NEBRASKAland Magazine Photo Contest designed to let you interpret Nebraska as you see it.

For the record.. Enjoy Summer Wisely

Summer is a happy time. We have shaken off the lethargy of winter, and all the outdoors are ours to explore. Joy and laughter lift our spirits, just as the loafing breeze ripples the sparkling waters. Cares slip away as we seek the refreshing relaxation of Mother Nature's treasures. We frolic in the sunlight and the workaday world seems to fade into a hazy blur.

But we must not become too complacent. Peril awaits the unwary, and a single careless act can lead to injury, pain, and even death. Simple pleasures can suddenly become the prelude to tragedy.

Highways are happy ways, or so the song goes, but all too often they become just the opposite. When heading out to pursue those summer activities, we must not let our guard down. We must drive defensively and make sure the vehicle itself is roadworthy. Traffic accidents have become too much an accepted part of our lives.

While highways are a known hazard, many otherwise innocent occurrences can also be harmful. The warming rays of the sun can become a burning torment when absorbed in too great a dose. A little suntan lotion and caution can keep an outing pleasurable.

Insects pose still another problem, and on rare occasions can cause serious complication. We should always carry and use a good repellent. Here again, an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.

Water is probably the most fascinating and tempting feature of the outdoors in summer. People simply cannot resist it. They love to swim, boat, fish, water-ski, wade, or just sit around and gaze at its blue-green expanse. At the same time, water poses perhaps the greatest threat to summer fun. It lulls us into a sense of security, then snatches us into a situation beyond our abilities.

Boaters are evidently becoming more skillful and more safety conscious, considering that 14,000 motorboats were registered in Nebraska in 1960 and accounted for 28 accidents, 14 injuries, and 7 deaths, while 29,000 motorboaters had only 12 accidents, 1 injury, and 6 deaths last year. However, as long as there is one injury or one death, there is room for improvement.

Swimming should also be enjoyed with caution. And, above all, inflatable toys and inner tubes should be avoided. In 1970, Nebraska had 44 drownings —44 too many. Even strong swimmers can be overcome by cramps, and so-so swimmers can over-estimate their abilities. Then, there are the unseen hazards, such as dropoffs and cold currents.

In other areas, freak accidents can take their toll as well. Believe it or not, two Nebraskans were killed by lightning in 1970. So, if a storm comes up, get off the water or the golf course and head for cover.

Nebraska has all manner of summer fun to offer and we should all enjoy it. But, we should enjoy it wisely.

Safe boating is no accident

Before setting sail on your next voyage, be certain you have all the proper equipment—a life preserver for each person, a fire extinguisher, and correct lighting. Guess who will benefit most from your safe boating procedure?

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.

PRIDE IN TREES-"As a former resident of Nebraska City, I wish to compliment you on your March article, Gospel of Trees. Arbor Day and Arbor Lodge are two items of which Nebraskans should be proud."— Kenneth Carnes, Bettendorf, Iowa.

NO ONE LESS-"When your April issue appeared, our sixth-grade room had just written about pollution, so we enjoyed your article, Concern For Tomorrow.

"Enclosed is a poem written on the subject by one of my pupils, Judy Lewis." —Helen Spencer, Chalk Butte School, Morrill.

NEED HELP-"A first in Nebraska is planned for August 17 through 20 at Waterloo. It is a Folklife Festival to be held in conjunction with the Douglas County Fair and plans are coming nicely, but more participants are needed. We are looking for a weaver, a glassblower, a spinner (with wheel), a tanner, a silversmith or coppersmith, a blacksmith, a miller, a carver, and a potter. Also needed are ladies to take part in a quilting bee, and those who can weave baskets, make barrels, make candles, cane chairs, make clocks, and manufacture brooms.

"Many other skills of the early frontier are also needed, and those interested in taking part should contact either me or Nancy Greer, Folklife Festival, Box 193, Waterloo, Nebraska 68069."-Ruth Fletcher, Waterloo.

UNFAIR-"! do not think it is fair or appropriate to criticize the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission as Mr. Cecil A. McDaniei did in the February NEBRASKAland Speak Up column without investigating why the Gretna State Fish Hatchery was closed.

"Many states discontinue the use of one fish hatchery to use a better, more profitable facility in another location. Unjust criticism creates doubt. I have confidence in the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission."-L. F. (Shorty) Manning, Norwood, Pennsylvania.

BURNING INTEREST - "The article, Tractors of Time, in the February issue of NEBRASKAland was very interesting to me.

Ken Berns' interest in John Deere tractors was apparent when I was his teacher in rural School District 59. He was a bright fifth grader, and finished his work quickly. With his characteristic resourcefulness, he used cardboard from cereal boxes, applied green and yellow crayon, and built a John Deere tractor. ! don't know the model, but it was complete with cardboard lugs on the rear wheels and even had wee cotter pins of cardboard holding the wheels to their shafts. The tractor looked so real one might have thought a little fuel would set it 'popping'." - Clara Skrdlant, Deerfield, Illinois.

WHICH MAGAZINE-"Recently, while looking through some back issues of NEBRASKAland, I came across the August, 1966 issue and the article Threshers Reunion by Glenda Woltemath. I enjoyed reading the article even though it is close to six years old.

"On page 51, it states, 'Finding the old rigs is a challenge to Bill, but he subscribes to a threshers' magazine and gets...' My question is: Do you know what the name and address of this magazine is? I am interested and would like to learn more about the publication and subject area." —Morris Melby, Skandia, Michigan.

Bill Mayberry sponsor, says there are at least two publications in the field. The one with which he is most familiar is Iron Man Album, Steamgas Publishing Company, 808 Wertsville Road, Enola, Pennsylvania 17025. — Editor.

IRATE SPORTSMAN-"Every spring and fall, men who call themselves sportsmen get together with planes, pickups, and two-way radios, and wipe out virtually hundreds of coyotes. Many men have died flying these planes, spotting coyotes, and more than likely, more will be seriously injured or killed in the future.

"I hunt coyotes, but use a rabbit squeal call. I consider this a sport because it takes skill in using the call and it gives the coyote an alternative. He makes up his own mind, and you do not have someone running him to you for slaughter. Using a plane to spot and chase coyotes to others in pickups with two-way radios is extermination, and I would classify myself as a sportsman, not an exterminator.

"I would like to see the State of Nebraska enact laws to make it illegal to use any type of aircraft as a spotter while hunting any animal —game or not. Let's face it, there is very little skill involved other than that of the pilot in this type of hunting, and in some cases, the pilot could have used more skill or common sense not to try this in the first place."—Glenn Bauer, Norfolk.

RIGHTLY DESERVED- I know of no article appearing in your fine magazine that has pleased me more than Craftsman of Fauna (December 1971) which gave well-deserved recognition to your artist, C. G. Pritchard. As indicated in the article, Pritch is not only a top notch artist, but also a keen wildlife observer. During the 1940's, while I was working for the Game and Parks Commission, I tramped with him over many miles of Nebraska and know him to be one of the finest fellows with whom to go afield whether to hunt or merely for birding.

"One of the happiest days of my life occurred in 1948 and it involved Pritch. Shortly after we first met on a local hunting (Continued on page 12)

See Nebraska (use your ears)

There are things to see in Nebraska, sure. Some of them you can't miss. Chimney Rock. The Missouri River. The Capitol Building.

But there's a lot more to Nebraska than meets the eye. Famous battlefields. Forts. Historic trails. Even pioneer settlements.

They're gone now. But they're still alive. To see these things, you must hear them first. Until now, they've been silent.

A unique new guide makes it possible to listen to Nebraska's heritage. Almost as though you were there.

It's called Listen to the Land, developed by Dr. Robert Manley.

Dr. Manley, formerly of the University of Nebraska, has long been recognized as one of Nebraska's leading historians. His easy-to-understand folk-song lectures have been heard by thousands.

Listen to the Land is a series of ten fifteen minute cassette recordings and a complete guide book to Nebraska. Each cassette covers a different geographic and historical segment of Nebraska. Unknown places. Interesting insights. The guide contains unusual maps and more than thirty Experience Tours of Nebraska. Experiences off the beaten paths.

The entire program forms an enlightening tour of the state. A tour to take while driving in your car. Or in the comfort of your home or in class at school. Listen to the Land helps give you and your family together the opportunity to discover your heritage. To discover yourselves. It's almost like having Dr. Manley there with you. Listen to the Land is attractively packaged in a book-like binding. To protect it for years to come.

The cost: $14.95 plus $1.55 tax and handling The supply of the first edition is limited. Order yours today.

See Nebraska like you never heard it before

Cover: Crystal of Ami ben (a herbicide used to control broad-leafed grasses) magnified 200 times under polarized light, was photographed by Greg Beaumont Lou Ell's shot of least weasel, smallest of all nocturnal carnivores, appears on opposite page.

NATIONAL HUNTING & FISHING DAY September 23, 1972

is in recognition of the contributions of 55 million American hunters and fishermen to recreation, conservation and the nation's economy. Every hunting, fishing and conservation club is being asked to hold OPEN HOUSE on NHF Day to introduce the public to conservation programs and outdoor skills. You and your club can get information and help on participating by sending in the coupon below.

Enclosed is $1.00. Please send your OPEN HOUSE ACTION MANUAL that will help me and my club to join in National Hunting and Fishing Day, September 23, 1972.

"The Boots Gone!"

WE WERE BAILING furiously as the boat went down. It just quietly sank from under us. It took a moment or two for us to realize just what was really happening, then someone said, "The boat's gone!"

My 13-year-old son, Steve, was wearing a Milwaukee brace to correct a severe curvature of the spine, and the brace immobilized him from chin to hips. There was no way for him to save himself. He couldn't even hold his face out of the water and let the life jacket carry him.

My brother-in-law, Dale Hoge, and his son, Ken, were with us, and for a while, Dale's help in keeping Steve alive was a blessing.

The day had started beautifully enough. The sky was clear and the sun was shining. It was definitely going to be a nice Labor Day fishing trip. We took off from our Papillion homes in high spirits, confident that Branched Oak Lake would provide us with full creels of bass and maybe some walleye we had heard were there.

We hadn't even wet a line, though, when the wind came up, sloshing waves over the side of our little fishing boat. The vessel was a home-made corrugated steel shell with a five-horsepower outboard motor. I had been attracted to it by an ad in the paper, and decided the rusty red craft with the green seats was just the right thing for me.

We were drifting in the middle of the lake, setting up our fishing rigs, when strong winds began tossing water on us. I immediately started rowing for shore, but an oarlock broke and I could make no progress.

I tried to start the motor, but without success. Then we all started bailing, thinking it quite a lark. We were still laughing when we realized that there was no boat to bail from any longer. Then things got to be serious.

Luckily, we were all wearing approved life preservers, but in Steve's case, that was just not enough. An oar, salvaged from the sinking vessel, gave him added buoyancy, enough to compensate for the extra 10 pounds of back brace. But Dale and I had to help him keep his head above water.

While Dale and I labored to get Steve out of trouble, Ken struck out for shore to get help with a combination bobbing, paddling stroke. Time crawled as we inched through pounding water toward the distant shoreline. It could only get better, we thought, as we progressed across the lake. But we were wrong. Dale was a strong swimmer, but the strain of unaccustomed exercise finally told on him and his leg cramped. I was suddenly faced with the task of keeping Steve alive, and of shoving another partially disabled body across what seemed to be 20,000 leagues of sea.

As I tired, I imagined myself cramping, too, leaving us all helpless. I thought frantically of removing my son's back brace. At least he would be free enough then to save himself with the help of a flotation device if something happened to me. We decided, though, that it would be best to endure a while longer and take the last resort only if I found I could no longer keep us all going. Luckily, Dale massaged the cramp out of his leg and we both continued to swim and hold Steve up.

Ken made it to shore far ahead of us, but someone had already seen us in the water and had called the Lincoln Fire Department. We had been in the water an hour and a half when a boat finally reached us. Though we were only a short distance from shore when rescued, relief was more than welcome.

In the final analysis, we all came out unhurt because we had all been wearing life preservers. No one was drowned or even injured. No serious illnesses developed from the hours spent in cold water. The value of life preservers was proved to us that afternoon. We learned to respect wind and water even more that day, and my wife learned to worry a little more about us when we fish, although she always insisted we carry life preservers.

I did lose my boat. It still lies at the bottom of Branched Oak Lake, along with all our fishing equipment, but that seems insignificant compared with the lives that were saved.

Steve's spine has been corrected and he no longer wears a brace. I now have another boat, and this one has flotation chambers. We also make sure we have plenty of life preservers aboard —one such adventure is enough to last a lifetime. THE END

How to: Stew a Snapper

BEAUTY CONTESTS the snapping turtle may not win, but as table fare, old steel jaws is a real front runner. Surrounded by myths and local superstitions, the snapper deserves little of the disrepute heaped upon him. The old saw about the snapping turtle's seven kinds of meat is as unfounded as the belief that once his jaws lock onto something they remain closed until the moon changes.

Because of this unsavory reputation, only a handful of backwoods gourmets fully appreciate the delicacy of the snapper's flesh.

Occasionally, snappers are accidently hauled ashore on fishing lines or captured on dry land, especially during the breeding and egg-laying period. More serious snapper enthusiasts set heavy nylon lines with wire leaders and cut-fish baits. Others catch turtles in weedy shallows using a steel rod with a large hook welded onto the end to snag snappers when they surface for air or to sun themselves in low water. Homemade or commercial turtle traps are frowned upon by Nebraska law officers. Whatever your means of obtaining snappers, the real chore comes when depriving the devil of his home.

Removing a turtle from its armor is like opening a can of pork and beans with a rubber knife. Whatever way you tackle it, the task seems impossible, at least the first time around, but the procedure becomes easier with each successive venture as you learn just where the cuts must be made.

The first item of business is to humanely dispatch the snapper. A sharp hand ax can be used to remove the head several inches behind the eyes. This also facilitates proper bleeding. If possible, allow the snapper to drain, head down, for an hour or longer. By then, he is reasonably calm and well bled. Even though the turtle feels no pain during this time, its strong muscles continue contracting and releasing for some time, hampering the dressing operation considerably.

Remove the feet just behind the last claw with a hand ax, then roll the snapper onto its back. Two spikes driven through the edge of the shell into a firm plank hold the turtle in place and aid the dressing operation.

Unlike most species of turtles, the snapper has a relatively small plastron, or bottom shell. With a keen knife, separate the skin from the upper and lower shells wherever they join. Now, with a good pair of pliers, grip the skin and pull, inverting it over the feet and neck at the front, and over the feet and tail at the rear, much the same as rolling a sock off your foot. It will be necessary to cut the membrane that binds the muscles to the skin as you go along. A knife cannot be too sharp for this trimming.

Once all skin is removed, use a heavy knife to separate the upper and lower shells at their union on the sides. Look closely to locate the faint crack where the shells come together. This is the point where it is easiest to separate them. Trim any meat that clings to the plastron as you lift it up.

Use a heavy knife to sever the cartilaginous connections between the legtail assembly and the roof of the upper shell. Now, carefully cut the unit free from the viscera. A little extra time here will keep the whole operation tidy and yield clean, quality cuts of meat.

Repeat the same procedure to free the front legs and neck from the shell and viscera.

With the tail-hind-feet unit and the neck-front-feet unit removed, edible flesh remaining in the shell lies in the tenderloin region along the backbone. Unless your snapper weighs 10 pounds or more, it is not worth the effort, but larger turtles provide enough white, fleshy meat to make a meal. Many consider this cut the best of the lot. Removing it requires a good measure of patience, though, because rib-like struts shoot out at right angles from the midrib and attach themselves to the roof of the shell. These can be cut with a strong knife where they join the shell or severed with strong nippers. After the midrib is broken at the front and back, fillet the flesh from the shell.

The shell can then be discarded or auctioned off as an army helmet to neighborhood kids. Sectioning of the flesh depends on the recipe you intend to use. If turtle stew is your choice, bone the meat, but if the turtle was large, boneless steaks may well be in line. For frying or deep-frying, the neck, tail, and legs may be sectioned at the joints or between, with a bone saw. After the meat is well washed and soaked in salty water, it can be frozen for later use or popped right into the pan.

Providing you survive the dressing procedure, the rest is bliss for the palate. For starters, you might want to give these recipes a whirl.

Speak Up

trip, I learned that this hunter (who then lived at Juniata) had a hobby of wildlife painting.

"I don't claim to be knowledgeable on matters of art of any sort, but to me Pritch's paintings and pencil and charcoal sketches looked extremely true to life. Eventually, this quiet, hunterartist agreed to allow me to make an appointment for him to meet the late Paul T. Gilbert, then director of the Commission.

"On September 7, 1948, the date of the appointment, Pritch arrived in Lincoln with a collection of his excellent work. Mr. Gilbert happened to be out at the moment when we arrived at his office in the Capitol tower. While awaiting his return, we displayed the paintings around the edge of the long conference table. The director came in and, after a brief introduction, walked slowly around the table looking at each picture. When he finished, he turned to Pritch and asked: 'When can you start work?' That was one of my happiest days." —David Damon, Melrose, Massachusetts.

GOOD JOB-"I would like to say a few words concerning Jon Farrar's article Passion for Tradition (March 1972). I felt the article was superbly put together and it brought about a feeling that only a goose hunter knows. I've been part of that tradition myself and know the feeling. And, as far as I am concerned, the article is fantastic. Thanks for a job well done." —Steve Leth, St. Paul.

SMOKER WANTED-"Would you please pass along all available information on the portable smoker mentioned in the April issue of NEBRASKAland (How To: Fillet, Clean, and Smoke Fish)?" —V. C. Seevers, York.

BY JUST-"We would like to know where to buy the Little Chief Smoker featured in your article on How To: Fillet, Clean, and Smoke Fish." —Lowell Arps, Fremont.

ABOUT EVERYONE-"! would appreciate greatly any information you might have on where I may purchase the Little Chief Smoker mentioned in the April 1972 issue of NEBRASKAland."-Joe S. Betz, Bellevue.

The article mentioned created a great deal of interest in the smoker used. We must point out that the Little Chief Smoker is not the only one on the market, and simply was the most readily available when the author was preparing the story. Those interested in smokers might consider building their own from any number of plans which are available, or contact commercial manufacturers. Luhr Jensen & Sons, Inc., make the Little Chief in Hood River, Oregon 97013. And, Outers Laboratories, Inc., produce a similar unit. Write Dept. SA, Onalaska, Wisconsin 54650. -Editor.

WHITE ONE-"Enclosed is a photograph of an albino skunk which we took last January. The animal was shot between Creston and Madison while we were coon hunting. There wasn't a dark hair on the animal, and it had pink eyes, nose, and mouth —and he was scentless." —Lawrence Hellbusch, Creston.

CORRECTION-"The sausage recipe published in the April issue of NEBRASKAland was in error. First, it is summer sausage, not just sausage. A corrected version of the recipe is enclosed '-John G. Friesen, Henderson.

MORE SAUSAGE-"Enclosed is a recipe for summer sausage for your Omaha reader (Speak Up, February 1972) '-Mrs. Howard Harvey, Fort Dick, California.

Knead well, and regrind using a plate with 1/8-inch holes. Spread out on waxed paper in a cool, dry place and allow to dry for three or four days. Stuff into casings and tie into 15- or 20-inch lengths after rubbing casings with tenderizing salt. Hang up and dry and age for some time before using. Sausage may be smoked if desired.

GREAT STATE —"A good many years ago, I was fortunate enough to marry a Nebraska man. I am a Californian now, but it would be my pleasure to share my feelings for Nebraska and its people with you.

"I feel especially fortunate to have married into a family that accepted me so readily and treated me with love, kindness, and affection. I am sure you must have a percentage of people in NEBRASKAland who are of a boorish nature, but I have not met any of them.

"We have visited Nebraska in all seasons and find them equally fascinating. The walks along Frenchman Creek running through my brother-in-law's farms are a real treat. It seems seldom that I don't see pheasant, quail, and deer.

"Our last visit, two years ago, was made in the fall. You had one little snowstorm that October, which made it even more delightful for this 'California gal'.

"I don't want to sound as though I have no feelings for the farmers of that area, for I realize their work is hard and that they are dealing with the elements, insects, and diseases in order to survive. We here in California have our aggravations, too, but for the most part, they are cantankerous people.

"The shops in your small towns are a delight. They have things which we would never find in our town of 200,000. As you may have guessed, there are several mementos in our home of visits to your state. It really saddens me, though, to see the way small towns are withering away. My sincere hope is that we shall all live to see the day when our small, Midwestern towns will again be active."—Marie Phares, Riverside, California.

The day was made to order for a camera buff. The sky was a rich blue with only tufts of clouds scattered on the horizon. It was shirtsleeve warm with not even enough of a breeze to rustle an oak leaf.

A single lane of blacktop snaking south from Kilgore beckoned as the itinerant photographer looked for composition and began a search for its destination. Typical of Sand Hills country, the bumpy road jogged through cow guards and soapweed jutting through the sun-softened asphalt. Entwining grass had locked the sandy waves in time, yet they held their form, flowing to the horizon and beyond.

Only after descending into the valley do you feel the full impact of the Niobrara River. The sandy plains are left behind and a new world surrounds you. For a visitor who meets the river on its own terms, it is an enthralling experience. For a photographer, it is an infinite array of subjects, frames, and angles — pine cones scattered carelessly on brown needle carpets; ranch spreads framed through robust pines, and rolling rapids.

Jim had first learned of the Niobrara's photo possibilities from friends. Actively involved in photography for the last 20 years, Jim's camera interests have led him over much of the United States and Canada. Vigorously involved in the Photographic Society (Continued on page 48)

NEBRASKAland Another World

Chet Ager Nature Center is simplicity itself—a bit of tranquility on city's doorstep

STROLL ALONG the paths of the Chet Ager Nature Center is a walkthrough another world. Even though many Nebraskans know and love the wonders of nature, the state becomes more urbanized every year, and increasing numbers of city dwellers lose their ties with the earth. The Nature Center helps restore that relationship, reassuring visitors that the outdoors is not an alien world after all.

Occupying 40 of the 600 acres that make up Pioneers Park in southwest Lincoln, the Nature Center packs a heap of outdoor variety into its boundaries. Within its fences are several different habitats. There are woods, both pine and deciduous, as well as expanses of prairie. Water habitats are also represented.

Actually, the ponds are part of how the Nature Center came into existence. When Pioneers Park was being developed in the 1930's, the three ponds which are now part of the center were dug with the thought that they would be a waterfowl refuge. These ponds then became the focal point of the Nature Center when it was established in 1963. At that time, it was named to honor Chet Ager, Lincoln's Superintendent of Parks when Pioneers Park was created.

Today, the thousands of visitors who have since visited the area can attest to the wisdom and foresight of this early planner. Yet what Chet Ager once envisioned as a waterfowl refuge is now much more than that. While numerous waterfowl do find the Nature Center a convenient stopping-off spot in their migrations, many other birds of all kinds also enjoy the center's sanctuary.

Since records have been kept at the center, about 1 75 different varieties of birds have been observed there. With the variety of habitats available, all different sizes and types of birds are represented, from tree-loving chickadees to marsh-seeking great blue herons.

The area is, of course, too small to support any really large animals, but a host of lesser creatures make their homes there. In the ponds, muskrats ferry back and forth from shore to shore. Frogs and toads, fish, and an occasional snake also find the pond areas suitable to their lifestyles. Up above on the prairie, curious ground squirrels watch the proceedings. Nearby in the woods and brushpiles, cottontails, squirrels and mice live out their brief but frantic lives. Even more diminutive forms of wildlife await the especially inquisitive visitor. The Nature Center is a zoologist's delight.

Botanists, amateur or professional, also find a wealth of material to observe or study. More than 400 species of plant life have been identified within the center's grounds. The most obvious plants are the trees. Austrian and ponderosa pines provide an evergreen area on the hills, while the deciduous elms, maples, and honey locusts make for a different kind of habitat. Almost all of these trees were planted back in the 1930's when the park was being developed.

Since that time, other plants have found their way into the area, either by purpose or by accident, including some noxious weeds. But because these plants are also a part of the natural world, they are given equal respect along with their more appreciated counterparts.

While serious students of nature find the center an ideal area for their work, the average visitor is more casual in his approach. During the week, school children on field trips are the most common visitors. Weekends find families enjoying the wonders of nature, with Dad quite often serving as guide, telling his children things he has not thought about since he was a youngster, and discovering with them new avenues through the area.

Every year more and more people discover the Chet Ager Nature Center and what it has to offer. Last year, more than 10,000 visitors signed the register, and this represents only a portion as there were many more.

But the success of the Nature Center cannot be measured in numbers. Rather, its value must be determined by the quality of each individual visit. If only a few of the many visitors who enter the center's gates leave with fresh knowledge, a new awareness, or a rekindled spirit for the outdoors, it will have achieved its purpose.

Many people, on their first visit to the area, begin their tour at the Nature Center's two small buildings. With a variety of natural history displays, the buildings stimulate interest in the outdoors, regardless of one's age or level of experience. A cut-away log showing the nest of a woodpecker, a panel displaying Nebraska's native grasses, and a small collection of live animals are but a few of the many unique items to be found. Many of the specimens were given to the center by interested visitors. Gifts have ranged from large cash donations to a small but nonetheless welcome kangaroo rat. Actually, the Nature Lodge was constructed through the generosity of several Lincoln citizens.

Next stop for many visitors is the old windmill, the center's most obvious man-made feature. A somewhat obscure history only adds to its charm. Built when the park was being developed, it was apparently meant to pump water for the many trees that had been planted. But, the story goes, after a day and a half of operation, it started pumping up salt water and had to be abandoned.

Once within the center, the visitor is enticed by several trails, each going to a different part of the area and to a different kind of habitat, such as the Pine Knoll, the Low Prairie, or Fleming Woods. In every part of the (Continued on page 59)

Theres more than one way to catch a frog

I WAS STILL pulling on my hip boots when I heard my roommate, Dick Sonday, shout: "There's one!" Before I knew it, he was down the bank and into the water. My preparations stopped as I watched him poke around the shoreline. Then he made a quick grab and lifted a still-squirming frog.

"He's not too big, but that's one method down," Dick said, as he returned to the car and dropped the hopper into our frog sack.

Our frog outing, or frogging, as we had dubbed it, had come about on the spur of the moment. Dick and I were both students at the University of Nebraska in Lincoln and had finished our classes in the morning on that particular early October day. Sitting around our apartment after lunch, I had picked up a copy of the NEBRASKAland Fishing Guide and was amazed to see the variety of legal methods for taking bullfrogs. In past outings, I had often taken frogs by hook and line, but I was surprised to see that the holder of a fishing license can also take them by hand, hand net, and gig. In addition, the guide said the holder of a hunting license could take frogs by means of bow and arrow or firearms. I had always had good luck with the hook-and-line method, but immediately began to wonder if it was really the best technique. Why not find out? I thought to myself. Dick was bored and looking for something to do, so he agreed to come along.

We're both Crete natives and I know the country in that area, so we headed in that direction. Our destination was Bluestem Lake, one of the Salt Valley Lakes, located 2 1/2 miles west of Sprague. It was there where I was pulling on my hip boots when Dick made his hand capture. He reported that the sneaky croaker had attempted to elude him by trying to slip up a muskrat hole. But Dick's quick grab had nabbed him.

We must have looked like the original Amazon explorers as we headed back into the headwaters at the north end of the lake. I was armed with a pistol, a rifle, and a bow and arrow, while Dick carried a rod and reel, a hand net, and two gigs. We didn't have to travel far down the shoreline to discover that we were dealing with educated frogs. A full season of hunting had them as wary as mice in a cat's den. Fifty yards ahead of us they jumped from shore and scampered across the thick moss that ringed the water.

With this fact in mind, we decided to work from what we figured would be the easiest method to the hardest. A short distance ahead I spied a fair-sized frog 30 feet out in the water. Sitting down on a log, I set up the spinning rod with my tried-and-true frog getter —a rubber worm equipped with a single hook. Moving carefully into position, I dropped the artificial 6 feet beyond the frog. Twitching the worm slowly, I moved it forward until it was in front of the frog. Like a coiled cat he pounced. As is the case with rubber-worm bass fishing, patience is the key, and I had to wait for some time before the frog had the worm in his mouth. Then I set the hook. Despite a strong protest from the frog, I led it ashore and added it to the bag. Dick decided this looked easy and wanted a crack at it. On his first attempt, however, he set the hook too soon, only to see the hopper disappear under the moss. Not making the same mistake twice, his second attempt was good, adding frog No. 3 to the sack.

"I think the rifle would probably be the next best bet," Dick said, as we reshuffled our gear. Open to fishing, boating, camping, and picnicking on a year-round basis, hunting is allowed on most (Continued on page 51)

Call for Walleye

LONG-DISTANCE circuits out of Republican City hummed for more than a week with gossip about Harlan County Reservoir's walleye run as anglers spied on the fish and relayed the news to others waiting eagerly in the eastern part of the state. The advance scout was Bob Propst, a professional fishing guide who has worked Harlan County Reservoir and Lake McConaughy for a number of years. Among those waiting for the signal to move were Bill Pearson of Wahoo and Ken Carter of Omaha.

Then, one sunny Monday in late March, the word came.

"All signs say the walleye should be running strong in a few days," Propst shouted over a weak connection. "The water temperature edged into the low 40's several days ago, and I've seen walleye in the rocks along the dam. We even took a few during the weekend.

"Rapalas seem to be the only lures they hit, and I've had the best luck with No. 7's in fluorescent orange. But the tackle shops here don't have any, so you'd better pick up a mess of them in Lincoln on your way out," he advised.

That call was all the prompting Pearson needed. He finished his bricklaying job early Wednesday afternoon and was busily packing his fishing gear by 3 p.m. Carter, a sales representative for fishing tackle manufacturers, had previously scheduled appointments that day, so he decided to meet Propst and Pearson later at the reservoir.

But, trouble with the wiring between Bill's boat and the car and a misplaced boat registration caused considerable delay. A stop for a steak postponed his arrival at the dam until 11 p.m.

By that time, the spring weather had turned downright cold. Propst was in the rendezvous spot, warming himself in a friend's car in a parking lot at the south end of the dam. He had been fishing almost non-stop the past few days and had been shivering in an open boat most of the night.

It was midnight by the time gear was unloaded at the cabin. Bill was eager to get out on the water, especially when Bob informed him that the best fishing of the night was yet to come.

"Leave your tackle boxes and extra rods here," he advised. "All you'll need is a spinning rod with eight-pound-test line, your Rapalas, and every bit of warm clothing you have with you."

Back on the lake, the guide eyed the paper sack full of lures with mixed feelings.

"Those are the right ones, all right. But I wish you had brought more along. The way we'll be fishing, we'll lose quite a few. I'd feel better if we had another dozen or more."

After both of them had tied on one of the precious Rapalas, Bob began giving his fishing lessons.

"We just troll slowly along the dam, trying to get our lures as close as possible to the water's edge," he said.

He skillfully coaxed the boat to within 10 feet of the rocks, and offered more advice.

"Hold your rod over the edge of the boat so you can get closer to the dam. Unless you feel the lure bumping rocks, you're wasting your time.

"Keep the bail on your reel open and hold the line with your fingers. That way, you can let out line to keep it from breaking if you hang up on a rock. That'll give me time to turn the boat around so we can go back for the plug.

"If you get snagged, let the line go completely slack before you tell me to stop. These Rapalas are floaters, and sometimes a slack line will let them float free of the rocks without stopping the boat."

The guide then demonstrated the validity of his advice, boating the party's first two walleye.

Bill watched and listened attentively. He was an experienced fisherman, known to be one of the best around Wahoo. He had a pair of lunker bass hanging on a wall at home, flanked by Master Angler Awards to attest to his skill with a rod. But, he had acquired most of his fishing savvy on ponds, sand pits, and the Platte River. Propst's methods were new to him.

Bob was a good teacher, and Bill proved an apt pupil. Pearson ended a short lull in the action with a small walleye, then followed up with two more, each one crowding three pounds.

Cold temperatures soon stiffened and numbed bare fingers. Handling spinning reels and monofilament in the dark with gloved hands made for more than the usual number of tangles, but passes along the dam kept adding more two-pounders to the stringers.

"These small fish are all males," Bob said. "They mature a year earlier than females, and they spend the entire run near the spawning beds. Females come to the shallows only when they are ready to spawn, and then spend only enough time to deposit their eggs before heading back to deep water. That's why larger (Continued on page 57)

Controversial Close-up

GENTLE BREEZE ripples through mile upon mile of golden grain. Heavy heads bend to the ground only to spring back in a constant search for the warming, drying sun. Deep-green leaves on countless acres ot corn turn their faces to the life-giving wetness of a midsummer shower, and bushels of corn still on the stalk promise another bumper crop. For farmer and consumer alike, such scenes are the pinnacles of satisfaction, for agriculture has won another major victory in its war against its major enemy and benefactor -nature. Mankind will sleep on full bellies for the time being.

Satisfaction wells from such production. It once was said that Nebraska's arid landscape could never accommodate crops. But in the years following, man turned his inventiveness to the land, proving such speculation wrong. He found his methods in aching backs after long days in the field, and his reward lay at the end of each growing season after he had survived another year of persistent insects and the whims of downpour and drought. On the horizon, however, were steps which would take much of the guesswork out of  

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his chosen profession, producing crops in times when none should grow, feeding a world when famine should reign. From the laboratories of modern science came the answer to drought. Irrigation methods were devised and employed. And, chemicals promised an end to perhaps the greatest threats of all —insects and weeds.

Insecticides and herbicides, those controversial agrarian helpers which control insects and weed growth, have become constant farming companions. With guidance from those who were most familiar with such contrivances, food producers gained early advantage in the war to preserve their ways of life and the eating standards of not only the nation, but of the globe. These chemicals were heralded as godsends which virtually insured victory

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after eons of fighting only a holding action against the legions of nature.

While the obvious signs seemed to point toward chemicals as the salvation of mankind and freedom from hunger, ominous things were taking place beyond our sight. Compounds which were thought to break down in the soil were actually persistent, laying in wait in potentially harmful forms. In a few cases, ground water, of which Nebraska boasts vast reservoirs, became contaminated and herbicides and insecticides accumulated in certain species of fish and wildlife. And, insects which were the targets of the chemicals developed resistance which was passed on to their offspring. On discovery, a

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DDE-Degradtion product of DDT

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portion of the public began to decry the use of any chemical in any manner. A folly, some said, because such action would return agriculture to the Stone Age of production amidst the growing needs of a mushrooming population.

And so it stands. On one hand, government has placed regulations on the use of such compounds. Several have been removed from the general-use market, while others are being investigated to determine what threat they may pose. At the same time, some conservationists plead for discontinuance of pesticide and fertilizer usage and the return to organic farming while mankind multiplies itself into oblivion and bleats for more food with which to placate the growing

masses. There is a side, though, that the layman seldom sees. It exists under the microscope's super-magnification. A tool which has served humans in their quest for superiority, it becomes a keyhole which offers a glimpse of a hidden world of chemicals. Farmers who handle these compounds, generally white crystals or slightly tinted liquids, seldom regard them as beautiful, so awesome are their powers and so heavy are production schedules. Yet, at the other end of the microscope tube lies a kaleidoscopic world which outdoes the colors of the rainbow in brilliance. Look at them carefully, and think not only of their beauty, but also of their worth and their death-dealing potential. Without them, at least a portion of mankind would never have known respite from the pangs of hunger. THE END

Fence for Trout

IN THE REMOTE northwest corner of Keith County, a small stream originates at the edge of the Nebraska Sand Hills. It flows only four or five miles and then empties itself into one of Nebraska's largest and most popular reservoirs, Lake McConaughy. This small stream, named Otter Creek, is one of the streams in the North Platte River drainage that has been used for a rainbow trout stocking experiment by fishery biologists of the Game and Parks Commission.

Before the need for this experiment can be understood, some background information is essential. The rainbow trout population in Lake McConaughy does not have to rely on hatchery-raised and stocked rainbow. Instead, this population is maintained by natural reproduction which occurs in various spawning streams located near the Scottsbluff area in the North Platte River drainage. After the rainbow trout spawn, the young trout remain in the spawning streams approximately one year and then migrate downstream to Lake McConaughy as 8 to 10-inch trout. Thus, Lake McConaughy is stocked naturally each spring.

What does this have to do with Otter Creek? Exactly this. Suppose a stream like Otter Creek, which previously had no rainbow trout population, was stocked with two- to three-inch Lake McConaughy rainbow trout. Would these stocked fish then follow the same migration patterns as previously explained? In other words, will these fish remain in the stream one year and then migrate into the reservoir? Will they then return to the stream where they were stocked after they mature in Lake McConaughy? Can this type of stocking, which utilizes the rainbow trout that have adapted to the Lake McConaughy environment, be used to start spawning runs of rainbow, providing the requirements for natural reproduction are present? The need for answers to these questions prompted the Otter Creek project.

Otter Creek was chosen because of its location adjacent to Lake McConaughy, the physical properties of the

During the early years of impoundment (1941-1950) spawning runs of large rainbow moved out of Lake McConaughy during the spring of the year. During the 50's these spawning runs disappeared almost entirely. The theories why are many, but certainly a change in quality of the spawning habitat has to be considered. Hopefully this project would restore a spawning run of rainbow trout to this stream.

The first year it was necessary to simulate nature by burying rainbow eggs in boxes among the gravel areas o Otter Creek. Some of these buried eggs hatched and small rainbow were observed in a small section of the stream. Many of the eggs, however, failed to hatch because of the poor condition of the spawning gravel in Otter Creek, hor rainbow trout eggs to successfully hatch in the stream environment there must be large areas of gravel which free of sand or silt. In Otter Creek, sand would periodically drift over the gravel, smothering (Continued on page 63)

ANTHOLOGY IN ACETATE

of America, Jim has collected numerous honors in a number of photographic areas. So, perhaps it was the area's potential and challenge that prodded him into its exploration.

A high stoic bridge, rusted by the valley's moist air, rumbled as Jim's car bounced across, the loose planks acquainted only with the soft rubber of prairie hay wagons.

Ecologically, the Niobrara Valley is a unique accumulation of plant and animal life. High cliffs offer cool, moist protection from the sun and foster a microclimate suitable for paper birch that grasp tenaciously to the almost vertical canyon walls. For this Northern species, the Niobrara forms a boundary delineating the southernmost extension of its range.

The Niobrara is unparalleled, too, as a natural habitat bridge between certain Eastern and Western plant and animal species. The Eastern red cedar and the Rocky Mountain juniper hybridize freely, producing unusual, one-of-a-kind plants. Ponderosa pines extend to their easternmost point along the Niobrara.

Removal of a 19-mile block of this bridge, as the Nordon dam project proposes, would disrupt the bridge and interrupt the evolution of life forms that spring from the union of Eastern and Western species.

Jim's purpose was to preserve the Niobrara's wilderness on film. A macro lens provided the mechanics to capture the nodding heads of soggy moss covering northfacing slopes and the delicate green of glistening watercress tightly clustered about a pock-marked stick. Ponderosa pine, the yellow pine of Western forests, offered a study in patterns. Yellow-tinged bark, cracked into five-sided blocks, formed images like some reptilian shield. A rectangular log cabin, mended in places with weathered sheet lumber, offered little hint of occupancy, but a cone-shaped ash pile, untouched by wind or rain, revealed that someone, indeed, calls the structure home, and warms it with the valley's wood.

Dusty imitations of roads fingered off in all directions, their destinations and histories obscure, allowing Jim to trace one of the last prairie river valleys still undammed. Twisted forms of rusted wagon wheels framed an ancient cattle guard, offering a study in composition. The road led upstream through the walls. Like city skyscrapers, the pines and cliffs towered on either side. Reminiscent of Ozark country, tiny farmsteads nestled against the valley's walls. Squared timbers, hand-hewn to interlock, sat on limestone barn foundations. What were their stories? White-faced herefords and frisky colts dotted the prairie hay carpet around the rustic structures. Rock and mudchinked logs offered unlimited possibilities for the observant eye. Corrals, fashioned of pine logs, framed docile calves; jet-black roosters promenaded before snow-white hens.

A pair of vagrant kingfishers paused on a rock above the river's churning current, too far away to photograph, but close enough to lure Jim from the car. Overhead, hundreds of sandhill cranes milled aimlessly, riding the air currents as if pausing on their northward journey. Three mule deer dashed across the road just ahead of the bridge over the river between Nenzel and the Samuel R. McKelvie National Forest. Cattle grazed their way onto a peninsula protruding into the river's element. Four grotesque turkey vultures rode the rising currents over the pines and fell prey to Jim's telephoto lens. Wildlife seemed infinite in numbers and variety.

With the death birds came forbidding clouds that blotted out the sun and prompted Jim's early return to Valentine for the night.

The second day dawned a photographer's nightmare —heavily overcast with something between a heavy mist and a light rain falling. Foggy clouds slipped in and out of the Niobrara Valley as he drove northeast to the Fort Niobrara National Wildlife Refuge. Even though the refuge will probably not be affected by the Nordon project, Jim wanted to spend some time there, too.

Elk, buffalo, and other wildlife were shrouded in mist, offering photo opportunities that most photographers would have avoided.

Jim's knowledge of the Niobrara's dilemma had grown with his photographic interests in the region. The proposed dam and its ecological repercussions had received some coverage in newspapers and had probably done as much to generate Jim's desire to photograph the river as anything.

The reservoir, proposed in 1963, would cover 6,300 acres and back up approximately 19 miles of river from one mile east of the bridge north of Johnstown. A 60-mile canal would then stretch south and east to irrigate 77,000 acres in the Springview, Atkinson, and O'Neill areas. The project would cost in the neighborhood of $104 million if implemented today.

What value can be placed on the loss of 19 miles of Nebraska's finest canoeing waters or the paleontological materials that may be covered with water and silt? What is the value of a birch tree or a turkey or the other ecologically unique fauna and flora?

All these questions must be answered, not only by agriculturists seeking new water supplies, but by canoeists, wildlife photographers, hunters, and naturalists. For Jim Longman the choice is obvious —what pleasures would just another reservoir provide compared with the natural beauty of the Niobrara Valley?

An immature bald eagle flew from its roost inanearbycottonwoodasjimrounded a bend in the dusty road. Caught unprepared, he missed a second chance when its

mate lifted off a sandy shallow in the river minutes later. Soaring in tightening spirals, the awesome birds rose higher and higher, one finally landing in a young tree near the river road ahead while its mate flew across the river. Lens prefocused and exposures set, Jim drifted the car ahead. Even though the day was cloudy, a photo of a resting baldy would highlight his trip and cap a photo series of his two days on the wild Niobrara. Unusually brazen, the eagle permitted Jim's approach to within camera range. Then, with only two frames exposed, the magestic bird joined its mate on the other side of the river, but the moment had been captured.

It was mid-afternoon and Jim faced a five-hour drive home. Pausing for a photo of a loggerhead shrike, he steered his car out of the valley and pointed it toward Lincoln. As he reached the valley's rim and entered the Sand Hills, nine vultures hovered ominously over the Niobrara Valley. Were they marking the death of a wild river? THE END

TO CATCH A FROG

of the Salt Valley Lakes only after October 1. Therefore, this method would have been ruled out had it been any earlier in the season.

Aware that a bullet can ricochet dangerously from a flat body of water, Dick passed up several good shots. Only when he knew the shot was safe did he pull down on a big croaker, nailing it cleanly with a head shot.

"I guess the pistol is next," I said, choosing the weapon quickly, "but unless my shooting has improved this could be the biggest challenge of all."

My first chance came seconds later when a pair of frog eyes split the moss 10 feet ahead of me. Checking the background in case of a ricochet, I aimed and fired. I felt sure I had hit the frog, but a thorough search of the area turned up nothing. A frog has powerful reflexes, and I speculated that this one, although hit, had managed to dive into the dense tangles of moss and vegetation.

"I guess the same could happen with the rifle," Dick added. "A person probably shouldn't shoot unless he's relatively sure of a head shot."

Some time elapsed before I got a second shot with the pistol. Wading 30 feet out in the water, I spotted a croaker not more than 5 feet ahead of me. This time I was right on target and another frog was added to the sack.

"Now we're really down to the primitive weapons," Dick said, hefting a gig as he watched me string my bow. I had been archery-deer hunting several times since the season opened and was anxious to test my skill against these relatively tiny targets. However, anticipating shots along theshoreline, I had decided to bring my bow and reel. Now I knew that this had been a wise decision.

We moved on slowly, only to watch the frogs take to the water yards ahead of us. Occasionally one would tarry, and I took several long shots to no avail. Finally we decided that a new strategy was needed. Leaving the water's edge, we made a big loop working back to the shore again 100 yards ahead. We approached quietly only to see the hoppers skittering out across the moss. However, one none-too-large frog hesitated a moment too long and my arrow pinned him firmly to the bank.

"There's not much eating on that one," Dick chided, as I added the small specimen to the sack.

"He looks pretty big compared to what I've seen you take with that spear," I retorted. "Here's another gig. Let's see what you can do," Dick challenged.

Thus we proceeded, looking like cavemen, our three-pronged spears poised and ready.

It again became apparent that the quiet stalk was not the answer. A new strategy was in order. A frontal attack might be the answer —a lightning-fast charge a few feet out in the water, trapping the frogs on or near the bank.

A lightning-fast charge through kneedeep water is next to impossible and we soon decided that the frontal attack strategy was no more productive than the quiet stalk and far more tiring. Our final charge had brought us to what we named the "dismal swamp". The old creek bed had gradually been narrowing, but here again widened, making a large, motionless pool. Partially submerged dead trees rose like skeletons from the water, their barren limbs silhouetted against the gray, lateafternoon sky.

It was here we formulated our final plan of attack —a frog roundup. Stationing Dick at one side, I worked around the edge of the swamp and then cut across it directly toward him. According to the plan, I would take a zig-zag path and drive a herd of frogs into his waiting spear. The frogs apparently wanted nothing to do with a frog roundup and escaped by simply ducking under the carpet of moss and not coming up again.

"I think I'll stick with the rubber worm if I'm after a mess of froglegs," I commented, as we started back for the car.

"It did seem to be the most effective," Dick agreed. "But I think the gigs and even the hand net might work well if we were hunting them at night with a light."

Although our somewhat humorous day afield had been enjoyable, we both agreed that the best part came that evening when we sat down for supper. Dipped in milk and rolled in flour and cracker crumbs, the froglegs came from the skillet golden brown and delicious. Regardless of the ways they were taken, they provided a tasty treat we won't forget. THE END

where to go... Old Jules Country Circle tour

MENTION THE word "tour", and a sizable hunk of the American public will recoil in revulsion. There is something about the regimentation associated with such outings that immediately stifles the adventurous spirit and quells the inquisitive mind. Vacations, after all, are designed to allow the harried worker respite from schedules and timetables, and who needs a small army traipsing around with you? But there is a new kind of tour abroad in the land, and its chances of turning off a traveling public are slim indeed. Dubbed Circle Tour by the State Department of Economic Development in co-operation with the Old West Trail Foundation, these outings are self-guided, take-it-at-your-own-pace affairs that require as much or as little company as a visitor desires.

Several cities throughout the state are assembling tours with which to tout their local attractions to the visitor, providing directions to and insight into natural curiosities and historical settings that might otherwise be overlooked. Most communities provide more than one tour, and the tourist is urged to contact local chambers of commerce for detailed information. Sites vary from route to route, but the end result is always enjoyable.

Cradled in the sprawling Sand Hills of Nebraska's northwest, Gordon is one city that isn't a bit shy about displaying its obvious merits. At the intersection of U.S. Highway 20 and Nebraska State Highway 27, just a few miles north of the Niobrara River, this cow town on the grow is a mecca for the adventuresome and provides a tour that few will forget. For here, in the hills steeped in history, lie the legends and facts of Mari Sandoz' immortalized father, Old Jules. Perhaps that is why the Gordon tour is named for this notable of the Old West, and why many of the attractions revolve around the life and times of both him and his family.

The Old Jules Country Tour is attractive from many standpoints, not the least of which is the fact that all roads are hard-surfaced along its 132-mile route. Travelers are cautioned, however, not to venture onto unmarked trails in this land of a thousand look alike peaks and hollows.

ROLLING CATTLE country south of Gordon kicks off the tour which will ultimately run full circuit to its starting point, but the first major attraction is the Mari Sandoz Museum. Open only on summer Sunday afternoons, visitors can view the interior through the windows, and will find the museum a glimpse into the life of the famous authoress. The building houses an approximate reproduction of Mari's studio in Greenwich Village and is painstakingly appointed, right down to her furniture, books, and belongings. Time seems to stand still, and it is easy to lose all consciousness of the business at hand.

Farther down the road, though, another Sandoz legacy beckons. Flora Sandoz' ranch is not only a working reminder of the early Sand Hills cattle empires, but it is also Mari's final resting place. Her grave lies some two miles off the road, but its siren song is enough to attract even the most stoic traveler. Flora, Mari's sister, is accustomed to the inquisitive and, if work permits, will welcome all who enter. Her life style has changed little from that of the hard-working, friendly pioneers from whom she descended.

In the early days, Nebraska provided little timber for dwellings and prairie sod stood dominant as building material. A few miles south of the Sandoz ranch, one such earthen house still stands, a mute tribute to the stout immigrants who opened the land. As a further inducement to visit, the soddy once boarded Mari while she taught school in the area.

This is Sandoz country pure and simple. Dune and valley still ring to the clang of traps Jules once packed across the land. Here he was bitten by a snake;

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Pioneer authoress today lies beneath the sod of land she loved and immortalized

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Community church in serene setting hosts visitors throughout summer

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Fishing, boating, or simply relaxing are all at Smith Lake State Special-Use Area

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Historical marker opens new doors to understanding the lore of this land

there, farther down the road, he was an unwelcome guest on the gigantic Spade Ranch where Bartlett Richards carved out an empire built on cattle and the acrid aroma of spent black powder. In the same area, Morgan's Cowpoke Haven and Museum offers a wide range of activities. Besides the flavor of the Old West, the attraction now boasts a new polo field.

Turning west on Nebraska Highway 2 at Ellsworth, it is just 8 miles to Lakeside and the site of instant prosperity during the World War I era. Potash mines and processing centers today stand in disrepair where once they bristled with activity. Fortunes were made and lost here, and spectors of the past still tread the corridors and grounds of a fleeting industry. Lakeside spells another turn for the modern visitor, too, and the route swings north on Nebraska Highway 250, headed for Rushville on U.S. Highway 20.

Along the route is Pine Creek, just one of the area's waterways which rise from the shifting valley floor to bubble over a historic path. Old Jules reaped a harvest of furs here, and the modern traveler will find a bumper crop of enjoyment. Just up the road, though, lies Smith Lake State Recreation Area with its wide range of outdoor activities there for the taking. And farther on, more spots riddled with the lore of the Sandoz clan beckon to be explored. Signs mark the Slogum House on a freight trail which has long since vanished. Near there, the past looms large, and other sites promise hours of pleasure.

And then there is Rushville, the last stop before returning to Gordon. The museum may invite a stop, before rounding out the tour.

IF YOUR route lies toward southeast Nebraska, a stop at Burchard Lake State Special-Use Area is recommended.

Burchard, a 560-acre area 3 miles east and 1 % miles north of the town of the same name, is an eastern-Nebraska hotspot for bass, and offers bluegill, northern pike, catfish, green sunfish, and bullhead on the side. A man-made lake, the water spreads in a ragged V shape, sprawling over 160 acres of rolling prairie countryside. All sizes of boats are permitted on the water, but speed is restricted to 5 miles per hour. Unsupervised swimming is on tap for those who would rather get into the water a bit deeper.

Attuned to aquatic sports, Burchard Lake Special-Use Area is also a mecca for wildlife enthusiasts. Prairie chickens, bobwhite quail, and squirrels make up the bulk of the land-oriented fauna, but deer, rabbits, and some pheasants round out the picture. Those who carry their homes with them will find camping at Burchard a bit primitive, devoid of shelter houses, concession stands, and cabins. But its solitude and closeness with nature make it an ideal place to get away from it all.

From Gordon's solidly planned sights in Old Jules Country to the quiet solemnity of Burchard Lake Special Use Area, Nebraska offers a range of activities that is hard to beat. All that is left is to decide which is preferable. Perhaps both will fill the bill. THE END

HIKING AND BIKING

a bigger rucksack to carry them. This can be purchased in any sporting-goods store at various prices, depending on how elaborate you want your equipment to be.

Cyclists, too, can get away with little investment, or they can spend hundreds of dollars on a bicycle with gears to suit every incline. What family with children does not have one or two old bikes stored in the garage, used only once or twice a year? These are quite adequate if the country you will be crossing is flat. Cycling, however, has become a national pastime, making inroads even into urban transportation studies, and manufacturers offer everything from racers to balloon-tired vehicles.

The federal government owns the largest acreages of publicly owned land in the state where these two types of recreation can be carried out. The Samuel R. McKelvie National Forest near Nenzel, for instance, covers 115,000 acres. It has no established trails, but the entire area is open, and Nebraska Highway 97, which runs north and south across the area, is suitable for biking. Many wildlife species inhabit the area. Approximately 160 different kinds of birds have been observed, along with deer, prairie grouse, and rabbits. Care should be exercised not to start fires by throwing away matches, and cattle should not be molested.

The Bessey Division of the Nebraska National Forest near Halsey has an established trail —the Riverside. It runs one mile from the 4-H Camp to the Bessey Recreation Area. It is suitable for hiking only, but a 21/2 mile stretch of black-topped road from the recreation area to Scott Lookout Tower is suitable for cycling as well. Again, the entire area is open to wanderers. The forest includes almost 30,000 acresof man-planted forest and species similar to those found in the McKelvie National Forest.

In the northwest corner of the state, the Pine Ridge Division of the Nebraska National Forest, covering 50,000 acres, has two established trails, the three-mile Escarpment and the three-mile Dawn, both suitable for hiking (and horseback riding) but not cycling. This entire area, too, is completely open. In addition to some 125 bird species, there are antelope, deer, sharptailed grouse, turkey, and rabbits to be found, as well as non-game species such as coyotes, bobcats, skunks, and badgers.

The 10,000-acre Soldier Creek Management Unit, also part of the Nebraska National Forest system, is open to wilderness camping with the backpacker in mind. It features the 11-mile Sitting Bull Trail, the 3-mile Wild Hog Trail, and the 5-mile Trouper Trail. All pass through good hiking territory.

The Oglala National Grassland, a 94,000 acre tract (also part of the Nebraska National Forest) has no established trails. This area, too, is completely open and features unique geological formations found in Toadstool Park. Antelope, deer, and rabbits are the main species in the area.

The Nebraska Game and Parks Commission owns and operates five state parks — Chadron, Fort Robinson, Ponca, Niobrara, and Indian Cave. Niobrara State Park caters to campers, although there are no established trails.

Chadron State Park has several miles of established routes and trails, such as the 4 1/2-mile Nature Trail, offering scenic views of the area.

Fort Robinson State Park has one established trail around the buttes near the park's headquarters, but for real enthusiasts, a map can be drawn by park personnel covering in the neighborhood of 40 miles through rugged and rocky terrain.

Ponca State Park features the 2-mile Lewis and Clark Trail and the 1 1/2-mile Linden Trail, suitable for hiking but not biking. Cyclists can, however, use the roads in the park.

All these federal and state areas are isolated and divorced from city life, but there is one well-marked, 3.9-mile trail through Fontanel le Forest. Except for the footpath, the area is kept in its natural state and offers city dwellers in Omaha and its suburbs a haven away from the bustle of urban life only a stone's throw away from the city itself. This trail has been nationally recognized as one of the seven top Natural History Landmarks in the United States.

There are parks in smaller urban centers which feature trails through their acreages. Beatrice, for instance, has both hiking and cycling trails through its Chautaugua and Riverside parks.

Although they are not necessarily marked, there are countless trails around lakes and reservoirs which make for excellent daytime or overnight trips. There are also many city parks, such as Holmes or Pioneers in Lincoln, with trails galore to suit every need, most of them unnamed, yet equally as interesting as others that are.

Cyclists, during the past year, have also had the unique advantage of bicycle routes along city streets. These routes are designed to pass through areas least dangerous for cyclists and to connect urban park areas.

There are countless opportunities as near as the closest park. Fremont hikers, for instance, need travel only a short distance to Hormel Park 1 1/2 miles south of the city or Wildwood Park 1 mile southwest. There are trails approximately 5 miles in length in these two parks.

So, whatever your desires, you can find satisfaction for them in Nebraska's outdoors. You can plan extensive weekend trips through rocky terrain, utilizing the best equipment, or enjoy the simple pleasure of a lonely walk at twilight through a quiet park. THE END

Outdoor Calendar

State Parks-The grounds of all state parks are open to visitors year-round. Park facilities are officially closed September 15.

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

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.

CALL FOR WALLEYE

walleye are almost always females, and that's why comparatively few of them are caught during the spawning season."

Just as the boat reached the far end of a run along the dam, a flashlight from the opposite end signaled Ken Carter's arrival. It was 3 a.m. By that time, both Bob and Bill were more than ready for a chance to warm up.

With cold-stiffened fingers, Bob turned the boat around and cranked the throttle open for a quick run to their rendezvous with Ken. The increased speed made the cold, damp night air bite even deeper.

But no one was prepared for the thick blanket of snowflakes that suddenly enveloped the boat, dimming the lights on the dam and completely obscuring the signal from the parking lot. When the boat hit the beach, Ken was waiting with a steaming jug of coffee and a warm car, offering his companions welcome relief from the cold.

Crowding into Carter's toast-warm wagon, the chilled anglers recounted their success thus far. About a dozen walleye were on the stringers, none weighing much more than three pounds.

"There are some mighty big fish out there, though. We may or may not catch one of those 8 or 10-pounders, but I think I'll be able to show you a few." Bob promised.

Eagerness for a chance at one of the lunkers was tempered by the sting of windblown snow as the fishermen stepped out of the car and made their way back down to the boat. The snow had tapered off to a few flakes, but the temperature still hovered near the freezing mark.

"This cold might be uncomfortable, but that's not what concerns me," Propst muttered. "The water temperature has dropped five degrees since I called you. A drop in temperature like that really puts a damper on walleye spawning, and it might even end the run."

Bob's anxiety was allayed at least temporarily as, a few minutes later, he made

[image]

"...So, you've tried every lure? Give me back my wig!"

  good his promise to show the pair some lunker walleye.

Periodically, the beam from his flashlight stabbed the darkness, revealing the dorsal fin or tail oi a large spawner among the rocks right at the waterline along the dam. Huge eyes often reflected the light with an eerie, yellow-green cast, giving the large, dark form the appearance of some sort of fictitious sea monster.

"Well, I came here to catch fish, not look at them," Ken quipped. "I let you guys get a head start on me, so I think I'll make up for it with one of those big ones," he said, as he flipped his lure into the water.

Bob gave the newcomer a quick resume of the tactics that had been producing fish. As a sales representative for several fishing equipment manufacturers, Ken had had opportunities to fish throughout the United States for all kinds of fish using just about every strategy in the book.

About halfway down the dam, Ken got his first taste of action as he drove the barbs into something at the other end of his line. After a brief struggle, another pan-size walleye flopped on the deck, ready for the stringer.

"Ha! One of the fellas was going to catch one of those big ones for us," Pearson said loudly, being careful not to mention Ken's name or look his way. "If that's his big one, has anyone heard what this fella is going to do for an encore?"

"Just warming up, Bill, just warming up," Ken answered.

Bill, Bob, and Ken continued working the face of the dam for another 30 minutes, taking a few more 2-pounders. The bragging size walleye still showed up in the rocks, but none seemed interested in a lure.

Suddenly Bill's rod bent double, and the jerks that pulled his rod tip toward the water immediately told everyone in the boat that it was not a snag. Pearson just held on calmly and grinned. "Maybe one of the fellas is going to learn a lesson on how to catch a big one," he quipped.

The other fishermen quickly reeled in their lines, giving Bill room to play the fish. With that done, Ken scrambled for the landing net while Bob edged the boat away from the dam. Bill just held on calmly, chuckling and giving a bit of line whenever the fish bored for the bottom.

"By golly, I think we're into them," Propst bubbled. "Last year I caught 17 walleye weighing more than 10 pounds each, but I was afraid I wouldn't even see a big one this year the way things were going."

For 10 minutes the fish stayed on the bottom, and Bill's line throbbed all the time. Advice flowed freely. "Don't hurry him... keep him off the bottom... loosen your drag...tighten your drag."

Bill acknowledged only one bit of advice -not to get excited. "Excited?" he laughed. "Why should I get excited? I have all kinds of time —more time than that fish has. Besides, he might not be worth all the fuss if I get excited. Ill wait until he's landed in the boat."

As the fish finally gave up and came to the surface, Bill's wait-and-see attitude proved worthwhile.

"A small carp at that," Ken said, as he freed the lure from the dorsal fin. "He doesn't weigh more than two pounds, but he sure put up a scrap."

"Excited? Me? About snagging a two pound carp? They were the ones that were excited," Pearson muttered just loud enough for everyone to hear. "I don't know about these fellas. I just don't know," he mused, shaking his head in mock concern as he flipped his lure back into the water.

After Ken and Bob retaliated with a few digs at the "carp fisherman", Bob called it a night. It was pushing 4:30 a.m. and he had been fishing for several days with little rest. With another party to guide five hours later, a little sack time seemed appropriate.

The pair remained behind, though, still hoping to tie into one of those big spawners.

No sooner had the guide left for his bunk then action picked up again, this time with larger fish. Bill and Ken continued to haul in fish, most of them weighing around four pounds, one or two crowding six. The pace was not exactly furious, but just enough to keep them interested.

As the sun peeked over the dam, a check of the stringers indicated they were close to their limits. It was breakfast time anyway, so a quick run to the marina seemed in order. It was a good time to clean the fish and offered an opportunity to discuss the next day's tactics. With the memory of the night's walleye still fresh in their minds, neither of them even considered a rest as they hoisted the stringers onto the snowcovered dock.

When walleye limits were filled, maybe a little catfishing, or perhaps some crappie fishing would be in order. But, after warming up a bit and downing a hot breakfast in town, reason took hold. A few hours of sleep seemed better.

That afternoon, Bob Propst burst into the cabin with news of his other party's fishing. They had taken 13 nice walleye by trolling off the face of the dam in the daytime.

Ken and Bill immediately made for the dam, but a quick inspection of the area showed that the wind had come up, making the water a bit too rough. And, considering weather conditions, the area along the dam was too crowded with other boats for effective trolling.

But Ken found some action anyway. Perched on the rocks at the water's edge, he coaxed three waiieye into taking his jig.

Wind and cold grew worse that evening, so they called a halt about 10 p.m. with their eyes on an early start next morning. But more snow in the morning sent Bill to the boat dock, hoping to get his craft on its trailer and out of the water before the ramp became too slippery to negotiate.

The fishing trip was obviously over. But that first night's take left the ice chest jammed with bags of tasty walleye fillets. And, Ken, Bob, and Bill were busily hatching new plans. Maybe some rainbows at Lake McConaughy would be next. Or some smallmouth bass at Red Willow Reservoir. Or some bucketmouths at this little sandpit... maybe. THE END

ANOTHER WORLD

Center, many of the plants are identified with small signs, changing a short hike into a lesson in plant identification.

Groups can be guided through the Nature Center by the City of Lincoln's naturalist, Dr. Esther Bennett, or by one of her assistants. Dr. Bennett, administrator of the center, takes obvious pride in pointing out its many attractions. A hike toward Fleming Woods, for example, might include a stop at the wood duck box near one of the ponds, a look under old logs for some seldom-seen species, and a whispered word about a redheaded woodpecker as it flies to its hole. Knowing what to look for and where to look for it is important at the Nature Center, as the area and its inhabitants are always changing.

The seasons bring their changes, and each presents a different setting in which to enjoy Mother Nature's jewels. The seasonal changes are obvious. More subtle changes, however, are also taking place all the time. The ponds are slowly, imperceptibly, being filled in. If left alone, they will become marshes, and then finally return to prairie, the climax of nature's cycle in this area. The trees will also be gone, for they too are foreigners on the prairie.

The Chet Ager Nature Center will change, but the people who come and go will always be the same. They will be different people, looking at different things, but people will always need what the Nature Center has to offer, a chance to be at one with the earth. THE END

FORT McPHERSON

it was noted that the road east of Fort Kearny was relatively safe by frontier standards. Beyond that point, however, travelers could expect, and frequently found, most any hazard. It wasn't surprising then, when a spot on the Platte River, near a known Indian fording place, was selected for the army's fourth incursion into Nebraska to establish a reservation. On September 27, 1863, a detachment of the Seventh Iowa Volunteer Cavalry moved into the area and laid claim to the future post site. Less than a month later, on October 13, the first building was begun as troopers attempted to gain shelter before the winter months set in. The fort was arranged in a quadrangle, as were many of its contemporaries. Among its original buildings were the enlisted men's barracks, the company headquarters, a hospital, a guardhouse, and a palisaded stable for the mounts. Little time passed as the Iowa troops cut cedar trees which carpeted the ridges of canyons both north and south of the river. Hauled to the construction site, the logs were laid in traditional cabin fashion and the walls were topped off with pole roofs overlaid with cedar boughs and tamped with mud. Mud was also packed between logs in the walls, and once dried was as hard as rock and, better yet, waterproof.

The new addition to the military's string of Western outposts was among its elite. Not only was there plenty of wood available for both construction and fuel, but there was also a good stream nearby and it was strategically located. Halfway between Fort Kearny to the east and Fort Laramie to the west, the recent garrison took a lot of pressure off each fort by providing protection for migrant wagon trains and supply shipments bound for points farther west. There was (Continued on page 62)

Roundup and What to do

JULY bursts into Nebraska with a shower of Independence Day fireworks. Celebrations across the state range from rodeos to pancake feeds, and from block auctions to registered trap shoots.

On hand to participate in the Old West action is Jacqueline Bemiklau. An English major at North Platte Junior College for the past two years, Jacqueline plans to attend the University of Nebraska in the fall. She will teach after graduation. Daughter of Mrs. Leonard Berniklau of Maxwell, Jacqueline is a graduate of Maxwell Public School.

Jacqueline lists Miss North Platte Junior Col lege and Most Outstanding Actress at the college among her titles. She was a cheerleader, a member of the college's drama club, radio club, and annual staff. She takes part in drama productions and teaches Bible school. Among her hobbies she lists playing both piano and saxophone, tap dancing, baton twirling, swimming, motorcycle riding, and sewing.

Jackie will find plenty of time in those warm, July days to pursue her hobbies. A number of motorcycle races are on tap to spark that interest.

The Winnebago powwows provide a bright spot in any travel schedule. The town of Winnebago comes to life with authentic Indian costumes and dancing July 27 through 30.

Another home-grown Nebraska activity is rodeo, and plenty of these events crowd the month's calendar. Bronco-busting, bonejarring action is the rule at each of them. To top off the rodeo action, Ogallala hosts the World Championship Steer Roping Contest July 23. Super ropers from across the country will be there to test their skill against Nebraska's prime stock.

July is a good time to check your boating safety rules, for Governor J.J. Exon has proclaimed July 2 through 8 as Safe Boating Week in Nebraska. The week allows boaters to re-evaluate their equipment and practices to keep themselves and their passengers safe.

At Grand Island's Stuhr Museum, NEBRASKAland artist Bud Pritchard's work, consisting of paintings of fauna and flora native to Nebraska, are on display July 17 through August 21. The paintings are originals used for reproduction of the monthly series on Nebraska fauna and flora in NEBRASKAland Magazine.

Acres upon acres of lakes and ponds, and miles of streams in Nebraska offer a variety of fish for both skilled experts and cane-pole amateurs. If fishing competition is your thing, the Lincoln Bass Club is sponsoring a bass tournament at Burchard Lake. An archery tournament at Grand Island helps bowmen shape up their style for the fall big-game seasons.

A sprinkling of county fairs begin to appear this month with livestock judging, art, cooking, sewing, and garden produce displays as well as rides on the midway.

Butcher, baker, candlestick maker; doctor, lawyer, merchant, chief— there is something to see and do in Nebraska during the month for persons in all occupations.

Fort Mcpherson

a problem that plagued many of the early forts, however. No one seemed sure what to call it.

When the Iowa volunteers arrived, they simply called the spot home, excluding some of the epithets that came with aching muscles and blistered hands. They were too busy to give their new station a proper name at first, but by the end of 1863, it was commonly known as Cantonment Fort McKean. General Thomas McKean, it seems, was the military's commanding officer for the District of Nebraska. But that name didn't last long, and after only a few months, Cantonment Fort McKean became Fort Cottonwood. No such grandiose explanation was given for the name change. But, the new name kept the company clerks busy changing orders and morning reports for some time. Then in 1866, they had to start all over again. General James P. McPherson had been in charge of the Tennessee Army under General William T. Sherman during his historic march on Atlanta, May 5, 1864. General McPherson was killed in the action, but he was far from forgotten. Unlike corporations who reward years of service with gold watches, the military simply names installations after noted members. So, in 1866, Fort Cottonwood changed its name once more; this time to Fort McPherson-a moniker that was to carry over into modern times.

For the post's garrison, large by period standards, everyday life must have been similar to that of any other such fort. Building and rebuilding never stopped during the years Fort McPherson guarded the trail west and the new settlers who set out to tame a new land. Wind and weather on the prairie took a heavy toll of buildings and repairs were constantly in order. Chinking broke from between logs and had to be replaced. Roofs sprung leaks and cried for repair. And stock-the backbone of a cavalry outfithad to be kept in top condition. Like most Western installations, Fort McPherson never had the traditional stockade marking its perimeter. Only the stables were afforded such protection, probably an indication of how vital horses really were. But then, there really wasn't much need for the log fortifications because Fort McPherson was never actually assaulted by a hostile force. Soldiers from the post, instead, launched attacks in the area.

On January 15, 1865, a drive was begun to clear the Indians out of eastern Colorado and northwest Kansas. Winter campaigns were the scourge of the ranks and this one was as bad as any. Bitter cold either necessitated constant movement or kept the troops in camp once one was established. On top of that, I ittle or no contact was made with the enemy, so the column turned homeward. General Robert Mitchell, bitter because of the lack of action, immediately telegraphed orders to set the prairie afire between Fort Kearny and Denver. Set in October, the blaze roared across the plains, finally reaching the Arkansas River in Texas 3 days later. General Mitchell had decided that if he couldn't kill Indians, at least he could harass them by destroying grazing areas and buffalo hunting grounds. The plan worked to an extent, but trouble was still brewing, so a year later, Mitchell led his 700-man contingent out into the cold once again. This time it was frigid, but at least one skirmish brought blood temperature up to lukewarm. On January 16, some 100 braves attacked the column at their encampment on Sappa Creek in Kansas. Neither side, though, had much of a heart for combat, and the engagement broke off with only minimal casualties. On February 19, the troops rode back into Fort McPherson where they would remain for some 31/2 years.

Flaring Indian troubles spurred the troops into action again, and General E. A. Carr led a new contingent into Colorado against the Cheyenne. A month later, scouts headed by Buffalo Bill Cody, flushed the enemy at Summit Springs. A few hours later, 52 Indians lay dead, 15 women and children were prisoners, and some 84 lodges lay in smouldering ruins. With that battle, the Indian Wars were largely over for the men of Fort McPherson.

In 1872, Grand Duke Alexis of Russia rode out of the post for his renowned buffalo hunt in the Hayes Center area. And, in 1879, the cavalry was once again mounted to round up a band of Cheyenne who had broken out of Fort Robinson in an attempt to return to their ancestral homes. But the death knell of Fort McPherson was sounding loud and clear. Indian trouble, the major reason for the post's establishment, was dwindling, and there seemed to be no further use for the fort. It was officially abandoned in 1880.

The post is gone now, but its name remains prominent in Nebraska. Today, row upon row of white markers identify the graves of the nation's war dead from the Civil to Vietnamese wars. Only 20 acres of the original reservation remain intact, but the memory of its glory days floats across the Platte River Valley on every breeze that stirs the flag over Fort McPherson National Cemetery. THE END

FENCE FOR TROUT

most of the trout eggs before they could hatch. The failure of, the eggs to hatch pointed out the deteriorated condition of the spawning gravel.

After the first year, two obvious problems had to be solved. First of all, small rainbow, not trout eggs, would have to be stocked. This problem was solved by making arrangements to hatch the Lake McConaughy rainbow eggs in a hatchery and then stock them as two-inch fish. The second problem was the spawning gravel in the stream. To have successful trout reproduction in Otter Creek, the quality of the spawning gravel would have to be improved. The most practical approach to this problem was to conduct management practices which would stabilize both the stream and the watershed. If this could be accomplished, the amount of sand being washed down the creek should decrease and then natural reproduction of rainbow trout might take place.

The restoration project now consisted of stocking fish and improving the trout habitat in the stream. Hopes were high that the project would be successful.

With the fish-stocking portion of the project started in 1968, it is being continued at the present time. Each year fish were stocked in the spring in the upper two miles of Otter Creek. The growth and survival of these fish were evaluated during the following fall and winter. Throughout this four-year period, fish were marked in order to follow their migration habits between Otter Creek and Lake McConaughy. These marked fish migrated into the reservoir, matured and returned to Otter Creek to spawn. The stocking program so far was a success.

Improvement of the stream environment was as successful as the fish stocking. The headwaters of Otter Creek had been a favorite watering and resting area for cattle. Because of the cattle activity, the sandy stream banks were trampled and void of bank vegetation. Sand from this area was continually drifting downstream. Hard rains in the area would wash sand from the surrounding hills into the stream. It was obvious the watershed also had to be protected to avoid flooding. The upper end of Otter Creek was the area to start improving the trout-spawning habitat.

The landowner, Thad Patrick, who resides in Oshkosh, was very interested in the project and its favorable prospects of increasing the rainbow trout population in both Lake McConaughy and Otter Creek. He volunteered to help in any way necessary. It was decided to fence cattle out of the area surrounding the upper end of the stream. Excellent co-operation from Thad and his ranch foreman, Joe Barent, speeded completion of the fencing.

Nebraska's Game and Parks Commission provided the funds which were used to lease and fence the watershed on the headwaters of Otter Creek. Enclosed in the fenced area were approximately 46 acres of land and more than half a mile of stream. During the spring of 1969 the fence was installed. By fall the stream in the fenced area had changed considerably. Vegetation was abundant along the banks. The stream bottom became more stable and the amount of drifting sand was decreased. Rainbow trout were abundant throughout the fenced area.

With the stream environment improving and the fish stocked, it was time to evaluate.

Did the fenced-in area provide a suitable spawning habitat for rainbow trout? Absolutely! Rainbow trout reproduction was verified during 1970 and 1971. Successful reproduction has now occurred farther downstream, but with less success. Were the migration habits of the stocked rainbow trout in Otter Creek similar to rainbow trout in the North Platte River drainage? Indeed they were. The small stocked rainbow in Otter Creek grew rapidly and migrated into Lake McConaughy as 8 to 10-inch fish during the spring. They stayed one or two

[image]

"We're figuring on hitting some pretty rough country before we get back"

  years and then returned to Otter Creek to spawn. A spawning run of rainbow trout from Lake McConaughy has been established and now enters Otter Creek annually during the winter and spring.

What does all this mean to the Nebraska angler? Because of this project, Otter Creek now annually produces more than 6,000 8 to 10-inch rainbow trout which migrate into Lake McConaughy. These trout will be available for lake anglers for approximately two years, and then stream fishermen will have a chance at them before they spawn. Before the restoration project, Otter Creek was producing practically no rainbow trout.

If the stream environment is improved even more in Otter Creek and in other streams in the drainage, there should be no reason why the excellent quality trout fishing in Lake McConaughy and the streams in the North Platte River drainage cannot be maintained or increased.

What was accomplished with Otter Creek was not magic or a miracle. It was merely the application of some of the principles of fish management (inventory, management, and evaluation) put together in a wellplanned program. This project is a prime example of what can be accomplished when there is co-operation between landowners, anglers, and the Game and Parks Commission. THE END

HOPE FOR RAIN

pushed away the dirt, a beautiful, unbroken, two-inch arrowhead with no notches appeared.

"Not bad for the first 10 minutes of hunting," Orval gloated as he wiped away all traces of dirt.

It wasn't long before dozens, then hundreds, of flint chips were found and inspected. An area several hundred feet square offered promise, and they covered it carefully.

Almost every piece of stone appeared to have been worked. Some were parts of broken points or scrapers; others looked like larger chunks that had been chipped.

As the hunt progressed, a few other good items were picked up and duly brought to the attention of the non-finders. One tiny speck that Nancy found, appearing to be no more than a chip, turned out to be a miniature point. It was slightly curved, about half an inch long, and had a small notch in the center of its back.

"I don't know how you ever spotted it," Orval said as he inspected the point. "What do you suppose they used such a tiny thing for?"

"Beats me," Nancy replied. "Do you suppose they ever went grasshopper hunting?"

Bright sunshine helped them spot pieces of flint partially concealed by green wheat. Not enough rain had fallen that spring to expose all material, but the wheat would eventually grow so thick that most of the ground would be hidden, so the handicap was overlooked.

Several bits of pottery were evident, all having the familiar string etching on the outside surface common to early-day crockery. It was identical to pottery unearthed in the Republican Valley. Years before, Orval and Dee had excavated a village site on the south side of Harlan County Reservoir. Wave action was destroying the site and has since washed that portion of the bank away, but it was exciting digging at the time. Many fine pieces of Indian work had been taken out, including bone tools, beads, points, scrapers, and pottery chunks, along with thousands of clam shells.

At that site, almost two feet of topsoil had to be removed to get down to the layer of artifacts. First discovered by a friend who had seen a piece of flint sticking out of the bank, Orval and Dee dug there like gophers for many months until the "mother lode" petered out.

They had also probed another area at Harlan Reservoir. It had produced some chips, pottery, and clam shells, but few perfect points. Only half a dozen worthwhile items from there had gone into Orval's small but highly prized collection.

A few years ago, also at Harlan, Dee had found a metal arrowhead right at the waterline, but as he does with most of his finds, he had given it to a friend.

Both Orval and Dee are lifelong residents of the Holdrege area and know many landowners there. They would find no lack of hunting grounds if they pursued artifact collecting seriously. Dee is regional salesman for a grain-bin company, so he is in constant contact with farmers in the vicinity, but he finds that his spare time is frittered away on many other interests. Orval, too, can devote only a portion of his time to any one hobby. As administrator of Brewster hospital, paperwork takes precedence over Indian handiwork. The farm on which he was born is near the Sacramento State Special-Use Area, which was a mighty popular place with tribal hunting parties in the past. Always a natural lagoon, Sacramento attracted waterfowl, shore birds, and other wildlife, so it was doubtless an invaluable source of wild meat for past generations just as it still is.

The Sacramento area, now public hunting grounds, was on the agenda for an artifact foray later that same day. And, since the hill above Spring Creek had been reasonably well covered after two hours of steady scanning, the move to Sacramento was drawing nearer.

With the few choice artifacts secure in a small plastic bag and hundreds of pieces of flint, unrecognizable as points, deposited in the trunk, the trio departed. Nancy, a registered nurse, had to leave for town to attend some meetings, so she would haye to miss the next segment of the search.

"Sorry you have to take me all the way back to town, but at least I got to see what artifact hunting is," she apologized as they got underway. "I can't say it will go down as one of my favorite pastimes, though. Besides, the only thing I found was that grasshopper point."

Shaking his head in resignation at the shortcomings of women, Orval looked at his prize find again.

"Isn't that beautiful?" he asked, with obvious pride.

"Yeh, Orv, it's all right," Dee responded without enthusiasm. "I just don't know why so much of the stuff we found was broken."

"Well, they've been farming that hill for a long time, so a lot of equipment has rolled over it," Orval offered. "And, don't you think the Indians who were working on those points might have broken them and just given them a toss? I think I'd probably swear a little and throw a point quite a distance after toiling over it for several hours just to have it break when I was nearly done."

"I suppose you would at that," Dee charged. "Some guys are like that."

"Well, whoever made this one didn't throw it away," Orval gloated again, showing the perfectly contoured, unbroken point he had found early in the hunt. I'm going to keep it."

It was Nancy's turn to shake her head in response to Orval's ribbing, but she didn't say anything. After sandwiches and farewells, Orval and Dee returned to the county roads en route to the wheat fields at Sacramento. Their optimism was still not at a peak, but wishful thinking had brought it up some.

Almost immediately after getting out of the car, they could see a sprinkling of flint in the field. The wheat was slightly taller here, but there was plenty of ground showing. First a scraper, then a broken point, then another corner of a bird point with double notches came to hand.

"We should have brought little flags to stick into the ground to mark where we found these," Orval suggested. "Then we could stand back to see if there is any pattern."

Dee merely kept strolling along, not paying much attention.

"You have to inspect almost every little piece of flint in here," Orval continued, "because all you find are small bird points. I have never found a large arrowhead here. I think the Indians must have lived right neauhe edge of the water, or else hunted along it, and all they shot were birds. I have found several nice scrapers, though."

"Now, you don't think they scraped bird skins do you?" Dee quipped. There must have been deer here, too, and antelope and probably elk. They must have used bigger points for them."

"Maybe, but I've never found one," was all Orval said as he wandered down a wheat row.

Less than a square block of the field showed signs of flint. Beyond that area there was nothing, at least as far as the wheat (Continued on page 66)

OUTDOOR NEBRASKAland of the Air

HOPE FOR RAIN

went. At the perimeter of the wheat, habitat for wildlife totally covered the ground, and there was no way of knowing if artifacts were beneath it. Doubtless there was a rich deposit of them, though, since other portions of the area had yielded points in the past.

Still, even a small window into the earth was better than no view at all, and whatever the wheat field offered was welcome.

"Hey, this looks like it might have been an axe," Dee shouted across to Orval, who was squatting down inspecting a spot littered with flint.

"I have several big chunks that might have been, too," came a reply, "or at least they had chips taken off them. Hang onto it and I'll look it over later. I was just thinking about the many different kinds or colors of flint here. It surely had to come from many different sources, and none of them around this area. The Indians must have traded for it. Oh well, keep looking."

Just as often as a piece of flint is thought to be something when it isn't, another piece is discarded when it actually is a broken point or scraper. Knowing a piece of flint was worked upon by a person several centuries ago should make it valuable whether it is in one piece or not. Yet, such a broken piece is not as impressive in a collection.

Both hunters agreed the lack of winter and spring moisture was a limiting factor, so they hoped the water shortage might be of benefit at Harlan. There, the low water level exposed a portion of shoreline normally submerged, thereby opening a potentially rich hunting area.

But, the water had been low too long. Many other artifact collectors or random visitors had gleaned all the good stuff from the area. Plenty of flint was in evidence, but only a small, broken head was found.

"Well, if nothing else, we have had plenty of exercise today," observed Dee after a lengthy stroll along the beach, picking up bits of flint here and there. "I am prepared to testify that there are a lot of easier hobbies around than artifact hunting — at least for guys a little overweight like you, Orv."

"At least I have something to show for my work. I suppose a person feels worse about it if he finds only broken stuff all day. Really, though, we could have done worse. After all, it is pretty late in the season already, and in just a few hours we got several nice pieces, even if most were broken. Besides, if you feel bad about not finding much, think how bad the Indians who lost this stuff felt."

They didn't lose the stuff I found, remember? They threw it all away," Dee said with a grin. "Let's head for home and hope for rain. That'll help the farmers and the artifact hunters —maybe even us unlucky THE END

Outdoor Elsewere

Question and Answer Session. While investigating a complaint recently, a Pennsylvania game warden was faced with the usual list of grievances which most game commission personnel get at one time or another. The fellow wanted to know what happened to all the rabbits, why there weren't any squirrels or grouse, what the game commission was doing about the deer herd, why there were no pheasants, and what the commission was doing with all the turkeys. The list went on and on. The officer tried his hardest to answer the questions and explain the commission's many programs. But, the questioner finally left the officer desperate when he asked: "Just what is the game commission going to do about the economy?" The fellow must have felt the game commission had all the answers. — Pennsylvania

Snake Pit. Anglers who are convinced that a largemouth bass will strike at anything can add snakes to the bucketmouth's diet. A Minneapolis angler watched a bass overtake and swallow a 24-inch garter snake last fall. The snake made the fatal mistake of trying to go through a lily pad. — Minnesota

An A For Trying. Not long ago, a Pennsylvania sportsman was teaching his five-year-old son about wildlife. The little fellow was thumbing through a game book and came across the whitetailed deer section. The father explained how hunters tell male from female deer during hunting seasons. Later that evening, the sportsman decided to quiz his son about the deer lesson and asked him, "What do you call the things on male deer's heads that help distinguish them from female deer?" The five-year-old perked up in his chair and answered, "Buckles!" That deserves an A for effort. — Pennsylvania

Telling It Like It Is. Not long ago,a politician speaking at a metropolitan airport was telling the folks how it is about the new supersonic transport, and remarked that there shouldn't be any problem with noise pollution. Just then, a sonic boom from a jet aircraft cracked the building's skylight which crashed upon the speaker's head. Apparently, the fellow wasn't telling it exactly as it was. — Washington, D.C.

The Dilemma of a Game Warden. It seems that most every job has a certain amount of controversy to it. But how about the job of the conservation officer? Here is a look at the dilemma involved in that profession. If the conservation officer asks to see your license, he's insulting and distrustful. If he takes your word for having one, he's lax and corrupt. If he arrests a violator, he'S showing how tough he can be. If he gives the culprit another chance, he's just plain timid and showing favoritism. If he labors day and night to enforce the law, he's a tyrant. If he relaxes at all, he's a shirker and good-for-nothing crook. If he talks game and fish conservation, he's fanatical. If he keeps quiet, he's dumb or stupid. If he accepts suggestion or advice, he lacks initiative. If he works out problems for himself, he's a know-it-all. If he acts like a gentleman, he's soft and too easy-going. If he acts firm, he's an arrogant rascal.

Free At Last. While in the midst of some fast and exciting trout action with his two sons last fall, a California sportsman didn't notice his family's creel loaded with 19 trout-slip off the oarlock of their boat and sink. Disappointed to say the least, the anglers tried in vain to retrieve the creel. A week later, the fishing family was back at the trout lake again and one of the boys snagged something heavy that turned out to be the lost creel, complete with the unhurt but hungry fish. The anglers released the trout immediately to fight again, a small favor in return for the week's imprisonment. — California