For the record... DON'T BECOME A "SUBJECT"

An officer's report of a death by drowning at a Nebraska lake is summarized, in part, as follows: 'The subject went out on the lake by himself on an innertube. Witnesses stated that when subject was approximately halfway across, he appeared to fall backward off the innertube. The strong wind blew the innertube away from the subject, who tried to swim toward it. He began to bob up and down in the water and, finally, did not come up at all."

The macabre events described in this unemotional, official language give no hint of the crushing sadness brought into the lives of the relatives who lost a loved one, or the anguish it caused for the others who stood by, horror-stricken, watching their companion perish.

These grim circumstances have become all too familiar. The Game and Parks Commission, during the summer of 1971, exercised its regulatory powers to bar the use of flotation devices on water at certain designated beaches under the Commission's jurisdiction.

"Flotation device" is a generic term applied to any of a variety of items such as auto-tire innertubes, water wings, air mattresses, and a host of rubber or plastic inflatable toys capable of supporting or partially supporting a person in water. These things have played a part in so many drownings around the nation that they are often called "drowning devices" by water-safety experts.

The name is well justified. In use, these devices tend to give the nonswimmer a false sense of security, encouraging him to venture out beyond safe limits. Furthermore, parents who are not knowledgeable in water safety may place undeserved trust in these devices on the theory that anything is better than nothing, and so, unwittingly, provide a child with the tool for possible death.

The only "safe" flotation device, and the only legal one that may be used on restricted, marked beaches in Nebraska State Park waters, is an approved life jacket. We put the word "safe" in quotation marks because even an approved life jacket offers no survival guarantee, and such jackets must be properly maintained to be efficient.

The Commission recognizes that air mattresses are useful for sunbathing on beaches, and that children derive considerable pleasure from playing with beach bal Is and inflated toys along the water's edge. To provide for these activities, the Commission has allowed these devices to be used on designated beaches which will be marked. At the same time, the Commission indicated that if the regulation is abused, the prohibition will be extended to include the entire beach area.

Now, a final word to those who will use these devices in unrestricted areas. If you are a poor or mediocre swimmer, at least admit it to yourself and do not ride an innertube or an air mattress to depths from which you cannot return if the device deflates or if you lose it.

Second, remember that offshore winds drive these devices away like a sailboat, and while you may have every intention of staying in shallow water, you may suddenly find yourself in deep water.

Last, but by no means least, if your innertube or air mattress gets away from you and blows lake ward —forget it! Literally hundreds of lives have been lost in this nation because of attempts to swim out after a windblown flotation device. Surely, it is worth the price of an old innertube or a $1.98 air mattress to prevent you from being called the "subject" in a drowning report.

Speak Up

NEBRASKAland Magazine 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.

LITTLE OF EVERYTHING- I enjoy your magazine every month, and here are some of the things I would like to see in the future. My husband is a veteran of World War I, and was also a member of the Sixth Cavalry. So, we would like pictures and stories of all the old forts that were in Nebraska. My husband was at Fort Sill, Oklahoma, for a while and that is the closest to the West that he ever was.

"We would also like to see pictures of the old cavalry horses if you have any and an article on Fort Robinson would be most interesting, possibly including a picture of Crazy Horse the Sioux.

"My hobby is collecting pictures of old covered bridges, past and present. I know the state of Nebraska has several large rivers, but did they ever have any covered bridges? If so, please put some of them in your magazine.

"I would also like pictures of round barns if there are any in the state. Old farm houses and churches would also be enjoyable. My husband's father and grandfather were blacksmiths, and I am sure he would like photos and stories about them and their shops.

"You might also consider articles on old threshing machines, covered wagons and old buggies, as well as any ghost towns Nebraska might have. And, I know your state has lots of animals so photos of buffalo, mountain lions, horses, sheep, and even hogs. I like the animal and bird pictures you have run." —Mrs. O. A. Hooven, Hillsboro, Oregon.

NEBRASKAland welcomes article ideas from its readers, and all such suggestions are taken into consideration for future editions of the magazine—Editor.

WAY BACK WHEN-"Recently, my grandson and I spent more than an hour leafing through NEBRASKAland to find a picture of a meadowlark. We covered issues from 1971 to 1963 before we found what we wanted.

"In April, 1963, Nebraska's official bird appeared with the state seal and flag on a beautiful cover. And, since there are many centennial observances in Nebraska towns this year, it would seem fitting to feature this cover and the article which accompanied it again.

"We started subscribing to the magazine when it was just mimeographed sheets stapled together and issued quarterly, and we have issues from 1954, but would like to know when it was first issued." —Mrs. R. H. Hockaday, Hastings.

NEBRASKAland began as a publication of the Department of Agriculture in 1926 and was produced by the Game, Forestation, and Parks Commission after 1929, the year that agency was formed. — Editor.

IRATE AT BEST-"I didn't say a word when your magazine used a photo of my 1971 Best-Of-Show wood duck drake from the Central Flyway contest (Cover, December 1971) without consulting me. Nor did I complain when you used this same photo on your December leaf of your 1972 Calendar. The fact you declined to mention my name on either publication was more of a surprise than insulting.

"However, your answers to readers requesting the maker of this decoy has my Prussian up, and I feel you owe me a retraction at the very least! Leading people to believe Mr. Stutheit carved this decoy may be a good thing for your local pride, but I doubt it would stand up in court.

"I feel I've been more than tolerant of your determination to keep your readers in the dark concerning the maker of the wood duck decoy on your December 1971 cover, but when you tell them to contact one of your local carvers, rather than me, I feel you've deprived me of prospective customers and I wonder just what my legal rights are for this obvious attempt at twisting the facts! While a great many artists have died of hunger, cold, and despair, I have yet to hear of one dying from too much publicity.

"What action you take to correct this disclaiming of my talents will be of great interest to me and I fully expect your apologies to overshadow the embarrassment and loss of income you've caused me! " — Josef Wooster, Ashley, Ohio.

Mr. Wooster is a noted artist who has earned a widespread reputation among decoy carvers. Technical error resulted in his decoy not being properly credited. We hope Mr. Wooster will accept our apologies. — Editor.

CORRECTION - We must apologize for an error which appeared in the May issue of NEBRASKAland Magazine. Due to a decision to use a hostess in a setting emphasizing fishing rather than the backdrop originally planned, the wrong name appeared.

NEBRASKAland's May hostess was Toni Bowen, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Kelly Bowen of Morrill. Miss Bowen is majoring in special education and elementary education at Nebraska Western College in Scottsbluff and plans to teach special education after graduation. Her hobbies are water skiing, snow-skiing, horseback riding, reading, and swimming. Her photo appears above. — Editor.

Cover: Watercolor art of Wildcat Hills, Chimney Rock, and Scotts Bluff National Monument recalls landmarks pioneers used. Lou Ell's photograph of prickly pear in bloom appears on opposite page.

Zigzag Zonk

IT WAS the funniest episode I ever saw. Not that I enjoy seeing a wild creature killed, mind you, but this event —the death of br'er rabbit was hilarious. It happened in 1965. Jack, my husband, and I were hunting antelope west of Crawford with Everett Doolittle, an area rancher and our host, his daughter Margaret, and Oscar Hellbusch and Delmar Plumbtree, two of our good friends from Belgrade.

We were to hunt on the flats northwest of Crawford —prime antelope territory—and arrived at Everett's place at 3:30 a.m. Saturday, the day the season opened. Both he and Margaret held hunting licenses, so we had a big job ahead of us if we were to fill all six permits, since it was only a three-day season.

After breakfast two hours later, Jack, Oscar, and Delmar jumped into one jeep while I joined Everett and Margaret in the other. We drove north and hit open range just as the sun rose, outlining a beautiful herd of antelope on the horizon. What a sight! Then the herd disappeared.

We decided that Jack and I would sit tight while the rest skirted the territory and drove the animals toward us. The valley in which we stationed ourselves ran north and south for about half a mile. On each side were rolling hills running parallel a quarter of a mile apart. A fence stretched along the bottom of the valley and there were several fresh paths where antelope had crossed it. Jack and I found a good spot near one trail and sat down to wait. From there we enjoyed a panoramic view of the valley across to the ridge on the other side. We had been in position for about an hour when we heard a car in the distance.

Then, over the hill at the far end of the valley came an antelope, wildly running — lickety-split — as fast as its legs could carry it. Not seeing us, it kept running along the opposite ridge. Soon a station wagon appeared about a quarter of a mile behind, moving at approximately 40 miles per hour. Its back door was open, swinging with each turn of the vehicle, and I swear that wagon hit every bump on the ridge. How it kept going without breaking a spring is beyond me.

Just as the station wagon was directly across the vailey from us and the antelope was about to disappear from the southern end of the valley, the vehicle's spare tire popped out of the open back end and careened down the hill.

Along the way, it flushed an old jack rabbit. Seeing the tire charging down toward him, br'er rabbit broke from his lair and streaked away directly ahead of the zigzagging tire.

Every time the rabbit zigged, the tire seemed to follow as if by design. And every time he zagged, the tire did the same. Br'er rabbit was most probably wondering what new device man had come up with to chase him down.

Occasionally, he came to a knoll and leaped from it only to have the tire do likewise and gain on him. Finally the tire was right on his heels. When they came to another knoll, both leaped simultaneously. This time it spelled poor br'er rabbit's end. He just couldn't get out from under. When they hit the ground the tire flattened him like a pancake. The rabbit just lay there while the tire wobbled dizzily, rolled around on the spot a moment or two, then plopped down. He never had a chance.

We had watched the whole scene and were laughing so hard we could scarcely breathe.

Not wanting to leave the rabbit where he was, we decided to eulogize him with fitting prairie pomp and circumstance. Because of the entertainment he had provided during the last moments of his life, we dug a grave and laid him to rest while tears of laughter (half of them were sorrowful by then) still streamed down our cheeks. We looked skyward and implored whatever deity is in charge of wildlife to give br'er rabbit a good place in the happy hunting grounds.

We closed the grave and planted on it a marker of dead wood and a scrap of paper I found in my pocket. On the paper I wrote an epitaph.

We would have buried the tire with the rabbit but, figuring the owner might want it back, we put it in the jeep.

The station wagon soon came back our way along a country road and we flagged it down. The antelope we had seen streaking across the ridge only a short while ago was tied neatly to the rack on top. When we finally pulled up, we asked the driver if he was missing a spare tire. He checked. Sure enough, by golly, it was gone.

Well, we couldn't resist temptation. We told him the story and his face broke into an ever-widening grin. Then we told him we had buried the tire alongside the rabbit because that had seemed to be the fitting thing to do. His grin vanished then, and he suddenly looked upon the whole situation from a new perspective which, to him, was markedly less humorous. All's well that ends well, though, and we produced the spare minutes later —much to his relief. I love telling the story. I guess you are supposed to keep a straight face when you tell something funny, but I still laugh every time long before I have ended my tale. And sometimes, when no one is around, I look up, wink at the sky, and offer a secret prayer for the repose of br'er rabbit's soul. THE END

Surplus Center

• All items are F.O.B. Lincoln, Nebraska. Include enough money for postage to avoid paying collection fees (minimum 85c >. Shipping weights are shown. 25% deposit required on all C.O.D. orders. We refund excess remittances immediately. Nebraska customers must include the Sales Tax.

HOW TO: Canoe A River

ANY CANOEIST will tell you his craft is the greatest recreational vehicle afloat — providing he can keep it that way. Though the canoe is famous for requiring only several inches of draft, Nebraska waters are famous for being broad and shallow. Countless hang-ups on sandbars are almost certain to plague the inexperienced voyageur, and a pleasurable trip is marred by an inordinate number of disembarkations.

Every river has a channel gouged out by the major current. Sand scoured from this trench is deposited in areas where the water spreads out enough to lose some of its speed. This results in shallows with only an inch or so of water cover, but because they mirror the sky as much as deeper areas, you may run aground before you know it.

The deeper channel, however, creates a certain veneer on the river's surface. If a paddler looks ahead, careful observation will reveal a definite "path", a narrow band of riffled water winding its way through the wider, smoother expanse. This band of pebbly water marks the course of the channel. Follow it, and your grounding problems will all but vanish.

You will see the current glance off the river's bank in a bend, shoot diagonally across the stream, bounce off the opposite bank, then zigzag away, seldom staying midstream for any distance. Wherever the current cuts into, then bounces away from the bank is a hazardous area. If you are the sternman, look far forward along the channel at all times to chart your course. You need steering control from both bowman and sternman here to avoid being swept against the bank.

The secret of good canoe control in moving water is to keep the craft moving faster than the water. This is achieved with continuous paddling. The inexperienced canoeist tends to stop paddling while riding out a hazardous stretch of the river, but this invites an upset. To avoid being plastered against the bank, both paddlers should stroke to obtain forward movement. The sternman then guides the canoe to the edge of the riffle nearest midstream. By holding to the inner side of the curve, while his bowman continues to provide forward power, he stays far enough from the bank to negotiate the turn with ease.

Should the river straighten out, you can ease up and float, using only occasional strokes to stay on course. It's good for the soul to float along, listening while the river talks to you.

Obstructions in your path, such as hidden rocks or submerged logs, are dangerous. When the object is close enough to the surface to create a spot of white water, it is best to avoid crossing the current, but when its course dictates that you must, do so on the downstream side. Remember that the white water is always downstream from the obstruction. Crossing the stream just above the turbulent area may bring the canoe squarely against the hidden hazard.

A single rock is easily avoided, but where you encounter a number of them, as you may in a stretch of white water, it takes quick evaluation by the sternman to choose the safest route. The "hard left" or "hard right" calls from the bowman should help take you through.

Fortunately, perhaps, there are few rivers in Nebraska with excessively dangerous water, and most of them can be canoed without much fear of a dunking. Areas where rough water does exist, however, offer good opportunities to master canoeing finesse. If you enjoy the experience, you can return upstream and shoot the stretch a second time. These challenges are part of river canoeing and add spice to what would otherwise be nothing but aimless floating.

Paddling upstream against any sort of current, however, is hard work. To make better time and save muscle power, you can "track" the canoe. To do this, you need two quarter-inch nylon ropes, each about 50 feet long. Thread one under the stern seat, then around under the canoe, and tie it snugly against itself at the thwart with a tautline hitch. Work this knot around until it is under the keel. Attach the second rope in the same way at the bow seat. This bridle, with its pulling point at the canoe's keel, should be installed whenever a canoe is to be towed with either one or two lines To track  

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Tracking canoe upstream saves muscles and is invaluable when battling strong current

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Pebbled water indicates the path deep channel takes along the river's course

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Two-man carry is necessity on windy day but one man can handle craft if it's calm

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Sunken snag shows up from afar, but remember white water is on lee side

the canoe upstream against a stiff current, either one or both canoeists ascend the bank with rope in hand. Slack rope lets the canoe drift out into the current away from the bank. Walking along the bank moves the canoe along with you. This trick is useful not only when backtracking to rerun some rapids, but sometimes saves you the bother of unloading a canoe when you are hauling heavy gear. The front bridle usually slips around a bit until the knot reaches a point somewhere up the side of the canoe where the stress stabilizes.

As a point of interest, whenever a canoe is to be towed, the pulling point should be at or near the keel. The two eyes at the tops of the bow and stern of most canoes are only mooring devices. Any attempt to tow the craft with lines fastened to them brings the risk of upsetting the canoe.

You can tell when you approach a dangerous stretch of water like rapids or a waterfall. The voice of the river changes and you hear the roar before you reach it. In many places, the river narrows and the current accelerates. Unless you know what lies ahead it is well to land and inspect the area from the bank. Unless you are alert, it is possible to come upon spots like Rocky Ford so suddenly it is too late to make shore. I have seen fist-size holes punched into canoes because some daring souls tried to test their strength against these rapids on the Niobrara. I have also seen a canoe bent into a horseshoe around a rock by the tremendous pressure of the current in the canyon of the Snake.

The sensible thing to do, of course, is to land and portage around such stretches. Use a one-man canoe carry when the day is calm, or a two-man carry when the wind is brisk. Canoeing a river is a memorable experience, and learning the tricks helps make it enjoyable. THE END

Lanyard of the Panhandle

IF U.S. HIGHWAY 26 has a frustrating factor, it is that motorists headed up the road toward Scottsbluff can't start from the beginning. The roadway rises out of the aphalt-covered prairie in downtown Ogallala. The starting point is easy enojugh to find; it is the Spruce Street intersection with U.S. Highway 30 and is parked by one of the town's two stoplights. But in recent years, the city fathers and the State of Nebraska have become traffic-flow conscious, and to head north on Spruce is to violate the law. You see, the street carries traffic one way —southbound. So, those in search of the scenery heralded by highway signs outside of town have to start their trips on East A Street, tying into the main stem just before it winds up over the hills to the north.

Getting onto this highway hasn't always been such a hassle. And, indeed today it is little complication to the traveler. But this is a land steeped in pioneer heritage and those hearty souls knew not the trials and tribulations of descendants who would one day be leashed by hard surfaces and white lines. They simply struck out over hill and valley, pointing their oxen westward and straggling into a new life in a virgin land. Today, their pathways are paralleled and sometimes overlaid by the genius of engineering, for U.S. Highway 26 has become a modern Oregon Trail as it snakes through some of the wildest, most beautiful country Nebraska has to offer.

Highway 26 could probably be likened to the lanyard dangling from a gigantic skillet. It trails through the Panhandle of Nebraska, keeping this big country easily at hand as though tying it to the user's wrist. A short drive north of Ogallala lies ample evidence of the kind of scenery this big country has to offer as Lake McConaughy backdrops the highway on the north. Big Mac, as this largest of the state's impoundments has come to be called, stretches more than 30 miles west and finger canyons running into the ridges along its south side offer sweeping panoramic views  

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Playground of the West, Lake McConaughy lies north of Ogallala. Courthouse and Jail rocks are at Bridgeport

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heart of state's scenery and history of its majesty. Drivers can pause at an elevated observation area to grasp the sheer magnitude of the lake. Here hunting and fishing reign supreme, and boaters find a mecca for every manner of craft. For most, it is hard to imagine that less than a century ago, the land sprawling before them saw only the trickle of the North Platte River and hosted Indian encampments and bluecoated pony soldiers in their turn. But just up the road all that becomes strikingly clear and frighteningly near at Ash Hollow.

Now a state historical park, this site once watched the labors of droves of travelers who inched their way toward a new tomorrow. Windlass Hill today is bordered by the hard-surfaced road and access is easy. But in its day, the steep incline claimed many a traveler's wagon and occasionally a life. The hill was considered by many as the steepest obstacle east of the Teton range. Those who lashed one wagon to another's rear wheel and winched the former down the hill probably had more earthy remarks about it. But no mere landform could stop an expanding nation, and wagon ruts which remain on and below the hill attest to the passing of thousands. Some, of course, never saw their promised land and they lie in Ash Hollow Cemetery just east of Lewellen. Others held no dreams of travel when they met in combat between Indian and trooper at the Battle of the Blue Water just north of this historic hill. Today, picnickers and campers are welcome here, and each year, increasing numbers take the opportunity to stop and commune with history.

As with any vacation path, much of the allure of this road lies a short distance away. Just north of Oshkosh, for instance, is the Crescent Lake National Wildlife Refuge. For those with a bent for open spaces, there is no better place to watch wild animals in their own environments. No zoo can equal the reality and thrill of nature at her best, and myriad lakes throughout the area offer anglers ample opportunity to partake of Nebraska's piscatorial offerings.

U.S. Highway 26 runs almost 148 miles from start to finish in Nebraska, and it takes only an instant to see why it has received such acclaim. The area it crosses is rugged, beautiful country which is not to be duplicated anywhere in the state. Perhaps that is why travelers of long ago accorded it such interest in their journals. They mentioned Courthouse and Jail rocks almost universally. Named for the manmade structures they resemble, each became a noted landmark in its own right as pioneers took time from their travels to scale their sheer heights. Both andmarks are impressive in their own   right, but perhaps no other single feature of ancient and modern trails stirred imaginations as did Chimney Rock just south of Bayard.

Wagonmasters and their charges saw the tower days before they reached its base. Dancing on the distant horizon in the summer heat, Chimney Rock signaled a nearing end to their trek through Nebraska. It was the sentinel of the Teton Range of Wyoming, yet a curiosity that knew few equals. First to see the formation were the Indians who dubbed itthe "Wigwam." Whites, however, were more accustomed to their eastern accommodations and applied the lasting name of Chimney Rock. Estimates of its height ran into the thousands of feet, but only a few early visitors came close to the 800 feet a survey of 1895 showed it to be. Time has taken its toll on the volcanic ash, Brule clay, and sandstone tower, though, and today its height is little more than 500 feet. Still, it is a wonder to behold.

Nebraska is a land of contrast and nowhere is it more evident than in the North Platte River Valley through which Highway 26 runs. A short distance from the road, towering buttes cast a spell of insignificance over travelers. Yet beside these landforms lies some of the richest farming land in the state. Wheat and sugar beets are the major crops in this area, just part of the agricultural heritage of a state which helps feed a nation. Storage granaries and processing mills along the way offer frequent interruptions in the table-top flatness of the valley itself, and often the interested tourist is offered tours to further acquaint him with what makes this part of Nebraska tick. The ever-present buttes, jutting skyward so as to be visible for miles in any direction, are constant reminders pf a past which still lingers over the Panhandle.

They call the rugged country which runs south of U.S. Highway 26 from Bridgeport to the Wyoming border the Wildcat Range. Remnants of the same upheavals which formed the Rocky and Teton mountains, this escarpment is a sentinel of things to come. Volunteer pines stud the slopes and the air crackles with freshness today, just as when Conestoga-borne travelers passed this way more than a century ago. Less familiar names like Twin Mounds, Bighorn Mountain, Eagle Nest, and Signal Butte mingle with more common ones like Chimney Rock, Robideaux Pass, Mitchell Pass, and Scotts Bluff National Monument. Here, too, the Wildcat Hills State Game Refuge holds one of the state's two bison herds, and majestic elk, long gone as a huntable species, are also maintained.

For years, Scotts Bluff has been a drawing card for travelers through this area. But (Continued on page 54)

The Ghost Dancers

TO THE INDIAN, it was the second coming. Like a Christian during the Roman Empire, the Indian was a despairing and persecuted people. Looking about him, all he saw was destruction. A flood of whites had raped his hunting ground; rending its sod and slaughtering its buffalo. The Red Man was starving and broken. Then came the new Messiah, an Indian deliverer, bringing promise for the future.

For whites, the Messiah's coming was an event to be feared and stifled. This new religion might incite the Indian to war in a then-quiet West. Long before, the Black Hills had been opened by gold seekers, and much available land had been taken by settlers. A country marched forward into the future, and the savagery of the Indian should never again be unleashed.

The climate that produced ghost dances took root when the first white set foot on this continent. The Caucasian could not seem to co-exist with Indian culture. He could not accept the Indian way of life. It was, he thought, mankind's Christian destiny to go the way of the white.

Worries about Indian trouble ended, however, at Wounded Knee as troops poured in from all sides —Fort Niobrara, Fort Robinson, and Omaha. Even the Nebraska National Guard was part of the influx. Panic-stricken Wasichus (whites) had come to protect their interests; to crush the last desperate dream of a proud people.

Wavoka, the Indian Messiah, appeared in Nevada during the late 1880's. Word spread rapidly, even to the plains Sioux reservations. It was a time when daring warriors, who had once roamed Nebraska after buffalo, were desperately in need of a dream.

So, the Sioux sent emissaries to investigate. In the fall of 1889, Good Thunder, Kicking Bear, Short Bull, Flat Iron, and Yellow Breast set out for Nevada, returning before the spring of 1890 with word: "Wavoka lives!" A dying race believed again. The Messiah was alive, and the faithful would inherit the earth.

New hope made an Indian nation forget empty bellies. Through the long, sun-drenched summer, tribes forgot to plant and reap the white man's crops that would not grow on worthless land. Wavoka had come and the Indian would be redeemed.

The promise of Wavoka was an almost-immediate arrival of the Kingdom of Heaven. Only until the next spring need the people endure, for then a new world would come to cover the old and the Wasichus would be buried. Faithful Indians would live in green meadows and hunt millions of buffalo that would spring back to life. Dead Indians would rise to walk among their living brothers, and no one would be more than 30 years old.

This was to be the Indians' reward. The Wasichus had been given the same opportunity when Christ had appeared to them. But they had settled for crucifixion. It was the Indian's turn, and he could identify with the whitecrucified Christ symbol.

The so-called "Messiah craze" was a pacifist movement in origin. There was no need to resist the white, for with the turning of four seasons, he would disappear like some troublesome nightmare.

But for the Sioux —as they were harassed even in their religious celebrations—the ceremony adopted some unique overtones. When the messengers tried to return to their tribe, whites jailed them. Stoically, the five awaited release; and then became missionaries of a new faith. They taught the holy chant and the dance of Wakantanka (the Great Spirit) and his son, Wavoka. The Sioux adopted the ceremony readily, for dancing had always played a major role in their religion.

The rite involved fasting, but that was nothing new. It had been years since the Sioux had hunted buffalo, and government rations were always too short to even begin to feed the needy. So dancers, both men and women, formed a circle and joined hands.

The dance involved no frenzied leaping as Indian dances are so often pictured. It was a slow, shuffling circle from right to left, hands in hands, bodies swaying, and feet hardly lifting from the ground. There were no drums or rattles, but constant chanting of the ghost song.

Between hunger and the monotony of the chant and dance, participants fell into a trance-like state. They dropped to the ground where they were ignored by their fellows until they regained consciousness and, all the while, the dance went on. Few could resist the rigors of the test without losing consciousness, for the dances continued for hours and hours, day and night.

Black Elk, known by the Sioux as a visionary from childhood, entered the scene late as an unbeliever. But something in the dances recalled a feverish vision he had had when, as a child he appeared to be dying. He thought he could save his people from their hardships, and he joined the dances.

The first day he danced, he fell into a trance in which he envisioned the ghost shirts subsequently used in conjunction with the ceremony. The (Continued on page 55)

Partners on bass

IT WAS A perfect day, and thoughts of bass fishing are uppermost in an angler's mind at times such as this. At least they were for Malcolm Cornett and Leon Jones. For 20 years these two have been fishing partners, and a lot of water has passed under their boats during that time and many fish have fallen to their prowess.

Malcolm is from Oakdale and Leon calls Neligh home, but they fish a wide area. Largemouth bass are, without doubt, their favorite, but by no means their only quarry. Almost anything that swims comes under their consideration at least once during the year.

Because Grove Lake, just northwest of Neligh, is close to home, it attracts some of their attention. Mostly, however, they fish it during weekday evenings when there are few people around.

"We don't like to fish anywhere when there are a lot of people," they say. Mostly this is because they cruise the shorelines, and   therefore figure they interfere with other anglers too much, so they avoid crowds.

Several facets of their fishing techniques are unique. One of these, and perhaps the most notable, is that they are successful. Not just moderately so, but unreservedly. They catch fish when no one else does, which is pretty frustrating for other anglers to see. Another matter is their exclusive use of casting reels.

In this age of gadgetry and highly refined equipment, they scoff at the delicate, intricate spinning and spin-cast rigs.

"We tried them a few times, but you just can't latch onto a big northern in heavy reeds and expect him to come waltzing up to the boat. You have to fight him all the way, and light tackle is just not built for that sort of game," claims Malcolm. "My wife bought a spinning rig once, but she lost three northerns in one day. I told her if she was going to fish with me, she had better use my kind of equipment."

Malcolm's reel is a free-spool type, which disengages the handle during a cast. Leon, who uses the same brand, has a model which is not free-spooling. They don't give the slightest hint of being handicapped with the gear, however. They flip lures out whatever distance seems necessary to get to the fish, and never accumulate those "birds' nests" in their lines so familiar to the infrequent casting-reel user.

About 5 one May afternoon, Malcolm and Leon pulled up to Grove Lake towing a two-wheel trailer behind a pickup. On the trailer was a small, semi-round-bottom aluminum boat which they have used for fishing outings for about a dozen years. All other gear is stowed inside the lift-top trailer.

Preparations for launching the craft were simple and efficient, indicating plenty of practice. Two tackle boxes, two rods, an anchor, life preservers, and the ever-present thermos bottles went into the craft with a trusty old motor clamped onto it. Oars are their usual mode of propulsion along a shoreline or around a brushpile, and they use the motor only for long runs.

Usually, an excursion to Grove Lake involves a tour around the entire impoundment, fishing every likely looking stretch of shore, including virtually all coves. Downed timber or brush is particularly intriguing to both the bass and the anglers.

Grove Lake is not large, but it is bassy-looking water. The entire shoreline holds promise, although some spots look much better than others. Several inlets go back from the main lake perhaps 50 vards —ideal areas for lunker bass.

Two years ago, a crew of biologists from the Game and Parks Commission electro-sampled the lake. Although they were primarily interested in bluegill, they turned up an impressive number of largemouths. Literally hundreds of big bucketmouths —over 5-pounders —were counted, and one big fellow tipped the scales at more than 9 1/2 pounds. Apparently, most of those big fish are still there, for only a few of them have been taken since. But, they didn't grow that big by being dummies, or falling for just any old lure tossed out by any passing angler.

Recent rains had raised the water level of the lake, and the water was murky. "I don't think the rain made the water like this," Leon observed off-handedly. "Remember the last time the water was like this? It hadn't rained for weeks before. The lake seems to change color periodically. Maybe it's because of the wind.'

"Maybe," Malcolm responded rather vaguely, being more concerned with slipping a twin-spinner, hairy lure onto the loose end of his line. Leon was taking the first turn on the oars, so Malcolm had the advantage of free angling. "I don't think the water is bad enough to really hurt fishing much, though. Let's work our way along this west side, then maybe spend a little time in that second cove."

Leon didn't even nod agreement. They have been fishing together so long they know what the other is thinking. That does not mean there is no rivalry, however, for (Continued on page 64)

Camping Pests

Fang and bramble, stinger and nettle are all parts of outdoor world, but need never become bothers

FOR GENERATIONS, tents and camping were considered a primitive form of survival for such rugged individuals as frontier trappers, military men, and Indians. A tent, after all, was used only when nothing else was available.

As the back country became settled, however, and people had leisure time and pressures from the crowding civilization weighing heavily upon them, they found camping a means of escape. The simple pleasures of nature, they reasoned, could best be enjoyed by bunking in with the trees, flowers, and wildlife.

Brief forays into the outdoors are now in another process of change. The tent has gradually given way to the camping trailer, pickup camper, and more recently, to the fancy motor home. Not all tents are being scrapped, though, as there are still many outdoor enthusiasts who prefer canvas shelters.

Regardless of the mode of sleeping under the stars, or at least away from the city, a certain number of problems can, and often do arise. Many of these are small, about the size and shape of mosquitos or other persistent insects. Perhaps more than any other challenge to the camper are these diminutive pests, always hanging around in one form or another to sink their teeth or stingers into human flesh.

So-called campground pests are not limited to the insect world, however. There are other forms of animal life ready to take advantage of the unwary. Raccoons seem to delight in digging through any goodies left unprotected overnight, and they are not above opening a few bags, boxes, or other containers if they smell food. Mice, opposums, coyotes, ants, squirrels, skunks, several species of birds, stray dogs and cats, spiders, and a few other bugs and critters also get into the act at times. Even cows and horses may create some unpleasantness.

Most experienced campers have solved many of these problems on their own and make preparations for expected difficulties. Beginners, however, or those who have confined their excursions to well-developed, high-use areas, may not be aware of what could be in store in more remote regions.

Assuming that provisions will be made for the basic necessities, such as food, water, and shelter, the purpose here is to forecast some of the difficulties that may arise from nature — specifically, insects and other meandering (Continued on page 52)

Sticks & Stones

BEAUTY, THEY say, is in the eye of the beholder. What we think we see, however, is not necessarily always fact. Take, for example, a few choice statements penned about Nebraska by influential people but a few decades ago. Little did these gentlemen realize that their observations and predictions would be so far off target. Thus, with the distinct advantage of hindsight, NEBRASKAland presents some of these not-so-accurate statements. And, in rebuttal, let us simply say "one picture is worth 10,000 words".

"A few years more and this great natural curiosity will crumble away and make only a little heap on the plain."-Father Pierre Jean De Smet about Chimney Rock (1840)

"... barren soil, parched and dried up for eight months of the year... (would) become in time equally celebrated as the sandy desarts (sic) of Africa.' — Lieutenant Zebulon M. Pike about area along Republican River (1806)

'... immense and trackless deserts " — President Thomas Jefferson (1806)

"Omaha, Nebraska, was but a halting-place on the road to Chicago, but it revealed to me horrors that I would not have willingly missed. The city to casual investigation seemed to be populated entirely by Germans, Poles, Slavs, Hungarians, Croats, Magyars, and all the scum of the Eastern European States, but it must have been laid out by Americans. No other people would cut the traffic of a main street with two streams of railway lines, each some eight or nine tracks wide, and cheerfully drive tram cars across the metals. Every now and again they have horrible railway-crossing accidents at Omaha, but nobody seems to think of building an overhead-bridge. That would interfere with the vested interests of the undertakers."-Rudyard Kipling (1889)

"This region, which resembles one of the immeasurable steppes of Asia, has not inaptly been termed the great American desert...it is a land where no man permanently abides... Such is the nature of this immense wilderness of the far West, which apparently defies cultivation and the habitation of civilized life. Some portions of it along the rivers may partially be subdued by agriculture; others may form vast pastoral tracts like those of the east; but it is to be feared that a great part of it will form a lawless interval between the abodes of civilized man, like the waters of the ocean and the deserts of Arabia; and like them be subject to the depredations of the marauders' — Washington Irving (1835)

"In regard to this extensive section of country, I do not hesitate in giving the opinion, that it is almost wholly unfit for cultivation, and of course uninhabitable by a people depending upon agriculture for their subsistence." — Major Stephen H. Long (1819)

"We have little apprehension of giving too unfavourable an account of this portion of the country. Though the soil is in some places fertile, the want of timber, of navigable streams, and of water for the necessities of life, render it an unfit residence for any but a nomad population. The traveller who shall at any time have traversed its desolate sands, will, we think, join us in the wish that this region forever remain the unmolested haunt of the native hunter, the bison and the jackel." — Edwin James, historian, botanist and geologist with the Long Expedition (1819)

"In fact a vast country incapable of sustaining a dense population in the absence of the two great necessities (wood and water). — James Fenimore Cooper (1827)

"On the two sides of the river 'Plate' are vast plains of sand from an hundred to an hundred and fifty leagues in extent where no indication of living creatures is to be found." — Marquis Francois Barbe-Marbois (1829).

Season for the Senses

INNOCENT AND EFFERVESCENT, Liz Karnes dug into her camping gear, then blurted out: "Where are the insides of the coffee pot?" That statement, probably more than any other, captured the spirit of the Karnes' first encounter with the outdoors. For UNL law student Dave Karnes, it was two days of bliss with his wife away from the statute books. For Liz, it was an equal period away from duties as a Spanish teacher at Lincoln's Everett Junior High.

In everyone's life there comes a brief moment of freedom — unleashed enthusiasm away from society's entanglements when life is rediscovered in its simplistic beauty, a time when sand trickling down through one's toes is an adventure. The Karnes captured their moment while camping in the Bessey Division of the Nebraska National Forest near Halsey early this spring.

"Don't forget the eggs and the hashbrowns. Did you pack the tent stakes?" Liz rambled on, stuffing odds and ends into their duffel bags while preparing for the trip.

With the courtroom calm of an E. G. Marshall during cross examination, Dave continued packing quietly, nodding occasionally in response to his wife's monologue.

It was a four-hour drive from their home to the forest's campground, but the trip seemed to take not nearly that long, what with Liz chattering constantly and bubbling with enthusiasm over this respite from her own teaching schedule and her husband's constant studying.

It was early in the season. Few campers were out and the area where they were about to camp was deserted when they arrived. They pitched their tent quickly, rolled out their sleeping bags, and decided that, with several hours of daylight remaining, they would explore their surroundings. Using the look-it-over-from-the-car technique, they drove through the twisting maze of roads, tracks, and cow trails posing as roads.

"There's Scott Lookout Tower ahead of us, and it was just behind us," Liz offered in confusing contradiction after dusk had settled in and vision was limited. They had wound their way through a corridor of 20-year-old Austrian pines, emerging onto prairie after their ride through the twilight.

Dave, unimpressed by his wife's ingenious way of saying they had gone through many turns, assured her that the tower still stood where it was supposed to be. "Our map must be outdated, or else they built a second tower," Liz insisted.

Climbing up a ridge for a clearer view, they settled the argument. Scott was, indeed, behind them, and when they turned around the other tower had disappeared. They dubbed it the UFT (unidentified flying tower) and wrote it off as having been two pine trees in the distance.

Pine logs, charred survivors of a 1965 forest fire, proved tough to saw but easy to split with a hand ax. Potatoes were slit, laced with butter, and wrapped in foil for baking. French bread was sliced, buttered, and doused with garlic salt for later toasting. Canned corn was dumped into a pot and steaks were rescued from the depths of their cooler. All seemed ready for the coals.

Then came Liz' encounter with the porcelain coffee pot—minus its innards. Drawing on the culinary skill of a seven-month bride, she brought the water to a boil, then pulled the pot aside and dumped in an unmeasured amount of coffee. The concoction promptly boiled over with froth.

As thick steaks sizzled and spat fat, ink-black clouds covered the star-studded sky and seemed to erase all hopes of a sunny tomorrow.

Deciding that dark nights and unwashed dishes are best abandoned for the warmth of sleeping bags, the Karnes ended their first day.

Rain is a curious phenomenon. Agriculturists welcome it in proper amounts, and during late-summer evenings it can be an enchanting diversion. But for campers it is less than welcome during the night. Regardless of maneuvering, parts of Dave's and Liz' sleeping bags still stuck out of the tent. Fortunately, the shower turned out to be nothing more than a dust settler —just enough to lump the salt left near the grill.

Dawn in the Sand Hills after a night rain is like no other time or place on earth. Next morning, the passing storm clouds lingered briefly on the eastern horizon, but during that moment the sky was saturated with wild color as sunlight burned through. Shadowy patterns fingered out across the hills and the grass glistened with moisture as a morning breeze filtered through the pines, bringing with it expectation for a fine day.

The breakfast menu was traditional—fried eggs, ham, hashbrowns, toast, and coffee. The meal was relaxing and passed uneventfully until Liz decided that the coffee could use a fresh egg to mellow the taste and anchor the grounds. With a windup like the one Sandy Koufax uses, she cracked the egg and miraculously delivered the goods into the pot.

"First egg you've cracked without breaking the yolk since we've been married, and it goes into coffee," Dave chuckled.

Midway through breakfast the sound they had hoped they would hear began-a deep, resonant, woo-woooo, woo-woooo-an errie and (Continued on page 54)

The Simple Life

TINY, DELICATE feet leave a tracery of skeleton-like footprints in the ooze along the shoreline of a small lake. Like children at play, little creatures dash in and out of the shallow water near the bank. Slender, green filaments of grass poke through the calm surface of the pond, providing shelter for small fish and giving snails convenient climbing poles.

Far off the beaten path, almost to the point of isolation, the pond is a natural reservoir nestled in the vast Sand Hills of Nebraska. Here, much like at a watering hole on the plains of Africa, wildlife gathers, bringing the quiet region to life after the slumber of winter.

Spring, with its warming weather and frequent rain, means another cycle for all creatures of the wild. And, each year, the beginning of

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Despite comparative safety, pintail keeps sharp eye out for intruders

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As lifestyles vary, sandpiper has less competition for food, nesting

 

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Bittern and other species have own methods of concealment and evasion

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Blue-winged teal is active and colorful, yet harmonious member of lake community

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Always gathered in bunches, black terns believe one good "tern" deserves another

summer finds the Sand Hills lakes bustling with activity. Small feet scurry between clumps of grass, alert eyes and ears keep furtive vigil despite the comparative safety, and graceful wings propel myriad feathered creatures through the air.

All is in harmony here, the harmony of wild beings. Each is guided by that age-old tutor-instinct-yet each is confronted by unique, sometimes insurmountable problems of survival. How well each creature copes with  

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Pelicans have that rare combination of humor and dignity that makes them watchers'delight

 

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Though fleet of foot, jack rabbit tries concealment as his first evasive tactic

them dictates his lifespan, for there is harshness here, too. Lesser species are sacrificed for the survival of the greater.

Shore birds are excellent fishermen. Like diminutive Icabod Cranes, they stride on lanky, yet graceful legs resembling dancers in some strange pavan. Pinnochio-like beaks give the appearance of recent falsehoods, but they are long for a purpose. Deftly, they plunge like rapiers into the cool shallows and extract a hapless minnow who mistook those gangly limbs for weed stalks and came too close.

The phalarope, moving with startling quickness, has his own system. Simulating an egg beater, he twirls his beak into the mire, then leisurely plucks snails from the whirlpool he created. A few feet away a sandpiper, up to his knees in water, peers intently with his long snout immersed and ready.

Typically, a Sand Hills lake can host dozens of different bird species. Many of them specialize in extracting snails from the bottom. Others prefer small crustacians or larvae. Still others seek only small fish. Thus, competition for food is lessened. Nesting areas are, likewise, different in most instances,

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Using his beak like a swizzle stick, phalarope stirs up submerged snacks

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For nesting site, phalarope seeks marsh area. Eggs are just over an inch long

 

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Slightly smaller than western, eastern kingbird has white breast and tail band

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True to name, black-crowned night heron prefers to do his fishing in darkness

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Rare and regal inhabitants of lake region, whistling swans reign over chosen territory

with ducks, geese, herons, and numerous shore and songbirds setting up housekeeping close to each other without undue stress.

Still, each member of the pond fraternity knows the risks of predation and encroachment, and so a watchful eye is kept on the selected territory. Nesting birds have evolved their own system of evasion, concealment, and protection. And so, despite the occasional loss of one resident to a predator, life goes on. The simple beauty and tranquility are appreciated by the birds and animals as they go about their business of surviving and rearing their young. That is why they selected the region for their homes.

Although diverse in habit and interest, the many species form a complex relationship, combining into a compatible wildlife family-a community of ecological harmony. THE END

NOTES ON NEBRASKA FAUNA... TIGER SALAMANDER

TIGER SALAMANDER! To the uninformed, the accidental confrontation with one of these naiads might be a startling experience. In reality the tiger salamander, Ambystoma tigrinum, is named for its appearance, not its disposition. The adult is dark on its sides and back with large, distinct yellowish blotches along its sides and tail.

More than 40 species of salamanders are recognized in the United States. The tiger salamander, however, and one other species, are the only ones found in Nebraska. Salamanders belong to the class Amphibia along with frogs and toads, although they are occasionally mistaken for lizards, which are reptiles. All lizards have scaly skins and those with legs possess claws. Salamanders and other amphibians lack these characteristics.

The tiger salamander has been found in all parts of Nebraska and is the most widespread species in the United States. Its range extends from as far north as central Alberta south to central Mexico. It has also been found from the Atlantic coast to the western slopes of the Rocky Mountains in eastern Arizona, Utah, Idaho, and Washington.

In Nebraska, the tiger salamander breeds in the early spring, usually in March. Mating occurs in the water, sometimes when ice still covers lakes and ponds. Preliminary courtship behavior between male and female consists of close swimming, body rubbing, and vigorous tail lashing. Eggs are fertilized internally and deposited on vegetation in shallow water. Although only one or two eggs are usually deposited at a time, a female generally deposits around a thousand eggs each spring. No parental care is given the eggs and they hatch in 14 to 20 days, depending upon water temperature.

Unlike frog tadpoles, tiger salamander larvae possess external gills as well as forelegs and hind legs of about the same size. Salamanders also retain a predominant tail throughout their lives.

Tiger salamander larvae feed first on minute aquatic organisms, later switching to larger insects, worms, tadpoles, fish eggs, and other larval salamanders. Tiger salamanders normally grow to 8 1/2- inches in length, although cannabalism, which is not uncommon, may result in growth to longer than 10 inches.

In eastern Nebraska, larvae are normaliy found in ponds for 8 to 10 weeks, but a number of localities have been found in which the larvae over winter, and thus they remain in that stage for a year or so.

One peculiarity of tiger salamanders is that some individuals never transform from their larval body into the colorful, terrestrial form. Instead, they retain their external gills and remain in the aquatic environment. These individuals can, however, mature sexually and will reproduce in the same way as adult forms. This process of becoming sexually mature within the larval body is known as "neoteny". The mechanisms that determine whether individuals will be neotenes are not well understood by zoologists.

Adult forms that live in the terrestrial environment prefer a moist habitat and little sunlight. They may be found in damp places under rocks, leaves, and rotting wood or even in the burrows of mammals. They are more active in the spring and fall near ponds where they breed.

Tiger salamanders possess many small glands in the skin, as do all salamanders. These glands secrete a viscous fluid that is distasteful and irritates the mucous membranes in the mouth of most would-be predators.

Very little is known about the longevity of salamanders in the wild. There are records, however, of a tiger salamander living for 28 years in captivity. Undoubtedly, the life expectancy of salamanders in their native environment is a great deal shorter.

One of the threats to salamanders today is the destruction of their habitat. More and more wetland areas are being drained each year for building construction and agricultural expansion. Salamanders that rely on freshwater streams are being reduced by increasing silt and pollution loads. On the other hand, farm-pond construction has probably increased the salamander population.

It has been said that if all the salamanders were to become extinct, it would have very little effect on the world of man. Such may be true, but it should be remembered that the quality of human existence is reflected by the diversity of wildlife. THE END

CAMPING PESTS

creatures in whose domain the camper sets up shop.

Mosquitos are familiar to everyone, yet protection against them is often neglected or forgotten until too late. Once out in the boonies, it isn't practical to run into town for necessary weapons. An otherwise pleasant outing can be made miserable by simply forgetting repellent, and it should be among the top-priority items on the shopping list beforehand. Most products on the market for this purpose are effective for a variety of insects. The personal types, that is the liquid, cream, or aerosol applied directly onto the skin and clothing, do the best job. They offer protection not only against mosquitos, but also against sand fleas, ticks, and chiggers, which offer their own special brands of discomfort.

For best results, apply repellent to all exposed skin and also on socks, shoes, pant legs, shirt cuffs, and collar, and also around the belt area. Chiggers, for some reason, prefer burrowing under tight-fitting clothing.

Dark clothing seems to attract mosquitos more than light. Soft-textured, fuzzy material is more readily attacked than clothing with a hard, dense-weave finish. Freshly washed folks just out from town are bothered less than the grimy, smelly fellow chopping wood after several days in thecountry, which is an argument against doing much labor.

As with many other human endeavors, an ounce of prevention is worth much more than is first apparent. Avoiding certain conditions while looking for others can make a tremendous difference in comfort afield. Camping near an old dump, for instance, is like sending out an engraved invitation to rats that may live there. By the same token, leaving food scraps, open containers, candy, half-eaten fruit, dirty dishes, or boxes of groceries around is a sure-fire way of attracting visitors in the night. These free samples will almost certainly make all manner of insects, as well as bigger animals, want to belly up to the banquet table.

Along the same line is the selection of the campsite. It is a science in itself to know what to look for. A flowing stream is always welcome near camp, but beware of stagnant water, since that is where mosquitos hatch. Shallow, still water is a natural. Even small pools, ditches, rainwater depression, and grassy or weedy lake edges are likely breeding places. Stay a considerable distance away from such spots and the mosquito threat will be minimized.

Setting up camp atop a hill to take advantage of breezes is recommended, as the wind will serve as a giant wand to keep bugs away.

The mode of shelter is also of importance. Enclosed campers, of course, afford all the protection needed. Also, most modern tents have insect-proof screening. As mosquitos carouse mostly in the evening, once the flaps or doors are secured, bites are minimized. Any flying pests caught inside the shelter can be swatted.

Use of aerosol sprays to ward off or kill insects over a wide area are not recommended. Most of these are a nerve-destroying chemical, and breathing or eating even small doses of these pesticides can hardly be healthy for humans. At best, these sprays contaminate all the fresh air you seek.

Food and fragile equipment should be stored inside the shelter, car, or kept in wooden boxes with latches. Cardboard just won't stand up under light drizzle or overnight dew, and contents will soon be scattered. The value of a tight storage box becomes readily apparent when a parade of ants is found marching around the bread wrapper.

No discussion of campground pests would be complete without mention of the most horrendous of all — humans. These come in such a wide variety that no amount of precaution can possibly immunize one against them all, but to expect the worst is helpful.

In isolated regions, the danger is minimal, as the worst of the lot dislike remote areas. They prefer crowded, accessible grounds where they can persecute greater numbers of people. Although few compared with the total number of campers, this campground pest more than makes up for his sparsity by his loathsome behavior.

Among the notable characteristics of this breed are noise, carried on at all hours of the day and long into the night; the extensive use of small, loud, motorized vehicles upon which the pest dashes hither and yon at the highest rate of speed possible; prolific littering of the countryside with all manner of debris which the species seems to manufacture just for the pleasure of scattering; and plundering the countryside for loose objects, natural or man-made, which the pest can pick up and carry off. These objects range from rocks, plants, small trees, bricks from fireplaces, picnic tables, other people's boats, motors, coolers, and anything else not constantly protected.

Despite the wide range of pests which may descend upon you during a weekend outing, it is unlikely that more than one or two will invade at the same time. And, fortunately, simple precautions can minimize their efforts. Camping is a unique form of recreation, offering a drastic and pleasant change from everyday routine. Like a healing balm, a camping trip can sweep away the cares and pressures of city life, introduce youngsters to a serene playland not formed of concrete and chain-link fence, and bring a healthy awareness and closeness between the family members. That is a lot of benefit from the simple preparations needed for a camping trip, and explains why an increasing number of people are exploring it as a family venture.

If you are already involved, or are going to take up the intriguing pastime, make preparations beforehand to protect yourself. And, take special care not to become one of those campground pests yourself. THE END

PANHANDLE LANYARD

the curious legend of its namesake at least hints that the bluff was widely known long before modern tourists began to take it in. Hiram Scott, an early trapper, supposedly was wounded by hostile Indians and left to die at the base of the butte. Scott, it is told, was never seen again, leading to speculation that his remains may still be near the rock. Even though the trapper was never found, those who came after him considered the bluff significant and in later years, Scotts Bluff became a national monument with a total area of more than 3,000 acres. Modern visitors will find this natural elevation much more hospitable than did Scott. Now it features a museum at the base and a paved highway to the breathtaking view from the summit.

The city of Scottsbluff, the largest along Highway 26, offers a bit of something for everyone both within its limits and in the surrounding countryside. The North Platte National Wildlife Refuge with its Lake Minatare, an angler's delight, and North Platte Valley Bird Refuge cater to those enamored with the out-of-doors, and the municipal zoo carries an interesting concept of the same theme to the entire family. Scottsbluff has plans for an Old West Trail which will map all points of interest, making exploration just that much easier. And, even now, a check with the local Chamber of Commerce will put visitors on the right track for an adventure in discovery. Information is readily available.

U.S. Highway 26 leaves Nebraska just a few miles northwest of Scottsbluff, but not before it passes through Mitchell, Morrill, and Henry. Each offers its own brand of interest and each is a threshold to finding what this country has to offer. A stop in any of these towns is well worth the trouble. They may not offer much in population, but they spell adventure for those who care to look for it. True, they were not around when oxen trains were the accepted mode of travel, and they saw no pioneers of that era pass by. But locals know the stories that make up their communities' heritage and, as in other towns along the route, these are the tales that make U.S. Highway 26 a road to remember. THE END

SEASON FOR THE SENSES

teasing call. It came from the river below. The male prairie chickens' spring displays were beginning. While the sharptail is the most common prairie grouse in the Halsey region, the prairie chicken invades the territory along the luxuriant river bottoms.

After hanging the sleeping bags on pine boughs to dry, Dave and Liz were ready for their second day. "They're planting trees in the nursery," Liz observed, as they drove along the paved road leading to the lookout tower.

"Almost 20 million seedlings are grown in the nursery," Dave read aloud from a brochure as his wife steered the car through the twists and turns. "The Bessey nursery is one of the oldest federal nurseries in the United States, with most of the seedlings grown there designated for state agencies to assist landowners in the establishment of shelterbelts and windbreaks," he continued.

Covering a 115,000-acre area, the Bessey Division was established in 1902, primarily because of continual urging from the late Dr. Charles Bessey, renowned University of Nebraska botanist. Only a small percentage is actually forested. Most of the area is still native prairie that has never tasted the bitter steel of man's plow.

The prairie dogs were congenial hosts. Like shuttle buses in rush-hour traffic, they scuttled back and forth, emerging from their burrows sometimes long enough to bark at the intruders. Their bleached, brown pelage blended in with cow chips dotting their colony.

Unperceived by Dave and Liz, the gentle morning breeze had grown into a brisk wind. The sand dune they stood on was now a living, moving entity. Once it must have been just an insignificant cattle trail, but it had built up and now covered the prairie grass, yucca roots protruding from its side.

"This is just like a beach," Liz squealed as she shed her shoes and climbed the shifting sand while the wind whipped her hair around her face.

Sandy ripples formed, erased themselves, then formed again as the couple shuffled through the dune's softness. Warmed by the prairie sun and buffetted by the elements, the minute quartz crystals reawakened their city-dulled senses.

They soon discovered more to do than two days' time allowed-the lookout tower was there to climb and wild turkey were there to find. Unanswered questions. Why was the Dismal River so dismal? An unknown road to follow to its end. But these things would have to wait. All that mattered now were the soothing sand and their free, unleashed spirits. They had captured their moment. THE END

THE GHOST DANCERS

garments were fashioned of buckskin whenever it was available, or bits of heavy sacking. They were painted blue on the breast and back with a moon on the front, the morning star behind. The neck and fringes were red, the hue of life to the Indian. On each arm was an eagle feather.

But the dances were not long to be performed without interference. At Wounded Knee Creek, the Indian agent came to halt the dances, (Continued on page 63)

SCOTTSBLUFF and GERING are truly in the middle of everything... Recreation... History... Scenery... Agriculture... Industry ...you name it, it's all there. From the days of the Mormon and Oregon Trails to the 1970's the Scottsbluff-Gering area has developed from "the desert of the plains" into the lavishly green productive agricultural center of Nebraska's West. The roots of agriculture have spread to encompass industry, recreation, tourism, and services. Scottsbluff-Gering serves as the wholesale and retail center of the Panhandle, and everexpanding medical services enhance the image of "development center of the Nebraska West." Additionally the Black Hills and Denver are only about three hours drive...Yellowstone just a short day's drive...and ski slopes only a couple of hours away...that's the "middle of everything!"

For further information on the Scottsbluff-Gering area contact Scottsbluff-Gering United Chamber of Commerce, Box 167, Scottsbluff, Nebraska 69361.

Where to go

TREAT YOURSELF to a real vacation with all outdoors as a backdrop. Spend a few days, or even a few weeks at Chadron State Park. Smack in the middle of Nebraska's Pine Ridge, the park includes 801 acres of fine butte country, complete with majestic timber and a stream rippling through its heart. The pine-studded canyons are a haven away from the cares of everyday life. Silence and solitude are integral parts of the park's atmosphere. So are friendship and camaraderie.

Chadron, now celebrating its fiftieth birthday, was the first of Nebraska's state parks. The celebration, scheduled for June 11, includes a carry-in picnic on the park's scenic grounds. A number of speakers are on the program, including Mayor Cheney of Chadron and Vance Nelson from the Nebraska Historical Society at Fort Robinson. Square dancing is also on the agenda.

Hiking through the canyons, or sitting astride a horse high on the rim of a butte, a visitor can feel the wind of the wilderness against his face. A marked nature trail winds through the park. Deer and wild turkey wander through the area. Chipmunks and squirrels chatter noisily. And, some 62 species of birds have been recorded in the park. A scenic drive runs the length of the park.

Some trout, bass, and bluegill reside in the three-acre lagoon east of the headquarters building, and rowboats are available for rent.

The keystone-shaped swimming pool is complete with a bathhouse and a wading pool for the younger set. The bathhouse features a plastic roof that allows penetration of germicidal, ultraviolet rays from the sun.

Playground equipment attracts the interest of youngsters ready to spend their daytime hours in the sun on the slides and small merry-go-rounds.

To reach the park, drive north from Alliance on U.S. Highway 385. An almost endless row of pine-studded bluffs looms ahead, seemingly impenetrable, but the highway drops right through the barrier of bluffs and trees into the well-developed recreation area.

A visitor is immediately struck with the climate in the park. With an elevation higher than 4,000 feet, relative humidity is generally low and nights are cool.

Campers are more than welcome in the park, and facilities for all kinds of under-the-stars sleeping are available. The camping area is complete with tables, fireplaces, drinking water, and atrines. No trailer hookups have been installed, but the space is there on a first-come, first-served basis for all sorts of equipment from sleeping bags out under the sky to camping trailers.

For those who would rather not rough it, housekeeping cabins can be rented. Sixteen two-bedroom cabins are available, each equipped with two double beds, linens, shower, and kitchen utensils. Rollaway beds can be had for $1 per day. Cabins cannot be reserved for less than a two-night stay, but some may be open for first-come, first-served rental on a night-to-night basis.

An organized group camp adds to the services. It can be rented at a flat rate for 60 persons or less with cabins converted into dormitories. The dorms can also be rented as vacation, double bedroom housekeeping units.

A central building can be rented with or without kitchen facilities as a dining room. It seats 90.

Food staples, camp necessities, and concession items can be purchased at the park store, or nine miles north in Chadron.

Surrounding the park are historic and recreation areas. Box Butte Reservoir is nearby with its perch, crappie, walleye, bass, trout, and channel catfish. Bordeaux Creek rates as one of the better trout streams in the state. Fort Robinson State Park is within half an hour's drive. The Badlands, with all their fantastic

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Set in beautiful Pine Ridge, Chadron State Park boasts well-rounded facilities, activities

  grotesqueries of Toadstool Park, lie just beyond.

QUESTION OF PRIORITY

request. There are five types—initial, supplemental, experimental, maintenance, and put-and-take.

Initial stocking includes first, second, and third-year planting of fingerlings, and sometimes larger fish in newly created or renovated water. This type is highly successful because fish do not have to compete with an existing population. Prime examples in recent years have been Hugh Butler Lake north of McCook, Kimball Reservoir in the Panhandle, Merritt Reservoir near Valentine, Pelican Lake on the Valentine National Wildlife Refuge, and the Salt Valley Lakes around Lincoln. Initial stocking can include one or more of the following species: largemouth bass, bluegill, channel catfish, walleye, northern pike, smallmouth bass, and rock bass. These species are capable of natural reproduction and usually maintain good populations.

Supplemental stocking includes the addition of fish in water where existing populations have been reduced by winter kill, summer kill, pollution, severe water-level drop, or planned population manipulation.

Experimental stocking involves the placement of either native or exotic fish into water where habitat indicates production potential. This is followed with a full-scale evaluation to determine success or failure, and to provide data for future stocking of the species. An example of this is the stripedbass program at Lake McConaughy. If successful, information gained there will lead to the introduction of stripers into other bodies of water. Another example is the experimental stocking of northern-pike fingerlings into reservoirs where spawning habitat is marginal or non-existent. Experiments involving spotted and smallmouth bass, Sacramento perch, redear sunfish, and alewife have proved successful in Nebraska during the past few years.

Maintenance includes annual stocking of small fish into water where conditions are unsuitable for adequate natural reproduction, but where previous experiments have demonstrated that satisfactory growth will continue. Trout populations are maintained in such areas as the Niobrara River, White River, Long Pine Creek, Verdigre Creek, Kimball Reservoir, Lake Ogallala, and Merritt Reservoir in this way.

Put-and-take stocking includes periodic placement of keeper-size fish during the main season into lakes where a fee is charged. A good example is the Two Rivers State Recreation Area.

Each fall, the requests from all five districts are compiled and incorporated into a statewide program. This gives state hatchery managers enough time to plan for produc- tion. If necessary, trades are arranged with hatcheries in other states or with the federal government. Most trout now used in the maintenance (Continued on page 62)

Roundup and What to do

JUNE'S SUNSHINE and warm breezes provide a perfect setting for the nesting of numerous Nebraska songbirds, and Maureen Manning of Hemingford spends time tramping through the woods to discover some of the common species. The colorful cardinals, along with kingbirds, meadowlarks, red-winged blackbirds, barn swallows, red-headed woodpeckers, and a multitude of others are nesting across the state.

Daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Michael Manning of Hemingford, Maureen is a graduate of St. Agnes Academy in nearby Alliance. She is a junior at Kearney State College where she is majoring in lab technology. Maureen is a past Cattle Capital Rodeo Queen, Central Nebraska Rodeo Queen, Chadron State Rodeo Queen, and Crawford Rodeo Queen, and presently holds the Miss Rodeo Nebraska crown. She is a member of the Kearney State Rodeo Club.

Maureen lists reading, cooking, horseback riding, rodeoing, and all other sports among her hobbies.

Maureen is not the only one in Nebraska who lists rodeoing among her favorites. Many contestants will be busting out of chutes throughout the month. Perhaps the best of the contests is the Buffalo Bill Rodeo in North Platte, held in conjunction with Days.

While rodeo action will hit a fever pitch in North Platte for NEBRASKAland Days, high school competitors will provide just as much entertainment during the State Championship High School Rodeo in Harrison. For those even younger, Gothenburg has an All Pony Show June 24 for riders 14 years of age or younger. Horses cannot be more than 13 hands high. Children as young as three have ridden in the event during past events offering a kid's-eye view of a tough sport.

The annual College World Series in Omaha will draw thousands of spectators to Rosenblatt Stadium to witness the big event in collegiate baseball. The winner will take home the nation's title.

Ethnic festivals, with all their gala and local color, dot the schedule throughout the month. Complete with smorgasbord, the Swedish Festival in Stromsburg features Old-World food, dance, and music, as do most of the ethnic celebrations. Polish Days in Loup City will feature such groups as the Columbus Cavaliers and the Clarkson Czech Dancers. Big Joe Seidlik will be on hand to emcee the festivitives, including parades, a horseshoe contest, kolachi contest, and kiddie races. At Clarkson June 23 to 25, polka dancing, duck, dumplings, and sauerkraut, as well as native costumes, will serve to revive Old-World memories.

To round out the calendar, there will be bowhunters' safaris, trap shoots, rifle shoots, trail rides, horse shows, plays and concerts performed by local theater groups, golf tournaments, fishing, and a host of other events, making NEBRASKAland in June a vacationer's haven.

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.

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.

QUESTION OF PRIORITY

program come from federal hatcheries, while trades with other states have made available other species.

Ideally, all goes as planned and the end result is more fish for anglers. Regardless of fish-stocking success, however, the key to the future of piscatorial pleasure in Nebraska is perpetuation and enhancement of aquatic habitat. Fish stocking is supplemental to natural reproduction, applied only when and where necessary and is part of the Commission's overall management program. THE END

THE GHOST DANCERS

but the Sioux promptly chased him away, telling him to bring the soldiers if he dared.

As the ghost dance religion spread, more and more bluecoats marched toward Indian grounds. So the Indians began running, performing their ceremonies along the way. Finally, most of the Sioux bands joined and fled to Top of the Badlands, Cuny Table.

They were persuaded to return to the reservation, though, by American Horse and Fast Thunder. As they moved back, word came that Sitting Bull had been killed and Big Foot's band was surrendering. After Sitting Bull's death, Big Foot, too, had hidden in the Badlands. But his people were all starving and freezing so they gave up, following the soldiers to Wounded KneeCreek.

Meanwhile, the Pine Ridge agency was, for all practical purposes, under martial law, with General John R. Brooke in command. According to Elaine Eastman, a missionary there at the time, the infantry set up tents on the common, digging trenches and throwing up breastworks to protect them. Streets were patrolled and a guard was placed around theOgallala boarding school. White employees of the agency were sent away. To add to the confusion and tension, correspondents from Omaha, Chicago, and New York fabricated tales to substitute for news which wasn't there. Rumors ran rampant.

As harassment continued, the Indians built defiance from desperation. Since the Kingdom of Heaven was almost upon them, and since the Messiah had given them ghost shirts and dances, were they not protected? They came to think that the sacred shirts were impenetrable. Bullets, they thought, were I ike dust before them. Thrown into the wind by the soldiers' weapons; bullets would scatter without injury to the faithful.

It was in this atmosphere that Big Foot's band surrendered at Wounded Knee. Weapons were turned over to the soldiers, but a search was demanded. As it progressed, someone fired, touching off a holocaust that resulted in an estimated 300 Indian dead. The troops counted 25 dead and 39 wounded, most of them struck by their own bullets or shrapnel.

Reports of what was later called the final battle of the Indian Wars vary. Colonel Forsyth said it was a gallant action in which about 90 warriors were killed while crazed by religious fanaticism. Few squaws were injured, he said, and some 18 of his men were awarded Medals of Honor.

Most other accounts report the Indians had surrendered peacefully.

Later assessment of the "battle" showed broken and scattered bodies of an entire band of Indians beside Wounded Knee Creek. Lying with those bodies was the broken dream of a people scattered to the four winds. THE END

PARTNERS ON BASS

they wage a continuing contest as to the number of keeper bass they catch.

By 5:30 p.m. not a single bass had been hooked. They were close to the south end of the lake where they paused for a while and worked the water over a submerged brushpile. Success was not long in coming.

Leon felt the pulsing jolt that meant a bass was trying to take the bucktail back to his lair. A few cranks of the handle stopped the run, then the flustered fish chose another direction.

"He isn't any monster, but I'm one fish up on you," Leon bragged as he slipped his thumb into the largemouth's maw and swung him aboard. "He ought to go two pounds anyway," he grinned.

Malcolm, who had been using a spinner because there had been no hits on the bucktails up to that point, decided to switch back to his old favorite. Soon another bass elected to grab an easy meal and glommed onto the flashy, hairy critter swimming above him. But again, it was Leon's lure that was in the right place, and again he casually but smilingly played the bass while Malcolm pretended not to notice. Only a slight frown belied his attitude, and he finally admitted to being two bass down, although the one-pound-plus fish was barely a keeper.

"You know, Jonsie," Malcolm said, flipping his lure across the 40-foot expanse of fish-rich water, "I have been keeping track of hits on these bucktails. At least half the bass I catch have been on the trailing hook. That kind of shows they tend to hit short. I suppose that's because they're not real hungry."

After several unproductive casts, the angling team moved on toward the south shore. On the way, they paused at another brush pile, this one protruding above the water here and there. The water was shallow, not more than three or four feet deep, but there were bass in there.

Malcolm scored first this time. His fiveeighths-ounce rig was being carted around by a husky-feeling bass, so he played him a few minutes before putting on much pressure.

"Careful with him," Leon cautioned. "Remember, I'm three ahead of you now and you may have plenty of trouble catching up."

Malcolm only snorted. Then, hating to waste the opportunity to get in his digs, he divided his attention between cranking in his fish and chastising Leon.

"You'll never see the day you can best me at bass fishing," he grumbled. "You were just a greenhorn when we started fishing together 20 years ago, and I figure you still have a lot to learn —even if you are lucky."

On the east side, the shoreline is fairly straight with only a few indentations along the way. Then, near the north end are two deep coves, chock full of trees protruding from the water and littered with downed timber. It looks like a real haven for lunker bass. Just before reaching the first of these coves, Malcolm felt a familiar jerking on his rod and set the hook.

"Your lead isgetting smaller all the time," he chided around a smile, reaching down to grasp the lower jaw of his latest victim. "Only one down now."

"Just row us into that cove and I'll show you how it's done," Leon promised, reeling in his bright red and white bucktail.

But, the first cove proved disappointing. After 15 minutes of working every nook, cranny, and log-shaded pool, Malcolm backed the boat out of the peaceful lagoon. Only about 50 yards of shore remained before the last big cove, so they industriously worked their way along, each casting within inches of the bank or of the logs protruding from it. Nothing!

Pulling into the cove, they saw half a dozen other fishermen already there. One boatful, at the far end, looked as if they must be after crappie, and everyone else was on the far bank, so Leon and Malcolm stayed close to the south side. Once around the corner from the entrance, and just about where the trees started, Malcolm scored. A flurry of splashes and wildly dipped rod tip indicated a scrappy customer, but the heavy, braided line was too much for the bass. Only a minute elapsed before Mr. Bigmouth was overpowered and into the boat. He weighed slightly more than two pounds.

"These stringers look a little better with fish on them," Malcolm mused, "especially when there are the same number on them now." That keeps us even for the season so far, doesn't it?"

Leon agreed, and thought it was time to call it a day. "Let's give it a try for an hour or so in the morning," he suggested. "Before we leave, let's run down to the other end for just a few minutes to try that brushpile once more. That big bass may be ready to hit again."

"We really should be getting back to town, but I suppose it wouldn't hurt to give it one more try," Malcolm said.

Roping the motor into life, the duo headed across the calm water. But their intentions were thwarted, and they soon returned to the boat ramp at the northwest corner of the lake. Minutes later, with the craft buckled onto the trailer, they pulled up the hill, across the dam, and headed for home.

Shortly after 6 the next morning, they were again backing the trailer down the same boat ramp. Just after the sun shed its light on the base of the hills marking the start of another pleasant and calm day, the little motor was started and a lazy wake followed them toward their destination —the shallows at the south end of the lake.

A few minutes more, and they were methodically casting to the most promising spots along the shore. The water was dark blue, with a slight brownish tinge, and flat in the breezeless morning. As the sun crept toward the east shore, welcome warmth came with it. Added to the sips of hot coffee and chocolate cookies, it made the morning pleasant indeed. Now, if only the fish would hit.

Several short moves and a combined total of about 80 casts later, a fish finally co-operated. This one knew he wanted the lure and hit it hard. Probably surprised that the stringy red thing fought back, the bass made several dashes trying to wash it down or spit it out. Malcolm, however, kept a tight rein on things and persuaded the two-pound iargemouth to join him in the boat.

Things are a little turned around now," he pointed out to Leon. "I am one up on you."

A few minutes later Leon made a perfect cast to a long branch in the water. Apparently, a bass lying in the shallows simpiy opened his mouth and let the lure drop in, for it happened fast. Immediately after hitting the water, a splashing frenzy occurred and Leon jerked the rod up slightly but solidly, capturing the fish in the process. Playing the bass much more than was necessary, he partly followed it and partly led it with his rod, then worked it in close and helped it out of the water. This one, too, weighed just under two pounds.

Then, activity slowed again —time for more coffee and cookies. That may have helped the inner man, but it did nothing for the fishing. Another hour or so and they would have to leave, as Leon had to attend a funeral.That wasaparticularlyunfortunate reason for calling a fishing excursion to a halt.

When the time came for them to depart, there were still only the two bass on the stringers.

"Not much to show for the trip up here," Malcolm lamented, "but I think it may be just a tad early in the year. Some of these rascals don't seem to have much appetite yet. I know there are some big ones in here. I've seen them, but it's just a matter of getting to them at the right time. Let's give them a few more weeks and then see what happens."

"It's been awfully wet this spring," Leon added. "After things dry a little, those fish may be more anxious to see us. I wish we could have latched onto that big bass we saw, but he sure wasn't in a mood to hit. I think the biggest bass we have ever taken out of here weighed about five pounds. One of these days we're bound to get into some of those really big ones."

A tug or two at the starter rope and a turn of the handle headed the boat back toward the dock. Soon the pickup and trailer, followed by a little cloud of dust, signaled the end of another fishing trip for the two —one of hundreds over the years. Each time may not be memorable, but every one has contributed something in the way of fishing knowledge and pleasure for these two Nebraska anglers. THE END

OUTDOOR NEBRASKAland of the Air

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Outdoor Elsewhere

Shooting Doctor. Rolaids can kill stomach acidity, but they're not much on killing deer. An Arkansas deer hunter reported that during the hunting season last fall, where deer hunting is carried out with shotguns, he fired both barrels of his over-and-under at a trophy buck, but both shots missed. The fellows says he had just enough time to put one more shell in his gun. He broke it open, reached into his pocket and grabbed a shell, then rammed it in. He quickly snapped it back together, took careful aim, and pulled the trigger. Nothing! Watching the big buck race off into the brush, the hunter checked his gun to sfee why it had misfired and found the shell he had injected turned out to be an unopened package of Rolaids. — Arkansas

Dangerous Varmint. The sign on one of the cages at the New York Zoological Gardens reads: "You'are looking at the most dangerous animal in the world. It alone of all the animals that ever lived, can exterminate all of the other animals of the world." Behind the bars is a huge mirror. — Washington, D.C.

Life Sentence. Two southern California residents that seemingly have an obsession for taking deer out of season, have received life sentences for their most recent out-of-season deer killings. The judge ordered that the offenders have their hunting and fishing privileges revoked for life in the state of California. The judge also fined each of the fellows $250 and sent them to jail for 10 days. — California

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