Rocky Mountain juniper from which they originated. Nor do the striking Canaerti, Dundee, or Glauca resemble the Eastern red cedar.

Dioecious, as botanists say, the sexes are born on separate plants. Bronze redness of the males and the bluish tinge of the females suggest the gender at a distance. Fruit-like berries, each containing several nut-like seeds, unmistakably brand the female. A blue, waxy coating on the berries retards water loss, protecting the fruits similar to the function of wax on plums and grapes.

The knotty red wood, locked tightly within the cambium layer, is prized for its aromatic quality. Hewn by craftsmen, it is used for those traditional high-school-sweetheart hope chests.

Mushy brown globes adorn the cedar during the dampness of spring. Not the poison spheres imagined by youths, but growths of cedar fungus, they alternate their parasitic cycle between the junipers and apple trees.

Regarded by many landowners as pasture pests, cedars are mere reflections of poor land management. Overgrazing of desirable grasses and forbs by livestock, and avoidance of the unpalatable cedars accentuates their spread. Man's suppression of periodic rangeland fires, that had maintained Nebraska's grassland biome by burning away young tree seedlings, promotes the cedars' spread.

dime-a-dozen gun

A time must come for every boy, if he is to hunt, when he learns that his sport means much more than simple killing

THINGS WERE DIFFERENT that day. I had wound through that tall brome behind Morris' battered old house ever since the first time I snuck away to the spring. Old Morris never cut that patch of grass — just let the pheasants and field mice have it. He was kind of a singular old cuss, and nobody ever did figure out why he never planted it to corn like the fields all around it. Just liked to see the pheasants fly in at night, I reckon.

The little spring always popped out sudden-like. All those old, twisted willows gave it away, but nobody ever took time to really look for it. I used to wade there when I was just a boy, crunching empty snail shells between my toes.

But it was different this time. I was hunting on my own. Guess that made me almost a grown man. I had been out with older folks before, but this day was different. They had finally let me go off on my own.

The spring had water clean enough to drink. It was quite an adventure, lying down on your belly and drawing in the fresh, cold water on a hot summer day —just like old trappers must have done.

My new gun was slick and smooth, the steel cold, not a scratch or mark anywhere. It hadn't come easy either. It took a lot of digging for fishing worms in the mushy old swamp. Twenty-four fifty didn't come fast at a dime a dozen. Didn't make enough selling them that summer to buy my gun for the hunting season—just kept ogling it in the hardware store until after Christmas. I knew exactly where that $5 bill was going when I got it under the tree. Guess someone else did, too.

It was the prettiest gun a boy ever had, specially if he was only 11 years old. Felt real good in the hand, and deep down inside, too.

It was a right nice day for January, with the sun out warm and the breeze not too stiff. Dabbles of snow hid in the north shadows, but mostly it was just a brown-grass day.

The covey of quail wasn't under the plum thicket like it should have been. Can still remember earlier thatfall when we busted into them. I used that heavy old gun Dad borrowed for me. It didn't feel good at all like mine did now. We walked right into the whole shebang! Came up so tight and all fluffed out it seemed like the whole bunch should have fallen when I shot.

Wasn't seven a feather floating, though, when it was all over. Guess that's when I learned you can't kill them all at once. You have to pick one.

I figured there might be a rabbit down in the tall weeds where the spring ran into the creek. We found that nest of young ones there under the clay bank one year. Didn't even have their eyes open yet. Thought a rabbit might move into the open if I sat there on the hill long enough.

The frost worked right out of the clay through a fellow's pants back then. Didn't seem cold at all until you sat down. Remember thinking that some day I would own a pair of those waterproof pants like city hunters had. Remember thinking, too, that Dad would probably laugh at me —call me a dude.

I didn't want to go home without something to show for the day, had to prove something to myself I guess. Even a rabbit or squirrel would do.

Sure was cold there all alone. Hungry, too. Was wishing I had brought those cookies Mom had wanted me to take. She sure did fuss over everything before I left.

Unload your gun when crossing a fence. Don't go too far. Come home early. Be careful.

Gee whiz. I was old enough to know all that. You'd have thought I was just a boy.

A pair of gaudy blue jays made quite a ruckus in a cedar, but little else was about. They would have been an easy mark just sitting there plucking away at the waxy berries. Remembered, though, when Dad took my air gun away once for shooting them.

We don't shoot anything we can't eat.

Guess that little fuzz-tailed bunny didn't know that he was about the biggest thing that would ever happen to me when he sniffed his way out from behind that soggy old log. To a fellow out on his first hunt all alone, he looked about as big and important as that buck deer Dad had brought home once. Now that I look back after shooting a whole scad of rabbits and other bigger critters, he wasn't much, stature-wise that is. Probably didn't even mingle socially with the other bunnies, him having that droopy, frost-bitten ear and a dull coat and all.

Of course, I wasn't noticing those things then—just how much I wanted to take him home in my game pocket and how darn stubborn that new safety was.

It seemed as if I would never get it over to fire, and get that cool wood up against my cheek. Seemed, too, now that I look back on it, I didn't even look down the grooves to find the bead before it exploded and set me back a-pace.

Awkward as all get-out I was, but when it was all said and done, I was still intact and the rabbit was lying in the grass.

Reckon I cried a bit when I ran my fingers through its fur. Don't know if it was because I was so darn happy or so all-out sad. Guess it was a touch of both, now that I think back.

I was proud of the first real game I had shot on my own, but couldn't get that lifeless ball of fur and flesh out of my mind as I trudged on home with him. Guess I've had that feeling ever since in varying degrees every time I hunt. You know it's right —things were just made that way. But still you feel a bit sorry. Guess that's what hunting is all about, man or boy.

I can still close my eyes and see Dad too, standing at the edge of the field with a smile about to cut his face in two. Didn't seem like I could move one foot ahead of the other fast enough to show him. Reckon I'll never forget what he said, either.

That's a fine adornment forahasenpfeffer stew you got. I suppose you think you're about the best hunter around right now, and I guess maybe you are at that. You'll shoot a lot more rabbits and other things before you're grown. )ust remember how you feel right now, busting out with pride and still a little sad. As long as you hunt, remember those feelings and the woods will be good for you. Forget them, and you might as well hang up that gun right now. Those animals don't owe you a thing, but you owe them a whole lot for what they'll teach you about living. Reckon he was right. THE END

Notes On Nebraska Fauna Giant Canada Goose

CANADA GEESE, because of their beauty, their sounds, or legend, stir the emotions. The sight of a travelling V in the sky, or the distant honking of geese in the night always stop us. Recent publicity about a large goose has generated even more interest. Numerous inquiries about what he is like and how he can be recognized have arisen.

Taxonomists have divided Canada geese into a dozen or more subspecies. At least four of these subspecies commonly migrate through some part of Nebraska each spring and fall. A fifth form known as the giant Canada goose, Branta canadensis maxima, used to breed in Nebraska and still frequents the state in limited numbers.

It is not known how many of these birds there are, but the total is small compared with other Canada goose populations. Due to protection in some local areas and restoration efforts of various conservation agencies, the giant Canada goose is increasing his numbers.

Formerly, these geese bred over a large area in more southerly latitudes than other species and subspecies of geese. Their breeding range once encompassed the southern half of the prairie provinces of Alberta, Saskatchewan, and Manitoba as far south as central Kansas and the Ohio River Valley between Ohio and Kentucky. Nebraska records are few and far between, but accounts of nesting Canada geese are existent in the Sand Hills Lakes region and along the Platte River. These records indicate their presence during the late 1800% but one party recording bird observations listed Canada-goose broods on Sand Hills Lakes as late as 1904. These were probably giant Canada geese.

Wintering areas are widely scattered and frequently extend no farther south than necessary for food, water, and security. The Platte River in Nebraska offers these elements most years. Geese in more southerly latitudes remain in their nesting regions and do not migrate except during years when too much snow and excessively cold weather make food and water unavailable. Because of these inclinations, they are late migrants. Fall arrivals in Nebraska generally occur from the middle of November to early December. Data compiled at various federal refuges in North Dakota, where efforts are being made to restore Canada geese to their former breeding ranges, indicates that the giants depart for the south November 15 to 20 most years. In South Dakota they leave around the first of December. Biologists at the Crescent Lake National Wildlife Refuge north of Oshkosh have recorded departures from late November to mid-December.

The Nebraska Game and Parks Commission maintains a captive flock of Canada geese at the Sacramento Game Management Area near Wilcox. The flock contains some giant Canadas now, and the conversion to all giants will be completed in two years when young birds now on hand reach breeding age. This production flock is providing goslings for release in the Sand Hills Lakes region. The first release of 94 goslings was made in 1970 in the eastcentral Sand Hills. These birds will reach breeding age in thespringof 1973.

There is considerable interest amongst hunters wanting to know how they can distinguish these birds from other Canadas, and amongst game breeders wondering about their stock.

Branta canadensis maxima is the largest of wild geese. There are, however, some size gradations overlapping between larger individuals of other species and smaller ones of this species. If your bird weighs 14 pounds or more he is almost certain to be one of this race of Canada geese. Adult males may range from 10 or 11 pounds up to more than 20. The larger males are more apt to fall in the 13- to 18-pound class. Adult females may range from 8 to 12 pounds. They have wingspans up to six feet, sometimes more. They are characterized by long wings and necks. Their bodies are more elongated —less chunky —than those of others. They have somewhat longer legs and larger bills, too. The feet are impressive in size. These are light-colored birds with almost white underparts. There is sometimes a narrow, white ring at the base of the black neck which is not present on other races of large Canadas. White spots over the eyes or on the forehead are common, and are a good characteristic of the giant Canadas. Another common characteristic is a small protrusion or hook at the top and back of the white cheek patch.

In the field, the shallow, slow beat of the long wings, white bellies, and long necks are characteristic. Local flights are generally low, often no higher than 50 feet above the ground and seldom in groups larger than 20 or 25. Groups of 6 to 12 are more common. They are usually silent in flight, but when they talk, their voices are lower than those of smaller birds. They know where they want to go, proceeding directly to their destinations in flight, then set their wings and drop in. Though other geese may be in the area, they stay together and maintain their group. THE END

HENS IN PEN

predators, was erected around the one-acre plots. The tops of the pens were left open so that wild cocks could fly into the pens to carry out breeding. Hundreds of posts and thousands of feet of wire later, the pens were completed. Feeders and waterers were then placed in each pen, making them ready for the hens.

Game-farm hens were stocked in the pens April 19 and 20. The hens were stocked at densities of 10, 20, and 40 birds per acre. Different populations would allow more accurate production analysis. While normal nesting density of wild hens is about one per acre, higher densities would be needed to make the project feasible.

Each hen received a leg and a wing tag to aid in individual identification. Primary feathers were pulled from the untagged wing to prevent normal flight, though it is regained after four to five weeks. Although this method had not been used before, it was chosen for several reasons. The flightless period would allow enough time for insemination, nest establishment, and hatching. The hens would then be capable of flight and could leave the pen with their chicks soon after hatching. The small chicks would be able to exit through the two-inch mesh wire shortly after hatching.

Once the hens had been stocked, it was a matter of waiting to see if the experiment would materialize as anticipated. Pens were watched closely the first several weeks for signs of any sick birds or birds killed by predators. Transects to analyze vegetation were established and searches for dropped eggs and nest forms were conducted during the second and third weeks. After the third week, human activity in the pens was limited to essential feeding and watering.

Since successful mating depended upon wild cocks flying into the pens, it was important that their response to the hens be measured. To evaluate this phase of the experiment, many mornings were spent observing. Response of the wild cocks was positive. The day following stocking, cocks were observed strutting about the pens crowing and displaying for the newly arrived females. Cocks were most readily attracted to the high-density pens (40 birds per acre), but within a week had dispersed to all of the pens. Seldom was more than one cock observed in a half-acre pen. As a result, there were few confrontations between cocks. The boundaries of the halfacre pens appeared to limit the size of the cocks' territory and reduced controntations.

By mid-May, sightings of hens became less frequent, indicating advanced incubation. On the morning of June 1, the first brood of young pheasant chicks appeared a small group of four inside one of the lowdensity pens (10 birds per acre). Observations focused on the number of different broods, their size, and whether they were leaving the pens. Broods ranging in size from two to nine chicks were sighted. Most of them left the pens at one week of age.

The tall, native grasses in the area acquired a hint of fall color by mid-September. The pens were silent now, mere reminders of past events. The breeding season had passed, as had the nesting season, and the sights and sounds associated with these biological phenomena would not return until the following spring.

Time has elasped, and the project is now entering the final evaluation phase. Data must be statistically analyzed before final results will be known. Meanwhile, it has been established that wild cocks respond to penned hens; that at least some of the hens bring off broods; that pulling primaries offers a means of holding the breeding hen in an open-top pen; that the natural replacement of primaries allows the hen and her brood to leave the pen soon after hatching; and that hens prefer cool-season vegetation for nesting sites.

Production was below that deemed necessary to make this method feasible forwide-scale application. The 140 hens estab- lished 210 nests, of which only 23, or 11 percent were successful, while 12 to 15 percent of nests in the wild are successful. These birds produced more chicks on a per-acre basis, but the number of chicks per successful nest was only half of that normally produced by wild birds. Final analysis will determine whether this technique is economically sound. THE END

THEY'RE AT THE POST

windows. It acts in much the same way as a stockbroker when he sells shares in a company, taking a percentage on the transaction as commission. The betting public pays the money in and the winning public takes the money out, with the track taking only a percentage of what it collects. Parimutuel is one of the fairest means of wagering yet devised, since the public makes the odds and each bettor wagers against others of his kind, not against the track. Fairness is one of the cornerstones of the racing industry in Nebraska, and for the future of the sport, it is vital that it remain that way. This is where the majority of the Nebraska State Racing Commission's work comes in.

The commission points out that every facet of track operation is closely monitored. It staffs field offices at each plant, and everyone from the hot-dog vendors to the horse trainers and jockeys themselves must be licensed. Each horse is tested for health and the absence of tampering, which might affect the race, and each track has a three-man board of stewards to keep things honest. Then, there are state and local firesafety regulations which must be met and security rules which must come up to certain standards. The beginning of each race is under the watchful eye of an official starter certified by the racing commission, and even the clerk of the scales is carefully chosen to insure fairness and the ultimate in sportsmanship. All in all, the stigma of cloak-and-dagger mobsterism which sometimes dimmed the image of horse racing at other facilities in the nation is non-existent in Nebraska, and the whole affair spanks of good, clean fun.

Horse racing is far from having no troubles, though. Early this year, the number of tracks in Nebraska was cut from 6 to 5 when Madison Downs cashed in after 36 years of operation. The track had been running in the red for some four years, and dates were withheld, the racing commission said, to provide the strongest racing front possible in the state. Two other tracks, one at Alliance and the other at Mitchell, closed down with the 1963 and 1967 seasons respectively, but the commission denies any sort of a trend despite the fact that these operations were smaller tracks.

Lincoln is having its share of trouble, too. Facilities are far from adequate. Lacking legislative appropriations for either improvements or expansion, there is little that can be done about the facility located at the State Fair Grounds. Officials say, though, that if money were provided, the plant cou Id pose excellent possibilities as a top-flight facility by the opening of the 1974 season.

Then, there are those factions which would like to see horse racing removed from the state entirely. They argue from an uninformed point of view, however, according to the racing commission. Few of that position's supporters actually know how much good the revenue generated through racing actually does. Critics not withstanding, though, there is little chance that horse racing in Nebraska will ever become a thing of the past. Even Madison Downs may reopen using an alternate form of betting, though avenues for such a possibility are only in the exploratory stage as yet.

Early this year, the racing commission approved expanded schedules for two Nebraska tracks. Grand Island's Fonner Park gained 7 days of racing over its 1971 schedule, and Ak-Sar-Ben in Omaha picked up 11 additional days. Traditionally limited to 5-day racing programs, both facilities will institute Monday racing this year. The 1972 season kicked off March 3 and will run through April 29 in the glass-enclosed, heated grandstand at Fonner. From there, the ponies move on to Ak-Sar-Ben for 59 days of racing between May 2 and July 15. Lincoln is next in line, serving up thrills from July 18 until August 23. Racing moves into Columbus from August 25 to September 23. Atokad in South Sioux City hosts the bangtails from September 26 to November 4, thus rounding out the season.

Once again, Nebraska will echo to the clang of the starting gate's bell and fans will crowd the paddock rail. Horses and jockeys will find their places in the sun, and racing mania will pass across the state once again. The sport will never be forgotten, for the devout will stockpile its memories as highlights of a million past runs and the promise of things to come. THE END

MOREL MADNESS

stems. Someone must have beat us to them by just a few hours. "That's a gamble you take leaving small mushrooms to grow. We'll have to take our chances wandering around now. That was my only sure bet for today."

We worked our way west through fallen and burned woodland. Pickings were slim. With three here, half a dozen there, the bottoms of our buckets were being covered at a snail's pace. It looked as if Keith was going to be late for work and we were moving double time back to the car when we found them —a mushroom hunter's dream.

The area filled all the requirements necessary for good mushroom country —a sandy river bottom, fallen trees, blue grass and small, blue violets sprinkled over the area. The violets always seem to be in blossom when the mushrooms are out.

"I like to pinch them off on the stalk just under the (Continued on page 58)

Roundup What to do

MAY is busting out all over with a kaleidoscopic array of springtime events, and in the midst of spring's roses is Roxie Anderson. A sophomore at Wayne State College, Roxie was 1970 Queen of the Green there. She also lists Jobs Daughters Honored Queen among her past titles. Roxie plans to teach after her graduation from Wayne.

Daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Howard Anderson of Lyons, she attended Lyons High School. Roxie's hobbies include waterskiing, horseback riding, roller skating, and basketball.

German bread and a Shrine Circus are on the entertainment list for NEBRASKAland natives and visitors. German Heritage Days in McCook May 6 and 7 will provide a variety of Old-World dishes, dances, and other delights. There will be a parade, special displays, horseshoe pitching, trap shooting, and all sorts of activities to bring back the 19th Century, left behind by hundreds of immigrants who settled the Western frontier.

The Shrine Circus will be in Lincoln while horse racing begins in Omaha at Ak-Sar-Ben. Also in Omaha May 18 through 21 will be the Women's College World Series of Softball. Sixteen teams will compete in the fourth annual tournament. State champion teams will have first chance at the 16 berths open for the event at George Dill Softball Center.

The Omaha Royals will swing into the professional baseball season with vigor during several scheduled home contests. Rodeo, too, is on the list of outdoor events planned for May. Highschool cowboys will demonstrate their skill in thrilling contests at Crawford May 27 and 28 and at Valentine May 29.

For quieter outdoor activity, NEBRASKAland offers miles of streams and acres of lakes and ponds for anglers to try their skill. At McCook May 20 and 21, fishermen will have an opportunity to compete in the annual contest at Red Willow Reservoir. Winners will be selected on a point system with each species of fish good for a specific number of points.

Several trap-shooting events throughout the state offer hunters plenty of off-season practice. Dog training is another activity in preparation for the fall hunting seasons. The Nebraska Brittany Club will hold a field trial at Raymond May 13 and 14. At Grand Island, the fifth annual Gun and Antique Show will provide displays of weaponry ranging from days gone by to the present.

Golf tournaments dot the schedule as sports enthusiasts break out their warm weather gear. The Oshkosh Open will kick things off, followed by the Chamber of Commerce Tournament, and the Deer Park Golf Tournament, both at Valentine. The Wymore Sertoma Open at the Wymore Country Club will tee off at 7 a.m. May 7. Lunch and refreshments will be served during the tournament.

Track and field meets will highlight the calendar. The Girls' State Track Meet will be held May 12 and 13 at Grand Island, and the boys' event will take place the next weekend in Omaha. Cozad's MidstateTrack Meet is scheduled for May 29.

Antique hunters will have their hands full in Brownville May 27 and 28 when the annual spring festival and flea market bring old objects out of basements and attics.

For those who still prefer the indoors, there are plenty of activities to keep them busy. Community playhouses have scheduled performances throughout the month. "Black Comedy" and "Private Ear" are on the Lincoln Playhouse agenda, and "Forty Carats" will be showing at Norfolk and Omaha. The Platte Valley Playhouse will stage performances of "Blithe Spirit" May 18 through 20. For something different, the Newman's Country Music Show and Barbecue will take place at Stuart May 29.

With the outdoors an amphitheater for NEBRASKAland events, activity warms to the approach of summer. From May Day to Memorial Day,, the calendar is chock full of fun and excitement across the state.

MOREL MADNESS

head. That way all the dirt on the base of the stalk isn't dumped into the bucket. It helps keep the whole batch a lot cleaner," our guide said.

We paid little heed, though, as we crawled through the lush grass, parting it to reveal what seemed like an endless supply of the delectable ground fruit.

Three buckets were filled in short order and we hot-footed it back to the car, pausing only to search around the herb-fringed tree stumps. Cottonwood stumps seemed never to fail us, always yielding a handful.

"We usually slice the small ones in half, wash them well, dip them in egg and crushed cracker crumbs, and brown them in butter over a slow fire," Keith replied to my questions on local culinary customs. Overcooking, as I expected, is the cardinal sin in preparing mushrooms.

Some people slice mushrooms, wash them, and then thread them to dry in a warm, dry breeze. At a later date they can be soaked in water and used as before. The dried, wrinkled forms absorb moisture and soon resemble the original product. Some of the firm texture is lost, though, and the end product may be a bit on the mushy side.

"Most people around here, with more mushrooms than they can handle in a day or two, cook and freeze them. They wash the fresh mushrooms first and then let them drain. Chop to desired size and place in a large kettle with no water. Salt to taste and simmer with the lid on for 15 minutes. Meantime, saute chopped onions in butter until tender and browned lightly. Add this to the steamed mushrooms and simmer five minutes longer. Package in freezer containers, allow to cool, and then freeze," Keith recited as if reading from a cookbook while I jotted down the basics of the recipe. This method preserves the mushrooms' delicate flavor best. The finished product can then adorn steaks, roasts, or other meats regardless of the season.

Keith was late by 45 minutes, but that sort of thing seems acceptable in the area, something like showing up late after following a covey of quail to the end of the shelterbelt or tracking down a wounded buck.

After a sociable soda and the usual bull session we left our impromptu guide for a quick trip back to the first mushroom area we had sampled. Just enough time remained for a quick hunt before meeting our hunters in Columbus.

For the second time that day we were beaten to the mushrooms. The growingly familiar sight of a car off to the side of the road awaited us at our hopping-off point near the earlier abandoned grounds. What the area must have looked like on the weekend, when the mushroom crop peaked and most people were off work, I can only imagine. Cars must have lined the deserted river road waiting their turn to park.

Our mushroom hunt, it seemed, had changed to a survey of hunter success anyway, so we trudged back into the trees in search of the mushroomer who had beaten us to the jump.

"Doing any good?" a voice came through the thick timber.

"Not yet. We just got here," I answered in the direction of the query.

"Got about half a bucketful," Lew Hamner of Monroe responded as he rounded a mammoth Cottonwood. "I've had my best luck along the south side of this ridge in the deep grass. Fallen elms seem to be the tipoff. It's almost too late in the season for places like this, though. The weeds are so high you have to get down on your hands and knees and part the grass to see the things."

We discussed the finer art of mushroom plucking with Lew before deciding it was time to head for our late-afternoon rendezvous in Columbus.

"Whoa! You almost stepped on the biggest one of the afternoon," Lew said, pointing out an eight-incher at our feet. "They're not as good eating as the smaller ones, but that's darn good bragging material back in town."

Primed with a day's experience and a working knowledge of the baffling mushrooms' ways, we were confident about our meeting with Max Wunderlich, Jr., and Mel Kampschnieder in Columbus. Max's six-year-old son, Paul, was along for an initiation into the fraternity.

"We'll try a spot on the Platte that has been reliable in the past," Max suggested. "We might have some problems there with high water, but we'll give it a look, at least."

And, trouble we had. The road to the river had been undermined by high water at one point. Much probing into a gaping hole preceded the pickup's quick shot over the quaking dirt road. But our problems were only beginning. A 10-yard stretch of rushing river barred us from the river's timbered edge. A unanimous round of nods made the decision final and the whole crew was soon immersed in the thigh-deep water. Paul was the only member of the outfit with dry feet at day's end, having assumed a lofty perch atop his father's shoulders at each crossing.

Again, pickings were slim. Much of the area was no better than a spongy mass of earth isolated by flowing water on either side. A handful of mushrooms on dry knolls were top quality, but many were of the prewashed soggy variety.

"Mushrooms are usually out on the Platte about a week earlier than those on the Loup," Max observed. "If you fellows were having fair luck on the Loup today, the Platte crop is probably done. Because of the high water, that makes two strikes against us here. It would probably be a good bet to give up this place and head for the Loup while we still have some light."

Talk turned to eating, as it usually does when mushroomers gather. A new recipe and a technique for washing sand from the multi-partitioned morels were fringe benefits of the scenic drive north to the Loup. "Our favorite recipe is scrambled eggs and mushrooms. We chop them into small pieces and (Continued on page 62)

Where to go Morel Mushroom, Nebraska National Forest

EXCEPT FOR a few scientists who dabble with various mold cultures as part of their research, it would be hard to imagine that anyone would avidly seek out, and even devour any sort of fungus. Yet, when spring rolls around, a good number of folks get gleams in their eyes and cannot wait to get into the woods in search of this strange growth.

Just about the time that lilacs bloom -about the middle of May —the Morel Mushroom becomes of prime importance to gourmets across the state. These slightly coned, sponge-looking, tan-colored fungi make for delicious eating and can be picked by the bushel if the right location is found at the right time. Size of the plant varies depending upon age, moisture, and mulch conditions of the soil, but the mature ones average between two and three inches in height. And, they are found in abundance almost statewide wherever there is heavy brush or trees to offer them shelter. (See Morel Madness, page 20 this issue.)

If all conditions are right, morel mushrooms flourish. They thrive in areas of high moisture and heavy mulch, such as fallen leaves, and where heavy traffic does not trample them. Because trees are found most often along streams, that is a good place to start looking.

Since knowing where to look is half the battle, consider areas in the surrounding territory that provide ground moisture and sufficient foliage to provide protection from the glaring sun. Check lowland areas near water, or islands. If an area looks promising, keep an eye on it during the early spring after several warm days in May have encouraged plant growth. Morels grow quickly, virtually overnight, and don't stay fresh long. In only a matter of days they spring up and are gone, so timing is as important as knowing where to hunt.

Slightly sandy or loose soil is what mushrooms need. A promising sign in an area is the presence of downed timber. Shady ground along the Platte River is an excellent starting place, as are strips of land along most other streams in the state. The DeSoto Bend region along the Missouri, as well as many islands on the upper stretches of the Missouri, produce morels profusely. Much of the Republican River Valley is also highly productive, and so are other sites with similar conditions.

Morels grow in pockets, so when one is found, others are usually nearby. They grow from tiny spores which are released from the parent plant when it dries up after its brief life. And, the experts say that no amount of picking will deplete the supply for the following year. Some hunters, however, prefer to break off the stems rather than pulling up the entire plants in the belief that leaving the base portion intact may sustain growth in that region. Others, however, say it is best to break off the stems simply because less sand or dirt is extracted from the ground that way.

Usually there is little cover other than trees or brush in the areas where morels are found, but sometimes tall grasses or weeds will partially obscure them. This makes the hunt a little more difficult, but if the mushrooms are there, they are worth the extra effort. Stick fairly close to the timber, usually the bigger the trees, the better. Few morels grow in clearings, but they cover hillsides. With no other mushroom or "toadstool'' resembling the morel, there need be no concern once you are able to recongize this variety. And, once familiar with it, the hunt becomes much more fun and rewarding. The short time this mushroom is available precludes much scouting, so listen closely whenever friends mention a spring hunt, and keep track of all areas where you find them. You will certainly want to return to the same spot year after year.

Two areas you might wish to investigate for mushroom potential are the banks of the Middle Loup and Dismal rivers, and while there, take in Bessey Division of the Nebraska National Forest near Halsey. It has much to offer.

One of the world's largest man-made forests, Bessey includes 90,350 acres once barren of trees. But ever since the beginning of the Twentieth Century, the planting of Austrian, ponderosa, and jack pines, and Eastern Red and Rocky Mountain cedars has produced an area often referred to as an oasis in the desert-like Sand Hills.

While other men supported, in general principle, the idea of a forest, the one individual who pushed it most and helped it grow was Dr. Charles Bessey. Officially called the Bessey Division of the Nebraska National Forest at Halsey, the oasis carries his name as a reminder to make all visitors aware of the work he did.

Bessey joined the University of Nebraska in 1884 as a professor of botany, then rose through the ranks to become head dean in 1909. He is probably best known for introducing morphology (the branch of biology that deals with the forms and structures of animals and plants) to United States scientists. In 1901 Bessey took part in a survey of the vast Sand Hills with an eye toward establishment of a forest on the sandy countryside, a dream he had harbored in his mind for a number of years. Then, in 1902, what he hoped for so strongly actually began happening. President Theodore Roosevelt authorized the formation of two forest divisions in Nebraska, one in Cherry County near Valentine, the other in Blaine and Thomas counties near present-day Halsey.

Since then, forest operations have been increasingandgaining importance for their research value. Many experiments have been carried out in the plantations with results being used each year in the practice of plains forestry and in the establishment of shelterbelts and windbreaks.

Much of the area is used for pasture by cattle owned by local ranchers, but the area offers countless outdoor recreational opportunities. There is a picnic area, a swimming pool, a campsite, a trailer park, and a fire lookout tower.

Wildlife is another phase of the multiple-use program. Fish are found in the Middle Loup and Dismal rivers to the north and south, and big game includes mule and white-tailed deer, antelope, coyote, bobcat, badger, porcupine, opossum, skunk, and prairie dog. Game (Continued on page 64)

MOREL MADNESS

brown them in butter. Sometimes we add a few chopped onion pieces, too. After they are browned nicely, we pour the scrambledegg mix over the whole works and cook until done," Max explained.

"Of course, the old reliable —mushrooms over steak or roast —is hard to beat," Mel added.

To wash sand from the fungi, the Wunderlichs place the mushrooms in a colander which sits in a large crock. Water running into the crock swirls through the mushrooms, washing the sand out and letting it settle to the crock bottom. Sand is only a problem with mushrooms from the river's edge or from islands, where they are often thoroughly impregnated with wind-blown sand. The Wunderlich innovation seemed like a sure-fire method to save those.

We shot the breeze with the landowner briefly and were soon winding our way through the cottonwoods and cedars of the Loup River again.

The day was drawing quickly to a close, but the area looked as promising as any we had seen. Buckets were quickly manned and the party fanned out in a disorderly fashion through the timber.

Mushrooms were spotty but every so often a clump of half a dozen or so appeared. Quality made up for quantity, though, as all were the small, prime size. Bucket levels rose at a slow but consistent pace. Gentle ridges seemed productive areas in which to work.

"I don't know how much truth there is to it, but a lot of people around here break the stems off rather than pull the mushrooms from the ground. That way mushrooms will come back up in the same spot next year," Max cautiously suggested.

Not knowing the answer myself, I could only pass on what I had read a week or so ago. The Mushroom Hunters' Guide answered this common question concisely: "Picking mushrooms, as far as future crops are concerned, has no more effect on the mushroom plant than picking apples from a tree. It is impossible to strip an area of any of its mushrooms by gathering the fruits. Since one can find the same species in the same place year after year it is important to remember exact locations. Only varying soil and weather conditions, it seems, will prevent them from appearing at the same spot year after year."

The sun dropped early in the dense cottonwoods, and finding the earth-colored mushrooms became a trying test for even experienced mushroom hunters.

Most buckets were about half full when we finally called it quits. Mel, it appeared, had fared the best, having run across several nice clumps.

"Not nearly as good as it should have been," Max said almost apologetically. "But it's the tail end of the season and that doesn't help."

'You guys come back a bit earlier next year and we'll show you what real mushroom hunting is like." "You've got a deal," I volunteered for both Bob and me. "We'll hold you to that offer." Wiser in the ways of mushrooms, and with paper bags filled, we called it a day. We understood the growing fraternity of mushroom hunters better, had some inviting recipes in hand, and had learned some tips to live by in the strange world of the fungi finder. The next season would be anticipated as eagerly as the opening day of any hunting season. THE END

Outdoor Calendar

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

FOR COMPLETE DETAILS Consult NEBRASKAland hunting and fishing guides, available from conservation officers, permit vendors, county clerks, all Game and Parks Commission offices, or by writing Game and Parks Commission, 2200 N. 33rd St., Box 30370, Lincoln, Nebraska 68503.

WHERE TO GO

birds include pheasants, ducks, prairie chickens, and sharp-tailed grouse.

With fire the forest's worst enemy, the primary purpose of Scott Lookout Tower is to provide an observation deck for spotting any telltale curls of smoke that could develop into raging infernos. Here is a place where extreme caution should be exercised when using matches or other flameproducing materials.

Bessey would probably smile if he could, should he ever return from beyond the grave to see how the forest has grown since his death in 1915, and how it has become a natural-habitat area for wildlife as well as a forestry research center.

Bessey Division has been one of the state's top attractions and continues to lure thousands of visitors a year. It is, indeed, an oasis in the middle of a treeless plain. THE END

CRAPPIE CRADLE

got a mess of fish to clean." I was just nodding my agreement when I saw Smitty grab for his "deep" rod. Quickly taking up the slack, he set the hook firmly and the rod bowed sharply as his opponent dug in.

"What do you have?" I asked.

"I don't know," Smitty answered with a grin, "but he sure wants to stay down."

The fish battled it out deep, but minutes later Smitty led it to the surface beside the boat where I was waiting with the landing net.

"Not a bad walleye," Smitty said, as I slid the net under the 2 1/2-pounder and hoisted it aboard.

It was almost dark when we returned to the boathouse. A faint glow in the west indicated that the cloud cover was breaking, holding promise of better weather the next day.

When we unloaded the boat I was surprised at the weight of the fish bag. A quick count at the cleaning table showed that we had kept 27 nice crappie in addition to the walleye. With two filleting knives, we made fast work of the cleaning chore.

"You should have been with us last night," Smitty said, when we met Ross at a local cafe for breakfast next morning. Accompanying Ross was pretty, 18-year-old Carnia Pettersson, a Swedish girl who was spending the summer with Ross' family.

"You caught something other than a cold?" Ross asked with a grin.

"We got a nice mess of crappie and a good walleye," Smitty replied.

"I hope we catch some this morning," Carnia said.

It was eight o'clock when we arrived at Ross' trailer, located high atop a bluff overlooking the lake. One of 26 canyon lakes formed during the construction of the TriCounty canal system, Midway is actually made up of 8 connected lakes.

A light breeze rocked the boat as we pulled into the first inlet. Within minutes, four bobbers plopped into the general vicinity of the various beds which Ross had pointed out. As we sat back to wait, I asked how many crappie could be taken from a bed.

"They're an extremely prolific fish," Smitty said. "We kept track of one of our best beds several years ago and figured that more than 2,000 were caught in a single season."

Checking later, I found that a giant, 100-foot-long bed in an Illinois lake had produced 20,000 crappie during a single season.

Ross was the first to score, with Smitty adding a second crappie to the fish bag minutes later.

"That's not fair," Carnia said. "I haven't even had a nibble yet." Carnia's bad luck seemed to spread as we all sat for the next 20 minutes without a bite. Finally Ross suggested we try another bed. During the course of the morning we fished six or seven beds and managed to take a few crappie at each location, but the action was much slower than during the previous evening.

"Apparently the fish went on a real feeding spree last night and just aren't too active today," Ross theorized, when we decided to call it quits and headed back for the boathouse.

Carnia's bad luck had plagued her all morning, and she had gone fishless.

"Some days I catch them and some days I don't," she said, apparently not too upset at being skunked

Back at Ross' trailer, Carnia departed for her summer job at the Cozad newspaper while Smitty, Ross, and I looked forward to a fish fry. Within minutes the fillets, basted with golden pads of butter, were sputtering on the grill. Settling back to savor the aroma, I asked about the construction of crappie beds and found that, as with many other aspects of fishing, there was a difference of opinion. Both Smitty and Ross built their beds shortly after Christmas using discarded Christmas trees. Smitty uses four to six trees for each bed, tying them together at the base and weighting them with iron or concrete. Ross also uses four to six trees and weights them with iron or concrete, but he prefers to bind the trees together all the way from the base to the tip, adding a little prairie hay to each bundle. The beds are then hauled out on the ice of the lake to predetermined locations and left to drop to the bottom during the spring thaw.

"Building the beds takes some work, but it sure pays off," Smitty said. Ross nodded agreement.

All conversation stopped as we settled down to a feast of golden-fried crappie.

When finished, Smitty broke the silence with, "I don't know which is better —catching them or eating them."

I still haven't decided. THE END

OUTDOOR NEBRASKAland of the Air

Outdoor Elsewhere

Raccoon Bait. Not long ago, a Pennsylvania game warden received a complaint about raccoons raiding garbage cans at a local church. After many unsuccessful attempts at trapping the rascals, using conventional baits ranging from dog food to fresh fish, the warden finally received a call notifying him that the raccoon had been caught. After picking up the trapped animal, the warden asked the "trapper'' —a nun —just what she had used for bait, since she had been successful where he had failed. Her reply? Strawberry shortcake! — Pennsylvania

A Wild Excuse. Staked out in an alfalfa field watching for deer spotlighters, two Missouri game wardens intercepted a car after it circled the field several times. Among other conventional items used by spotlighters, the wardens found a loaded .22-caliber rifle. "I know you're not going to believe this," the driver told them, "but, I was just looking for a place to park with my girl next Saturday night." The poacher was right. The wardens didn't believe him and neither did the judge. He was arrested and convicted of attempting to take a deer illegally. — Missouri

A Case Of Clear Cutting. A certain Maine boating enthusiast lost his boat last summer to a very determined thief. The sportsman kept his boat chained to a large tree on the edge of his favorite fishing river. But, the thief was so determined, he chopped down the giant tree in order to steal the boat. — Maine

Most Valuable Game Animal. The world's most valuable game animal taken last year was a Wyoming elk. The elk was carrying a $25,000 electronic tracking collar when it was killed by a hunter. The collar, used to study the range of the elk, had been on the animal since the previous February and was returned to the state game commission. — Wyoming

Unconvincing Testimony. When a Pennsylvania game warden checked a pair of youthful hunters on the first day of the upland game season last fall, the warden was skeptical of their answers when he asked how they were doing. The boys explained that they hadn't fired a shot all day. The officer noticed a large bulge in one of the boy's game pouch, and after a few tense moments, finally asked the hunters for an explanation of the bulge. Blushing, the young hunter pulled out a pair of wool long Johns. Itseemed the unseasonably warm 80-degree weather had been just too much for the sportsman, so off had come his underwear. — Missouri

InvadingCreatures. A Pennsylvania game warden recently received a frantic call from a rather frightened woman who claimed she had several weird creatures in one of her basement window wells. The woman described the creatures as jet black, about six inches long, web-footed, and added that they made sounds like small kittens. The warden dispatched himself immediately to the caller's home. Upon arrival, his investigation revealed that the mysterious, black, web-footed critters were, in fact, kittens.--Pennsylvania

Put and Take. An Alabama fisherman discovered last fall that, to a certain extent, he can talk to largemouth bass. The angler made the discovery while fishing a prime, largemouth-producing lake with a friend. He was using a brand-new casting rod and reel. After several fruitless casts with a surface plug, the angler made one more cast into a likely looking area and then laid his rod down for a breather. While fumbling around in his tackle box, the angler jokingly said: "Now big bass, you just grab that plug whenever you're good and ready." At that very moment, a large bass burst through the water and hit the plug. You guessed it. Before the fisherman could react, the bass pulled his brand new rod and reel into the drink, never to be seen again. Next time the angler should probably be more prepared before he talks to the bass. — Alabama

Join the "in" group this summer for a spin through the land of Western heroes and legends. This five-day tour will take you to Sandoz country of northwest Nebraska. You will spend a night at the spot where Crazy Horse met his destiny-Fort Robinson. Other highlights include visits to the State Capitol, Genoa (Nebraska's Pawnee Capital), Scotia's chalk mine, a country store at Westerville, Nebraska National Forest, Chadron State Park, Toadstool Park, Agate Fossil Beds National Monument, Museum of the Fur Trade at Chadron, Gordon's circle tour of Sandoz country, Cottonwood Lake, Snake Falls, Fort Niobrara, and Fort Hartsuff. Seethe West as the pioneer never saw it-from the comfort of an air-conditioned bus and bedding down in modern motels. Wagonmaster Charlie Chace will again guide the expedition, assisted by Lt. Gov. Frank Marsh and Walter Baer. Just $110 covers all expenses, including transportation, lodging, and meals. Get your reservations in today to get acquainted with NEBRASKAland this summer!