For the record... Safety in Orange

During my 19 years of conservation law enforcement, I have listened to just about every type of complaint involving hunters, but one of the most serious of these comes from the landowner who has suffered injury or anxiety because of a hunter's careless shot. How many stories have you heard about such incidents?

On this issue, I have a word of advice. No single incident erases friendships and permanently damages hunter-landowner relationships faster. What would your reaction be if you were to be sprinkled with shot? If you were a landowner, might you not close your farm to all hunters?

In 1971, the Nebraska Legislature passed a law requiring all big-game hunters to wear at least 400 square inches of fluorescent orange while afield. The obvious reason behind the legislation is to make the hunter more visible and thus reduce his chance of being mistaken for game by other hunters. The value of fluorescent orange is so great that rarely has an orange-clad hunter been bagged. He has always stood out like a sore thumb.

A 1971 report from Pennsylvania emphasizes the value of fluorescent orange for the man in the field. Three Pennsylvania hunters, who had bought fluorescent orange togs and had worn them while deer hunting, were shot accidentally. But they were mistaken for deer after they had removed their orange clothing for a rest. In 1971, Pennsylvania had more than a million hunters, but there were no shooting fatalities or injuries involving orange-clad hunters. That same year was the first in Colorado's history of big-game hunting during which there were no injuries or fatalities. It was also the first year fluorescent orange clothing was required.

It seems to me that both big-game and upland-game hunters might use the visibility factor of fluorescent orange in another way. Frequently, a landowner works his farm or ranch during the hunting season and he, too, might feel better with the added protection of fluorescent orange. I suggest that hunters give their hosts fluorescent-orange vests, jackets, or caps as tokens of appreciation for the privilege of hunting on private land. It might seal a lasting friendship as well as allow both landowners and hunters to pursue their separate activities with less danger of shooting accidents. After all, most sport hunting is made available by the willing landowner, and willing landowners become harder to find each year. Hunters cannot afford to scare them off with a shooting incident.

So, use this angle wherever appropriate for both your sake and the landowner's; it will perpetuate the sport of hunting. A little more advice —make your orange gift something that can be worn with utility and comfort, and make sure it's the right size.

Speak Up

NEBRASKA!and 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.

IT IS PRETTY-"I am over my sputtering anger at Warren Spencer's article in the August issue of NEBRASKAland Magazine: The House of Brownville. But I still get riled up when I talk about it- upset and dismayed when I think about the wide scope of your magazine's circulation and the impression it will leave.

"What could have motivated this attack (which it is) on us? And why the magazine, which is pushing tourism in the state, would publish it is beyond belief.

"How can a stranger come to town once and make such a total assessment by talking to three people? And then spread it wide to the public as if it were the plain unvarnished truth —which it isn't. Mr. Spencer so evidently came to criticize —he saw what he wanted to see —obviously — the dilapidated spots such as any town (Omaha and Lincoln included) always has.

"Every illustration he used points this up. His big feature color shot in the graveyard — when he could have found other live beauty spots —to accent his continuous theme of a dying town, no doubt.

"The bridge picture is ugly-it is finished and in use. The trash can is on private property and the theater is sparkling white in a picture-book setting of lawn and shrubs. If he wanted to take a picture of the true appearance. The picture of the mill gives an impression of unkeptness —which it isn't. The wheel museum is not housed behind a 'shabby store front.'

"It wasn't the right time of year anyway to find us at our best —come see us now! As I drove into town from the west recently, there was no one behind me so I slowed down and took the time to try to see Brownville as a tourist would on his first trip —and it is pretty! All along Main Street are evidences oi care —paint, well-kept lawns and flowers.

"I have lived in Brownville for 52 years. I wasn't born here like Kinley Kelley, but I am one of the old folks. I have been librarian for 30 years, served on the school board until my children finished high school here, and in my younger days helped in most community projects; so I feel that I have earned the right to voice this opinion.

"I am not now a member of the historical society, or the town board, and have no axes to grind.

"But my observation from my many years of living is —we are not a dying vine! We have and are making progress. We do not have a doctor or a high school as Mr. Spencer observed —we, as well as most tiny towns have found, could not support either. However, we need drive no more in miles than city folk do in blocks to reach either facility. Where 10 years ago there wasn't even a place to buy a cup of coffee, we now have two. We were always fortunate enough to have a good grocery store — it has doubled in size.

"So, to present a list of businesses: a Mobil station in a new building with a friendly, efficient manager; a new tavern building; the stone-ground Flour Mill, well stocked with health foods and always neat and well kept; a general store that supplies all practical needs from groceries, paper products, school supplies, drugs, gifts and wrapping to clothing for the whole family — it is worth seeing; a good cafe within walking distance if I want to eat out; a second class post office —always neat and in good repair; a library —of which I am proud; two year-round antique shops; two summer shops; a pottery shop —year-round; a restaurant and small motel west of town, which always looks attractive and should be adequate once the construction of the nuclear plant is finished; a summer art school taught by Tom Palmerton, resident artist, which is affiliated with Peru State School; and a summer theater-though Mr. Spencer says not -instigated by the then president of the historical society, J. Randel Smith, and under the auspices of the society for its first year.

"With the exception of the grocery side of the general store, the mill, the post office, and the library, these are new businesses in the last few years.

"We made a list of 28 homes —including old houses restored or remodeled, mobile homes on permanent foundations on land owned by the occupants, and new homes built in the last few years —all on tax roles now.

"We have obligated ourselves for a new water system (in operation) and a sewer project.

"Now, I do not think that sounds like, 'Uncertainty about the future reigns supreme in the community.'

"I think most of us like it as it is —we enjoy our peaceful humdrum existence and our old-fashioned serenity — we love Brownville because it is Brownville. Our disagreements may be many, but we reserve the right to settle them in private. I have talked to a good many people, and I am not alone in my disapproval of this kind of publicity.

"So, you think we are apathetic just because we are content and happy as we are. Well, heart attacks are not brought on by that! Please think this over." —Mrs. LuElla E. Garber, Brownville.

Four letters critical of The House of Brownville were received. Mrs. Garber's comments, though, echo all the others. Since her letter was widely distributed to state officials and news media, it was chosen for publication.

Mrs. Garber terms the article an "attack." If printing truth is an attack, then that is what The House of Brownville is.

"Pushing" tourism has two sides. One is to placate those who offer anything for general consumption by painting a picture which easily outshines reality. The other is to tell a traveling public what awaits it — good or bad. For instance, in 1964 NEBRASKAland devoted 14 pages of color and black-and-white photos (many of them staged to "show off" Brownville) and accompanied them with glowing copy. Such features and similar ones in other publications seem to have led to a rather common consequence of praise —complacency. So, in the end everyone wins —everyone, that is, except the visitor who expects to find, as advertised, a showplace of Nebraska.

There was no mention of commercial enterprize in the article except where it was needed to explain dialogue. Private businesses are needed to sustain the resident population of the town, but from the list of businesses in Mrs. Garber's letter, it seems she equates commercialization with success rather than considering the benefits of preserving the town as a historical landmark. The House of Brownville did not advocate neon signs. Instead, it explored the need for total community involvement to keep the old homes as they once were.

Does it really matter who owns the trash barrel as long as it is emptied? Is it really that hard to see that the wheel museum needs a coat of paint and a good scrubbing? Is it really that hard to imagine that people do look around when they attend the theater and that they see the trash piles across the street? Hasn't anyone noticed that the oldest frame home in Brownville badly needs paint and the shutters need repairs and that it really doesn't matter who does these things as long as they get done?

We had hoped to jar residents and the people of Nebraska into taking a good, hard look at Brownville and doing something about it. By investigating the cause, we had hoped to treat the effect.

Perhaps it is more convenient to rail about an "attack" than it is to do something constructive for the town as a whole. But think about the time it takes to write letters of retribution. (Continued on page 9)

SPEAK UP

Think how many windows could have been washed, how much paint applied, how many cans picked up off the street, or how many weeds could have been mowed in the same amount of time.

The bridge picture was ugly because the bridge was ugly. Weeds were pointed out because weeds were plentiful. And, no amount of trying to see things as a first-time visitor would, will make the blemishes go away. Nor will picking the time of year one wants to be seen and ignoring the rest make Brownviile invulnerable. Only work, and a lot of it, will do that.

Mrs. Garber indicated that she is not alone in her disapproval of 'This kind of publicity.' Hardly anyone relishes criticism, but we can all learn from it. We can remain content and happy and find solace in the fact that heart attacks are not brought on by such things. But we must also remember that inactivity can be just as deadly as exertion and cannot provide the satisfaction of knowing we have done all that can be done to preserve something we love. — Editor.

ME TOO —"I enjoyed the remarks by N. Henry (Speak Up, May 1972), and the comments on the Nebraska I love.

"I also love Nebraska —the whole state. We live on a farm near Concord about 100 miles north of Lincoln, and we feel we have no pollution or confinement problems here.

"Omaha and Lincoln serve their purposes in this great state of ours also, but I'm thankful for the wide-open spaces."— Mrs. George Vollers, Concord.

A BIT OF HOME - "My wife and I are presently assigned to a U.S. Air Force station on the island of Crete in the Aegean Sea. Perhaps it is being over 9,000 miles from home that makes your magazine so well received in our home. Then again, it could be the excellent quality of your articles or the way the staff seems to make home seem much closer through their words and pictures. I refuse to pick out just one, since a grave injustice would be done to the others.

"As we read the articles in NEBRASKAland, many lost but treasured experiences creep into our minds. At times, the articles are momentarily forgotten as similar experiences paint even more wistful and lingering diversions of the past. That sounds a trifle dated coming from the lips of one who has less than 30 years to reminisce upon.

"It is hard for us to find fault with this magazine as many have, and will continue to do. This is an advantage and a privilege we would like to commend you for extending your readers. Being human, though, we can think of only one flaw; that being that NEBRASKAland is only a monthly publication." —Mr. & Mrs. Gail Hennings, formerly of Louisville and Papiliion.

How to: Build your own smoker

PRIMITIVE MAN first used smoking as a preservative technique. Smudge fires under drying racks provided the warmth necessary to speed dehydration of meat and fish, insuring supplies for lean days. As a byproduct, Stone Age man learned that smoking not only insured the preservation of meat, but also gave it a desirable flavor.

With the advent of refrigeration, the art of smoking meat seemed destined to go the way of the horse and buggy, and until a recent revival of the art, that was the case. Now, however, many outdoor magazines carry stories dealing with smoking techniques. Usually absent from these articles, though, is a solution to the problem of coming up with proper equipment. Most would-be enthusiasts are left with the option of buying a commercial model or converting an old refrigerator. Refrigerator models are not the handiest things to have around unless a permanent location is available, and commercial models are relatively expensive. So, why not build a smoker yourself?

One popular design for a homemade smoker is both priced right and collapsible for easy storage and transportation. Basically, this model is a rectangular, plywood box held together with hinges to permit folding or dismantling. Wire screen shelves support the meat and a sheet metal baffle distributes smoke evenly. A hot plate, an old electric frying pan or a hibachi all serve well as a heat source.

To build this model you'll need enough 3/8 or 1/2-inch plywood to cut one piece 20 x 20 inches, one piece 20 x 40 inches and three pieces 18 x 42 inches. Also, you'll need eight pieces of wood 1x1x18 inches —cleats to support the shelves. Non-wood materials you'll need include three sheets of wire screen to serve as racks, one piece of sheet metal to serve as a baffle, three pairs of hinges with removable pins and an assortment of nails found in most home workshops.

First, lay the 20 x 20-inch top panel and the 20 x 40-inch front panel side by side so that they are flush. Attach two hinges with wood screws. Similarly, lay the three remaining sheets of plywood side by side and flush, and attach two hinges along each union. The two side panels should then pivot from the back like wings.

Before nailing the wood cleats to the interior of side panels, determine what type of heat source will be used and allow plenty of room between it and the lowest shelf. In most cases, the shelf should be at least 18 inches from the bottom. Once this pair of cleats is attached on both sides, cleats for the other three shelves can be spaced evenly in the remaining space and nailed in place. In most cases, the horizontal wooden cleats may be nailed 18, 24, 30 and 36 inches from the bottom. When assembled, the upper three pairs of cleats will support 18x18-inch non-galvanized screen racks to hold the meat or fish and the bottom pair of cleats will hold an 18 x 18-inch sheet metal baffle.

On the top edge of both side panels, drive two No. 6 finishing nails about half their length into the wood. Using a carpenter's square, align the sides at right angles to the back. Carefully set the top panel on the heads of the finishing nails, being sure that the front panel rests tightly against the front edges of the side panels. With a hammer, tap the top panel so that each nail leaves a slight impression on the underside of the panel. Now remove the top-front unit and drill holes slightly larger than the heads of the nails at these marks. Replace the unit and allow the nails to come up through the holes. This holds the top-front in place when in use, but permits disassembly for transportation.

Sheet metal, cut to size and perforated with holes, will distribute smoke 10 NEBRASKAland evenly through the interior of the smoker.

Wire screens must be cut to size. If they are not strong enough to support the weight of meat, they must be mounted in a frame. Hooks may be screwed into the inside of the top panel for hanging fish, meat or sausage.

When the smoker is assembled there should be a two-inch opening at the bottom of the front panel to provide draft. There will be small cracks where hinges join panels which will provide ventilation and allow smoke to seep out. If too much smoke leaks from these cracks, cover them with a sheet of canvas or a blanket.

When smoking foods that drip grease, it may be necessary to place a sheet of heavy aluminum foil over the heat source to prevent undesirable flare-ups.

Smoke meat and fish in the same fashion as in other smokers. Experience is the best teacher when it comes to pleasing the individual taste, but smoking tips do abound in various outdoor magazines. For some excellent hints on smoking fish, check the April 1972 issue of NEBRASKAland. And for more information, a good buy is the Home Book of Smoke-cookery Meat, Fish and Game, written by Jack Sleight and Raymond Hull, published by Stackpole Books. Ω

One More Time

HUNTERS ARE a rare breed all right, but after being jolted awake by a raucous alarm clock at 4 a.m. that cold, blustery November morning in 1970, I began thinking that "rare" does not adequately describe someone who actually gets up that early.

Just hours before, I had been gathering equipment in preparation for a bout with Nebraska's grouse in the Sand Hills. Now, listening to the whine of a frigid north wind, I pulled the blankets over my head.

After much effort, I finally forced myself out of bed and headed for Ainsworth where I was to meet my hunting partner for breakfast at 6:15.

Dr. Brad Williams, an Ainsworth optometrist, arrived right on schedule, looking much more chipper than I felt. I had first met Brad during a meeting in Ainsworth. Discovering a common interest, we had talked about hunting. "Grouse shooting in this area is great," he had said. "Even when grouse are hard to find, if there's one around I can find him," the doctor had claimed.

I'm not sure he realized at the time he was talking to an outdoor writer. Anyway, he had invited me to hunt with him some day.

So, here I was.

"It's going to be a great day for hunting," Brad assured me, as we finished our piping-hot coffee. "We'll really get into the birds."

Moments later we rolled out of town and north into Keya Paha County toward Springview. Shooting time had arrived before us, so we scanned the countryside and rambled across the seemingly endless hills.

"The limit on grouse, as you know, is two this year," Brad said. "We won't have any trouble filling our limits." With enthusiasm like that, I just knew the grouse were in for it.

Brad was right. It was a great day. Four to six inches of fresh, fluffy snow adorned the landscape, and a sun as red as a ripe tomato crept up from the horizon. The temperature was 17 degrees, but it wasn't cold because there was absolutely no wind now.

The snow glittered as the sun rose and changed color from red to yellow. Suddenly, Brad brought his station wagon to a halt.

"There's a sharptail sitting in that shelterbelt right there," he said. "I don't think we can get him, but you might try walking quietly through the trees."

So, following doctor's orders, I eased out of the car and uncased my 12-gauge pump. Slipping in three No. 6 field loads, I carefully crossed over into the shelterbelt.

After working a short stretch of the assorted-tree tract, I heard several birds flushing ahead. The familiar keck-keck of birds heading out made me wish for a shot; I quickened my pace.

Finally, I stepped out of the shelterbelt in hopes of catching a straggler. I was beginning to think that Brad had hit the nail on the head when he said I probably wouldn't score in the shelterbelt, but suddenly a loner catapulted from the thick evergreens. He was moving in high gear when I spotted him flying at 11 o'clock from me about 40 yards out. I shouldered my gun and pulled down on the fleeing bird. A split second later I touched off my first shot of the 1970 upland bird season, and with the bark of my 12-gauge, the bird folded.

Feeling great, I retrieved my sharptail and started back to the car. I heard my partner shout: "Great shot. That bird was a long way out. If I'd have known you were that good, I might have reconsidered my invitation."

We climbed back into the car and headed north. Brad told me he had been born and raised only a few miles away. "I've done a lot of hunting around here," he reminisced. "It's really a great area. The hunting is challenging, the landscape is beautiful and the landowners are very cooperative. Except for a few isolated cases, farmers and ranchers around here welcome hunters."

Five minutes later we drove off the road into an alfalfa field. Most folks would have worried about the possibility of getting stuck, but Brad explained that his trusty station wagon was a veteran of hill-and-dale hunts through snow, mud, sleet and rain, so I figured I had better stop worrying.

'The snow will change the birds' normal habits," Brad observed. "Usually this alfalfa patch has a few sitting around, but today we'll just have to look around until we find out what they're doing."

Moments later we wound our way down a small trail between two fields. I spotted a flock of grouse feeding in a field of hay with a sentry sitting atop a bale.

'Here's where our strategy comes into play," Brad started to say, but just then a keck-keck from the sentry sent the flock on its way.

"That'll be enough of that," Brad mumbled. A few of the birds circled and landed high in some towering cottonwoods parallel to the trail, but far out of range.

After loading our guns, we began walking down the trail. The wily birds flushed from the treetops ahead of us out of range. After a while we stopped.

"We'll have to try the hills," my guide announced.

It was 8:30 by now, and thus far our hunting excursion had flushed 30 to 40 birds, but we had only one in the bag.

I told Brad it was a good thing I wasn't keeping statistics like I do at football games.

"Never fear. I know a place where there are always grouse."

An hour later my (Continued on page 53)

Boys are like that

THERE WAS A TIME when fathers and sons did things together, like laying plans for a weekend fishing trip, refinishing a gunstock on a boy's first rifle or building a pack frame. An instant impression might be that nowadays most boys are too busy watching TV to care much about fishing, hunting or camping. Or, that fathers are too preoccupied with golf games, crab grass and office schedules to initiate any such outings.

But follow Jack Landkamer's boys or Jim Burdick's son or Roy Cassel's boy and you might want to reappraise that judgment. Take, for instance, a Thursday last July. The four youngsters were seining clams from the muddy bottom of a small pond on the Middle Loup River; seining that is, with their bare feet.

Eric Landkamer was a ringleader of sorts, and he was an old hand at clamming despite his 11 years. Knew where the biggest clams were, too, and that the smallest were best for eating and just how his Dad prepared them so they tasted like oysters, though in Eric's years he has probably never tasted a fresh oyster.

Greg, Eric's eight-year-old brother, was a bit on the shy side. It didn't bother him much to mingle with clams, crawdads and pollywogs, though. Didn't bother him much to mingle with Royce Cassel either. They were cronies, you see, collaborators on anything alive, elusive and as far into the mud and water as they could go.

Now, David was a different case completely. If you took an active boy, told him summer vacation would be only a week long this year and turned him loose, you'd have a strong case of hyperactive boyhood on a hot summer day-David Burdick.

A red-winged blackbird, hovering noisily over its nest, didn't really appreciate the boys' intrusion. Travelers on the nearby road probably wondered a bit at the goings on in that willow-fringed pond, too. But conversation was all boy.

"Hey, look you guys! This clam has a hole in it and you can look right in!"

"Look, I found a whole gob of 'em with their tongues hanging out!"

"Let's dig a hole with these old clamshells and fill it with water! Then we can put tadpoles in!"

"Oh, oh, it's caving in! We'll have to build a high bank!"

"Listen! A frog! Let's catch him!"

"Hey, he's almost this wide!"

"There he goes! I got him! Oh! I had him caught for awhile!"

"Chase him up on the bank!"

"Oooooo, look at this little clam!"

"Hey, I caught him! What a frog!"

"Yeah? What's it like under the water?"

"Stinky!"

"Hey look! This one is opening his shells!"

"Yeah, boy, we got millions of 'em!"

"Hey, Dad says we got to put the big ones back 'cause they're not good to eat

"I'm going to take one home so it can have babies!"

A broken bottle, probably discarded by an unthinking motorist, ended the fun for Eric. During one of his running dives into the pond, he fell on the glass, gashing his knee and prompting a flying trip to a nearby town for a double layer of stitches.

"What do you want to do?" the elder Landkamer queried his son after returning to the pond and the other boys, "stay home and rest, or go camping?"

"Rest camping," came the budding diplomat's reply.

Much paternal cajolery and promises of better adventures ahead prompted the loading of six pounds of mud, a bag of clams, four (Continued on page 54)

FORT HARTSUFF

BLEAK WAS probably one of the nicer things Steve Chase called Sunday, January 18, 1874. As his buckskin moccasins crunched through fresh-fallen snow, which deepened with every gust of wind, he must have rued not laying in enough firewood to last through the storm. And, with his trapping partners off on a hunting trip farther up the Loup River Valley, Chase had no alternative hut to gather his own kindling. So, head down and body hunched into the wind, he trudged along totally unaware of the danger awaiting his return.

Chase lived with several other trappers ^Cy Haney, Cill Wirtz, the Sawyer hoys, the Baker hoys, and Buckskin Charley Whiter near present-day Broken Bow. With so many whites living together, there was little risk, hut Indian danger wasn't all that unfamiliar. Renegade Sioux frequently rode out of Dakota Territory, ranging southward into Nebraska and hack to ancestral hunting grounds. Embittered by the white man's incursion into lands they still considered theirs, the Indians weren't above running off some stock or hurning homesteaders out. Though Steve Chase didn't know it at the time, one such party was paying him a visit as he hucked the mid-winter squall.

A few hours earlier, Mrs. Richard McCIimans had been hostess, somewhat reluctantly, to some 40 Indians bent on having Sunday dinner. Crowding into the house, the braves downed everything edible, then moved out into the yard. On the frontier, chickens were a valuable commodity, and the McCIimans had quite a few. The Indians turned them into a feast. Then, about three o clock, when there wasn't anything left to eat, the braves mounted up and headed out without so much as a thank you.

Whether hy chance or hy design, the sturdy, red-cedar trapper's house was next on the tour. Finding no one at home, the Indians broke in and started a wall-to-wall cleaning job. They snapped up everything not nailed down, and were just leaving when Steve Chase stumbled into view. More surprised than angry, Chase dropped the wood he was carrying, hefted his long rifle, took aim, and touched off an explosion that was almost lost in the wind. A heavy lead hall whistled past a trailing brave as he was heading for his pony. Chase's shot went wide, hut it was (Continued on page 57)

On Marsh and Mantle

EVEN THOUGH collecting is far from being strictly American, few other peoples have adopted this multifaceted hobby with more gusto. From buttons to tractors, Americans haul home tons of specialty items each year, filling out established collections or planting seeds from which new ones grow. And, few areas of interest have escaped the onslaught—including the outdoors.

Waterfowl and wildfowl decoys were born in the New World. American Indians fashioned excellent duck facsimiles at least 1,000 years ago, weaving reeds into waterfowl shapes and occasionally covering them with duck skins for added realism. When early white settlers moved into the land, they picked up where the Indian left off. Phenomenal numbers of ducks, geese and shore birds meant food to them, and decoys helped lure birds within shooting range. Soon, Eastern restaurants began paying prime prices for Western birds, and decoys helped fill the orders.

Time passed and man became more adept at his sporting fakery. Many decoys were made at home by men devoted to their sport and completely familiar with their game. Consequently, the handiwork became quite good-so good, in fact, that those decoys rank among the most highly prized specimens of folk art. Carved wooden decoys are sought fanatically because of nostalgia engendered by such mementos, and for the delicate aesthetics of detail. So intense is the quest that few vintage specimens remain, but the few that do command mighty fine prices.

Decoy carving has never ceased, though a gradual transition has altered the craft. From simple, working decoys built to be set out and shot over have evolved decorative works of art. These are the ultimate in workmanship —blocks of wood, glued, sawn, rasped, carved and sanded to exact measurements of real birds.

Painstaking details, like outlines of feathers, are added now and painting the final form demands equal care in such aspects as combing and shading. These masterpieces have become so lifelike that they are in a class by themselves when compared with the simple decoys of old.

The transition is due, in part, to decoy carving contests being held in many parts of the country. Carving and painting have become increasingly intricate, so judging continues to grow more critical. These decoys are true collectors' items worthy of display in the finest offices and homes. And, like their antique counterparts, they represent the romance of man's outdoor world. Ω

A curlew, lesser yellowleg and plover by Everett Angle, Lincoln

Fewer Permits - More Bucks

WHEN A BUCK steps from his favorite shelter this fall, his chances for survival beyond the deer season will be greater than they were during hunting seasons the past three years. This is due to a reduction in the number of permit holders and a shift in direction toward higher quality deer hunting. The Nebraska Game and Parks Commission decided to cut the harvest of deer to increase the number of older bucks.

Big game biologists, although they realize there will be no significant increase this year, are looking ahead and predicting that careful management and strict enforcement of regulations will bring results —more big bucks in most management units.

Looking at it from the overall perspective, Game and Parks Commissioners cut this year's number of permits by 6,850 —down from 31,100 a year ago to 24,250 for 1972. They also decided to restrict permit availability. For the individual sportsman, that means he will be able to obtain two permits only if he is both a rifleman and an archer. Otherwise the hunter will have to be satisfied with one permit.

The amount of recreation provided by allowing two deer per hunter on two permits was not much greater than that provided by allowing only one deer. More hunters will have the opportunity of participating in the sport under the one-permit limitation and, consequently, there will be less decrease in total recreation provided.

Commissioners want to give many hunters the opportunity of pursuing their sport. But, at the same time, they want to shift emphasis from heavy utilization of the available bucks toward a lesser degree of utilization and more of a trophy aspect.

To bring about the desired effect, the total number of permits was decreased in 15 of Nebraska's 17 management units. Only the Nemaha and Blue units retained the same number of permits because they did not receive previous permit increases similar to most other units. It brings the total number of permits down to the level where they were for 1965 through 1968.

The two primary objectives which have guided Nebraska's deer management program have been, and still are, to provide as much recreation as the deer population will support and to maintain populations within the economic tolerance of landowners. A third objective added in 1972 is to take positive steps toward defined population goals in the interest of greater quality in the hunting experience.

With more hunters afield in recent years and no increase in deer numbers, competition has been stiff. As a result, the Commission received many complaints about lack of success. "Why were there so few big bucks?" some hunters ask. So, the Commission is trying to provide more large bucks in the future. The program will work if hunters will just bear with it for a year or two.

Other common but invalid complaints are that bucks are being overshot, resulting in does being bred too late or not at all. Statistics disprove this. From 1961 through 1972, Commission biologists examined 552 white-tail and 267 mule does —primarily highway kills —to determine productivity and embryonic development. Of these, about 43 percent were examined since the 1969 hunting season. Analyses show no significant difference in pregnancy during the later years, when more permits were issued, than in earlier years when there were fewer permits. This applies to both mule and whitetail adults and fawns. Similarly, there was no difference in the proportion of late breeding in later years versus earlier years. Although it may be possible to reduce the rate of breeding on a very local basis, harvest rates have had no significant effect on overall productivity.

The most detrimental result of more hunters being afield has been the increase in illegal killing of deer during the hunting seasons. In most areas, the legal harvest has placed greatest emphasis on adult bucks, but the killing of deer not meeting legal requirements has become a problem. (A legal buck must have at least one antler at least six inches long.) Out-of-season poaching has also been a factor in causing a drop in deer population in some units.

With stiff competition for legal bucks, some hunters take the attitude: "Shoot first and look later—it may be a buck and it may be the only chance for a shot I get." Other illegal kills are probably the result of frustration or a don't-give-a-darn attitude.

While wildlife management and providing recreation are the Commission's two major concerns, there are other factors to be considered, one of which the Commissioners are quite cognizant of-the quality of the hunting experience. Within this perspective must be considered the amount of private land open to hunting (with permission, of course) and the attempt to bring about a good balance between the total number of hunters in the field and the total amount of land open for hunting.

Goals, to be reached within three years, were adopted by the Commission. One of them is that bucks 216 years and older comprise at least 25 percent of the mule buck harvest and at least 20 percent of the whitetail buck harvest in each management unit in which the given species is of significance. The difference in standards for the two species arises from the much greater productivity of whitetails. The time lag was set because the number of older bucks in the 1972 population is dependent on the harvest of preceding years. Therefore, the proportion of older bucks in this year's harvest will be largely unaffected by this year's regulations. It is expected that these goals regarding age composition will be reached by next year.

In effect, reducing the number of permits was necessary in order to bring about desired changes in age composition of mule deer in seven management units —Buffalo, Calamus, Frenchman, Keya Paha, Loup West, Plains and Platte.

Primary reasons for permit reduction in other areas were to decrease the number of hunters, to improve access to private land, to decrease competition, and to lessen the problem of illegal killing. In some units, permit reductions will prove to be more than necessary, but in these areas changes in herd composition will occur more rapidly and some allowance could well be made for increased permits in later years.

Through reduced harvest this year, more large bucks will be available in the future. In 1971, bucks 216 years old or older comprised 20 percent of the mule buck harvest and 27 percent of the whitetail buck harvest. Statewide, the number of older mule bucks will be increased about 25 percent when the guidelines are reached. In three units, only 10 percent of the mule bucks taken in 1971 were 216 years of age or older. The greatest increase in older bucks will obviously be in these areas where the proportion is currently low. When age composition objectives are attained, the number of older bucks in these three units will more than double.

The course of action is set and time will tell the story. The Commissioners and biologists are confident, however, that their decisions will prove beneficial for the majority of people concerned on a long-range basis.

Spearing the Shallows

AMONG MANY advantages of living in a small town along the Platte River during summer is the proximity of cool water on a hot day. And, having a shallow river chock full of carp and catfish running by is a bonus not to be ignored.

For self-employed persons, of course, getting away for a few hours of fishing is easier than trying to explain the need for relaxation to a business-oriented boss. Being your own boss makes such arguments unnecessary.

Not having gone carp spearing in the river for several years, I mentioned this to a friend of mine in Lexington last July.

"Wouldn't this be great weather to go after carp in the Platte?" I asked him. "You can still find the rascals in there, can't you?"

Neil Holen, a friend of mine for a dozen years or so, didn't hesitate. "Sure. There are plenty of carp in the river, and you can spear them any time the water is low enough not to be roiled. Water is being diverted now for irrigation, but there are plenty of holes along the south side where we should be able to nail a few. Why don't we call a few of the guys here in town and take a look?"

Nothing could have sounded better, and without too much trouble, one of the most colorful and capable carp-spearing crews on record was armed and ready for the fray. Taking a few hours out that hot Tuesday afternoon were Dick Carr, a painting contractor; Gary Thomalla, a lounge owner; Ron Meyer, who runs a bait and tackle shop; Linn Johnson, a building construction sub-contractor; Harold Lantz, proprietor of a welding shop, and Neil, of course, who operates a tree service.

Ron Meyer had been down to the river just that morning and reported sighting a dozen or more catfish in one hole —but no carp. With this prospect in mind, Ron and I slipped our bows and fishing arrows into the back of his pickup while the others stowed blue-tined spears and efficient-looking pitchforks. Forks are often preferred because fish can be scooped up and easily disengaged after impaling while spears have barbs which make them tough to remove after running a fish through.

Of course, the fish have to be found first, and that can be a tricky matter. But, after piling into a couple of four-wheel-drive rigs and rolling to within a hundred yards of the river, action was not long in coming.

Converging on a pile of trees and branches which protected the hole, the spearing team made things happen fast. A few probes beneath the woodpile brought forth a bevy of dashing bodies and thus began the wildest time those fish ever saw. About 35 feet from the deep hole was another hiding place, this one more shallow but almost equally well protected. Some fish headed immediately for it, while others darted out and cut right back in. This offered only a few seconds of exposure, but it was often enough.

Things started out rather slowly, as one large carp whipped out from under the brush, eluded several thrusts, and then got spired by a pitchfork.

It was Harold Lantz who scored, depositing the big, yellow-bodied critter on the sand with a flourish. Several minutes later a second big carp, nearly a twin of the first, came to hand. Then, as the fishes' strategy became apparent, Dick Carr stood at one end of the logjam acting as lookout. From his position he peered into the pool beneath and was able to aggravate the fish inside.

I had fired at catfish three times, overshooting each time, and was now standing on the sandbar, winding up my string and watching the activities at the same time. Dick was poised at his lookout spot, Linn Johnson was floundering around in his hip waders, Gary Thomalla was probing under the stick stack with his eight or nine-foot spear and Harold Lantz poked in from the other side. Neil poked at each escaping carp with his spear.

As business increased, activity became more frantic. Feet and spears flew faster, and water became frothy and roiled. Between jabs with spears, an occasional "catfish" shout came through, and Ron and I would run one way or the other for a shot. After my first few misses, I brought in a catfish with a neat shot. The fish had gone from the shallow hole to a hiding spot under a log about midway between the two sanctuaries where he paused in the shadows. I aimed to miss the log and ended up hitting the cat right in the boiler room.

I shuffled through the water toward shore to remove the three-pound cat. While monkeying around with it, I watched Dick crouch to jab at a fish with his spear. Everything was quiet except for a faint crunching sound as the point went into the gravel.

"Missed him," Dick said quietly. Then, seeing another carp dart out from underneath, he yelled: "There goes one."

Word of running fish triggered immediate response from his spear-wielding cohorts. Within 15 minutes, quite a pile of carp and several catfish had formed on the beach. Linn had fallen down several times, filling his waders with water and saturating everything in his pockets.

The point had come off my arrow, but while I searched for it, Ron was able to keep shooting. He had missed his first few shots, too, but once he started connecting he really ran up the score.

It was hard to keep track of who was doing what, but Dick must have been the high scorer of the day. Harold and Gary were right in there too, but from where they stood they didn't have as much opportunity to operate. Dick, however, could both spook the fish and poke at them.

Everyone jabbed into logs and branches instead of fish at one time or another, and Gary had to take time out to pull my arrow from the tangle of branches several times. Eventually, action in the pool slackened. Then, a few brushy holes downriver drew our attention, so we split into two groups. Although these holes were smaller, they did hold fish. Probing the layers of brush was the only way of determining whether there was anything underneath, as the fish hung in tight and had to be nudged before exposing themselves. We found a big one —heavier than four pounds. He finally dashed out after considerable prompting from Harold's pitchfork, and then it was Harold who finally got him on the return trip.

With heavy storm clouds building and drawing ever closer overhead, we whistled at the other crew, converged on another pool several hundred yards away and started back to the first spot. Most of the fish were on stringers, although I don't know who found the time in the confusion to put them there. When the other spearers returned, they also had a large carp. Then opinions were given as to the total weight of carp harvested, all but three of which had come from one spot. How that big mass of fish could have been hiding in one pool seemed beyond belief, yet I had seen it and had enjoyed every minute of it.

Neil explained that the river was being diverted to the other channel, which would mean low water at least until the end of the irrigation season. The rapid drop in water level accounted for the fish being holed up in the best cover they could find. Shallows between holes discouraged the fish from moving far.

Estimates of the total heft of carp ranged around 50 pounds, but that was quickly adjusted upward to more than 85 when anyone tried to lift them. We figured they averaged at least four pounds each, and there were 22 of them. Added to the 11 catfish, which ranged between two and four pounds, it gave us more than 1 20 pounds taken in less than three hours.

One of the crew members summed it up pretty well by saying: "That sure is a lot more fish than we could have taken by hook and line in the same time."

It was indeed. Fish would have had to be super hungry to hit bait as fast as we could spear them, and the pursuit and sport of taking carp with spears is mighty hard to beat. There may not be much finesse involved, but carp wouldn't understand that anyway. In spearing, the rules are simple and the action fast —sort of like an impromptu football contest between a bunch of rowdy kids.

After loading the fish into the back of Ron's pickup, we started back to the county road, but got rained and hailed upon before going far. Hailstones the size of marbles pummeled the trees and ground around us and rain poured down, but only for a few minutes. Then a fantastically wide and bright rainbow formed in the east.

Our load of carp was destined for the smoker as two friends in Lexington process all they can get, and the catfish were spoken for by members of our crew. Linn, it seems, is a real carp booster. He says most people don't know what they are missing if they haven't tried deep-fat-fried carp.

"You bet," said Harold. "Carp are as good as any fish and better than some, especially if they come out of clean water like this."

I, too, had to agree that carp are far from being trash fish. I recall a dinner I attended once when people had the choice between fried chicken and deep-fat-fried carp —the carp disappeared first. But, disregarding their eating quality, they are great fish for spearing.

Population 190

WE LIVE ON the crossroads of progress and status quo, watching the world pass by, taking from it what we want and letting the rest go. We have adopted the comforts of modern life, true, yet we cling to the traditions of our fathers and theirs before them. In the backwaters of a hurrying, changing world, we find comfort and security in the things we know best. We live our lives and go our ways with the knowledge that things are pretty much as we want them to be here in our town.

We're typical in that everyone knows everyone else's business, though sometimes we wish we didn't. But when someone needs us, we're all right there to help. There are fewer of us now, but that will surely change, though down on the south end of Main Street Joe's feed store stands empty and right next door the lumber bins of Joyce's Lumber Company yawn deep and black. Across the street, the John Deere dealership has a bench out front, and occasionally we sit to contemplate the joys and woes of the world.

We work hard here and days are long, but we have our lighter moments, too. The Village Tap welcomes us all, young or old. When it rains, the roof leaks over the pool table in the back room, but a sheet of plastic keeps it dry enough. And, there's always time for some neighbor talk over a foamy brew or a bottle of orange pop. Charley —he's the barkeep —came to town a few years ago. He's lived around here most all his life and says he still likes the country better than town, but he's one of us now, so he stays on.

The Sprys josh about their cafe being the best one in town. Truth is, it's the only one. A family affair, too, except for Don who still runs the farm.

We have two grocery stores, both of them something more than we could find in the city because we know the owners and they know us. All in all, it makes for a homey atmosphere; one that we enjoy. Like the way we all get together to keep our town going. Ken Eggleston and Joe Prorok are on the village council and so are George Wackeria and Leo Rempe. Bill Miller is the chairman and we know they'll do a good job because they're our friends and neighbors. They meet around a well-worn table behind the fire truck in the hall, and they keep our town moving right along. We're mighty glad of that.

We've got a newer fire truck, but our pride and joy is the old one. A good number of us can remember when it was driven out from Omaha, all spanking clean and blazing red. It still runs pretty well, too.

Some of the things we have and do we take for granted. Some city folks, we're sure, would OCTOBER 1972 39   give a month's pay to sit on Main Street and swap gossip with one another. We do that whenever we feel like it, just about. And, they would probably have to get used to the quiet around here, but that's something good to get used to. The side of our town that we like best, though, is the people. Maybe that's why we get together as often as we can.

Take the Lions Club for instance. They meet down at Spry's the second Tuesday of every month. There are maybe 20 active members even though the inactive list is longer, but they get a lot done. We've got a square dance club, too. They have a lot of fun and members come from both town and country and we don't have any such thing as a generation or social gap here, not I'd call it one, anyway. Could be that's why our girls' Softball team is so good. They went to state this year, you know.

There's a lot we could tell you about our town, like how Ed Dailey walks to town from his farm several times a day just to pass the time, and how he knows the age of everyone around here. Or, we could talk about Clyde Hendricksen who works nights in his carpenter shop right near the library that Eleanor Rempe opens on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

Yes sir, we love our town. We call it Oconto, but it could be most any little town anywhere. We're not different, you see, than you or him or her. It's just that we've found our way of life; we know who we are. And we wouldn't be anyone else- not here in our town, anyway. Ω

Our Castle

EMORY TAKES me back 74 years to the world's greatest cattle country, the Sand Hills of Nebraska, to the lonely call of the coyote, to the sensation of riding my first bucking horse, to the odor of sizzling branding irons, and to the sight of range cattle with their rumps turned out against a driving blizzard. Yes, and back to the stool alongside the old stove where I sat and listened to wild tales of warring Indians told to me by my older brothers and sisters. Both warmth and comfort were there inside the old soddy as it stood against the onslaught of another northwester. More than a decade spent in the Sand Hills during those early pioneer days instilled in me both love and respect for kind neighbors, rolling hills, and the fertile meadows covered with waving grass. It filled me with gratitude for the old sod house. Let me tell you more about it.

The year was 1898. Our South Dakota farm had been sold. Two weeks later our team hauled a heavy, covered wagon, filled to overflowing with children of all ages, from the main freight road over a field of uncut grass to our homestead near what is Brownlee today. There by the side of a pond we made camp and raised our tent for the last time. We were home!

A few days later, we children stood wide-eyed as neighbors helped plow the tough sod four inches deep, a foot wide, and half a yard long. The sod pieces were then laid like brick, their length becoming the thickness of the walls. Frame rafters were raised, covered with wire to support willows cut from a nearby swamp, then a layer of sod with the grass side down, and finally clay from a local pit to keep the roof from leaking.

"To keep it from leaking" is really a misnomer, for when it rained hard, mother rushed around looking for pots and pans to catch the drips. After the soddy settled, its inside walls were trimmed smooth and plastered with native clay. I can still see the bubbling lime as it slacked in a trough, ready to become whitewash on the walls.

Our castle, as father often called it, faced south. There were three large rooms and an immense kitchen. With the exception of the parlor —a special room which smaller children were seldom allowed to occupy —all rooms including the kitchen had two double beds. At breakfast time, little ones came from every direction.

There was outside plumbing 30 yards up the hill behind the house. During those near-zero mornings, the frost-lined seats would turn little bottoms purple with cold, but cowboys, being a practical sort, took advantage of empty horse stalls in the barn.

Being very young, but sometimes quite resourceful, I decided one cold, bitter night after much procrastination, to use the corner behind the poorly lit parlor door. Oh boy! My older brother discovered me right in the middle of the act. He left, saying nothing, but returned momentarily with a slat from a broken nail keg. He spent the following few minutes making an everlasting impression on my south end.

During those early years when I was small, we had to double up and I slept at the foot of a bed occupied by two of my older sisters. My father and brothers did not use profanity, so I remember quite well the first time I used it. I was cuddled up in warm blankets, almost asleep, when our cat walked across my face. Without hesitation I let out with some pretty strong language. Rest assured it took a lot of explaining to convince my parents my choice of words were exactly those the hired man had used (Continued on page 64)

Pigtail duty

OPENING DAY of pheasant season is many things to many people. It's bacon and eggs long before sunrise, a chance to try out that new shotgun and time to see if the pup you've been training ali summer can earn his keep. It's an orange glow on the eastern horizon and frost on long brown rows of milo stubble. It's the heart-stopping whir of wings as the first bird rises.

For some of us in Cordova, opening day is all these things and more. It's also a day of reunion.

It started about nine years ago. I'm a farmer and an auctioneer, and at that time I was also doing some guiding for upland game along with my good friend Len Johnsen. We were contacted by a group of fellows from the South and agreed to guide them for pheasants on opening weekend. They were a great bunch of guys and the hunt went well. They returned opening weekend the next year and have been back every year since. During that time we have all become close friends, and despite the fact that Len and I have given up the guiding business, we're still ready to go when pheasant season rolls around.

The 1971 season was no exception. On hand for the hunt were Bill Farris, Frank Robbins and Earl Rogers, all from Arkansas; A. W. (Woody) Petrus, the lone representative from Louisiana; and Pete Carrico and Decatur (Deke) Holcombe, both from Texas.

The fellows all stayed with Woodrow Hansen and his family in Cordova, and were just finishing breakfast when I arrived an hour before sunrise.

I used my 1946 school bus for transportation. She's seen a lot of miles but still manages to haul the local Boy Scouts to their campsites each summer and hunters afield each fall.

"It's a little chilly this morning," Woodrow commented on the nine-degree weather as we loaded guns and gear into the bus.

"This isn't what we call chilly," Earl returned. "Down home we call this cold."

Two miles east of town I stopped the bus alongside a large field grown over with native grasses and weeds. I speculated the birds would still be in this roosting cover when shooting opened half an hour before surnise. Everyone present had hunted this area in previous years and knew how to approach it. A few bright stars still shone in the clear pre-dawn sky as our line of hunters moved into the field at 6:38 a.m.

Len's big black lab, Midnight, and my Vizsla, Trade, raced out ahead of us, casting back and forth and poking into every bit of likely looking cover.

"This looks good. They ought to be in here," Deke said, supporting my speculation.

A hundred yards into the field, Bill reported three or four pheasants flying out of the other end more than a quarter of a mile away.

"Looks like they haven't forgotten a thing since last year," Pete observed as we moved on.

Seconds later, a bird burst from the grass at Pete's feet, rocketing skyward. The Texan's 12-gauge Browning over-and-under slid smoothly to his shoulder and then lowered again as he identified a hen.

"That first one always ought to be a rooster," Pete said with a grin as the line moved on.

The plan was to make a large, circular sweep around the field, ending up back at the bus. Half an hour later, the circuit was completed without a shot having been fired. Two more hens had flushed within range but not a single rooster had been seen. Everyone had seen a lot of sign and Woody theorized that the cold weather might have moved the birds out to feed early.

"Let's try that milo stubble field half a mile south of here," Len suggested as we boarded the bus. Everyone agreed it would be a likely spot and that the field should probably be pigtailed. I don't know just when or how that term originated, but among our group, blockers have become known as pigtails. Hence, to block a field is to pigtail it. Len and Deke volunteered, and dropping the rest of us off at the north end of the field they drove the bus around and took up their posts at the opposite end.

The sun was inching its way into the eastern sky as we started into the milo. We were almost halfway through the stubble and approaching a field road that cut across the plot when a hen jumped. Then, down the line to my right, a big rooster cackled skyward. Earl's little 20-gauge barked once and the bird folded. Suddenly the sky was full of pheasants; 10 yards to my right a cock flushed. Two shots from my 12-gauge automatic and he was on his way back down. Off to the right more shots were fired as I retrieved the bird.

"How many did we get?" I asked.

"Only two down here and yours," Pete answered. "But we should have had a few more.

With the birds stashed in game pouches, the line reformed and moved on. Near the end of the field the dogs flushed three hens. Then a lone rooster got up out of range of the line. Gaining altitude, the cock was just crossing the corner of the field when Len's scattergun roared, bringing the bird down in a shower of feathers.

Back at the bus someone broke out a thermos and poured cups of steaming coffee.

"That field was full of birds," Earl said. "There must have been 12 or 15 in that first bunch."

"I don't know how anyone could miss anything that big," Woodrow shook his head.

"I missed one too," Pete admitted. "He must have flown right through a hole in my pattern."

Our next hunting areas were a series of weedy milo patches a few miles north. Despite the fact that the first field had already been worked by another group of hunters, a single rooster flushed midway through the field. Chased by two loads of No. 6 shot, the cock seemed to have made a successful escape when Woody dropped it with a well-placed shot (Continued on page 62)

Mallards meant money

ALIGHT SNOW had fallen during the night, and the pair of duck hunters were up early preparing for their day's activities. Leaving the warmth of the shack, the gunners made their way toward the rush-covered blind they had built on a sandbar in the middle of the Platte River. The chill of the autumn morning got the best of one of the partners, making him sick and forcing him to head back to the small cabin.

Now Carl Wennersten was alone, waiting for the first of the ducks to appear, and appear they did. During the morning and into the afternoon, Carl used his 12-gauge Model 97 Winchester and black-powder ammunition loaded in all-brass casings to good advantage. Each time his weapon emptied, he switched to the shotgun his buddy had left behind in the blind.

By late afternoon, his partner reappeared. "Better bring the boat," Carl called over.

"You can't have that many ducks," the other replied.

But Carl did have that many ducks. The boat was filled with greenheads. A count back at the shack revealed that Carl had killed —by himself in one day-153 mallards.

Yet Carl Wennersten had broken no laws. Seventy years ago there were no game laws. Carl, like many other hunters in his time, was merely pursuing the accepted trade of market hunting. Today, of course, the practice is illegal, and the phrase "market hunting" brings to mind all that was bad about the pursuit and taking of game in years gone by. To most, market hunting means the extinction of the passenger pigeon, the slaughter of the American bison and the great reduction of much of the nation's wildlife wealth. 48 NEBRASKAland In most cases, however, game no longer occurs in such vast numbers because of the loss of habitat. The waterfowl that remains today is but a vestige of the great flocks which once swarmed across the prairies. But no hunters-neither market hunters nor sport hunters-were responsible. Ducks, like all other creatures, need a place to live —habitat.

That day, when he took 153 mallards, Carl gave little thought to such notions. There were countless ducks. Besides, the delicious game birds meant money. Twenty-five ducks were tied together in a bunch, and each bunch was worth $6.25.

Carl Wennersten was 86 when he died last year. At his home in Shickley, he enjoyed reminiscing. Behind his glasses, his blue eyes sparkled when he recalled an enjoyable hunt which time had not erased from his memory. Along with the Model 97 which he treasured, his Belgian-Browning automatic (one of the first automatics in the United States) and his photo album were favorite possessions. The fading snapshots verified the stories. Strings of ducks and geese never seen today bore witness to the gunner's skills, as well as the profusion of game. But those days are probably gone forever, and oldsters like Carl were our link to the past, for he was one of the last of the market hunters.

Carl was born in Indiana, but was brought to Nebraska by his parents when just a baby. As a boy, the game meant pocket money for him.

He was still a lad when he got his first gun, a single-barreled muzzle-loader, from (Continued on page 63)

NOTES ON NEBRASKA FLORA... SMOOTH SUMAC

THE FLAMING, crimson brilliance of the smooth sumac gives fire without smoke to Nebraska's hills in October. The fall coloration of Rhus Glabra compensates for the plant's infamous relatives in an eye-catching way. A member of the Anacardiaceae family, which includes poison ivy, poison oak, and poison sumac, the smooth sumac is a woody plant found throughout the United States.

Cursed by Nebraska ranchers as a grass inhibitor, it grows on roadsides, deserted fields, pastures, rocky hillsides, stream borders, and along edges of woodlands.

This plant is a thinly branched shrub with a mushroom-shaped crown usually growing low over the ground. Its leaves are alternately based with each leaf growing one to three feet long. The individual leaf, which provides the fall coloring, consists of 11 to 31 toothed leaflets two to four inches long. Twigs are reddish, smooth and flat, giving the plant its name —smooth sumac.

The flowers, in bloom from June through August, grow in terminal, greenish-yellow clusters which stand like sentinels above the plant. Fruit ripens late in September or early in October with a dense, milo-type head containing many red, short-haired berries which stay on the stalk and fade in winter. Smooth sumac prefer to sink roots into moist spots with a light, leafy canopy above. Even though competition speeds growth, the plant dies if it is too heavily shaded by other trees.

The staghorn sumac, Rhus Typhina, often integrates with the smooth sumac in wild thickets. Staghorn, however, is more noted for its ornamental features and has larger, more velvety twigs.

Sumac propagates itself by two methods. New plants either sprout from underground runners, or grow from seeds allowed to soften in the soil for a few years. Once started, sumac lives up to its reputation as a pioneer plant and quickly establishes a colony. An interesting characteristic is its sneaky habit of staying low while extending its growth over hills. In low and protected spots, the plant reaches a height of 15 feet. But when it approaches hilltops, its growth is concentrated in deeply extended roots and the plant grows only one to three feet high.

Wildlife takes advantage of the sumac. Pheasants, prairie chickens, quail and turkey all eat the fruit. So do songbirds. During severe winters, availability of the fruit makes it a valuable food source. Cottontails eat the bark and fruit, and white-tailed deer eat the foliage.

Called "water-fruit bush" by Winnebago Indians or "sour top" by the Pawnee, the smooth sumac's leaves were gathered in fall and dried for smoking. Omaha and Winnebago also used the roots and stems to make yellow dye, while some tribes found the plant medicinally useful.

An interesting "lemonade" is mentioned by Euell Gibbons in Stalking The Wild Asparagus. After collecting the terminal clusters of fruit in the fall, preferably before a rain, the hard, red berries are put into a large pan and covered with water. Malic acid in the hairs of the berries is extracted by pounding to produce a tart flavor. The mixture is then poured through several cloths to strain out the hairs. A little sugar mellows the flavor to make a cool summer drink.

Many ranchers in Nebraska dislike the smooth sumac because it crowds out grasses. Its food value for wildlife, however, cannot be overlooked. Even more important is its brilliant color. In fall, it is one of Nebraska's most attractive plants. Ω

ONE MORE TIME

tall companion slid back into the car. "Well, almost always," he said.

Old Man Weather dealt us a pat hand; by mid-morning we were shedding our coats. It was, truly, a beautiful day.

Brad swung the car into a pasture and pulled it to a halt. "Now I'll show you how this game is played," he said, as he reached for his as yet unfired shotgun. Brad, too, was sporting a 12-gauge.

"There's a grouse in those trees," he said.

I climbed out to see how it's done.

Without warning, the grouse exploded from his dugout in the snow. He was leaving the area at a 45-degree angle from Brad. Varrooom! Brad's gun smoked, then barked again. The bird winged merrily away.

"Hmm. So that's how it's done," I nodded. That was a tough shot. Long too. He must have been way out there —20 yards at least."

Our next stop was at a huge hardwood shelterbelt surrounded by hills. At the far end was a wild plum thicket with wild rose mixed in.

"We'll find those darn birds yet," my commander whispered. "They love rose hips. I bet we'll find some birds feeding in here."

Another foray was on. We pushed quietly through the trees. A fat bunny skittered ahead. Being a gourmet of sorts, I pulled down on him, thinking he might make for a tasty meal, but then passed on the shot, not wanting to scare the grouse away. We soon came to the edge of the plum thickets. Whirrrrr. Keck-keck. Like cannonballs, the sharptails flushed out of range. I watched for another straggler. It was like a dream come true. A brown bomb exploded from thethicketdirectlyaheadofme. I shouldered my gun, drew a bead, and squeezed the trigger, but this time the grouse didn't fall. I pumped in another shell, took aim, and fired again, but the bird beat the odds and flew over the hill to join his friends.

"When did you last have your eyes examined?" Brad asked solicitously. "Maybe you should drop by the office later on."

I could only chuckle. Hunters have plenty of excuses ready when they miss a shot, but the only thing I could do was laugh and admit poor aim.

"Well, I know that can happen to anybody, but I never thought it would happen to you," he added. "Those little hay eaters sat down just over the next rise. Let's go! We'll give them another try. This time keep at least one eye open."

I winced, knowing I had no one to blame but myself.

The next hill was about 900 yards to the north. We separated and began the trek. Finally, we reached the foot of the hill. The warming sun was beginning to melt the snow and the grass was slick as we started up the slope.

A sentry eyeballed us from the top of the hill, fluttered up, then down and out of sight. We figured the birds must be sitting on the other side of the knoll.

Peeking over the hill, we saw about 20 grouse going in the opposite direction. Just as I picked out what looked to be the plumpest of the lot, I heard the doctor's gun roar and saw my grouse fold. I picked a new target and fired —too low. One shot was all the speedsters allowed.

"You shot a nice big hole in the sky there hunting partner," Brad said, retrieving his downed chicken. With a flourish, I held my watch close in front of my face. "I think it's 11:30. Do you think we have time to go back and fit me with some glasses for this afternoon's hunt?"

"Probably not, but we can go to Springview and have lunch," Brad laughed.

During the morning we had seen 70 or 80 grouse.

"Actually," Brad started, "hunting grouse is as great as any hunting I've ever had. With a limit of two, though, it's tricky. We should both have our two birds already," he emphasized. "But just think, if we hadn't missed those shots we'd be all through. As it is, we can go out again this afternoon — probably all afternoon unless we improve."

After lunch it really started warming up, and the previously snow-laden roads became mushy. We returned to some of the areas we had hunted earlier, but saw only a few grouse during the next few hours. Neither of us had fired a shot since noon. As we traveled, Brad filled me in on the agricultural aspects of the area, the history, the landowners, and whatnot. But for the most part, our conversation confined itself to grouse. We discussed their habits, diet, speed and sneakiness.

Brad had hunted grouse most of his life. "They never stop amazing me," he said. "The little fellows do as well as the grassland around here permits. I just hope we can keep this country open and free of plowing. "Come on. I know a place where there are lots of grouse."

His energy and love for the outdoors never waned. Glancing at my watch, I realized we had only two hours of hunting time left. I was tired.

About 20 minutes later we found a winding, unused trail.

"We will be the only hunters in this area," Brad offered.

"I believe it," I replied. We hadn't seen a road or farmhouse for at least a dozen miles.

Brad pulled the wagon to a halt just above a small creek bed lined with sumac and other cover. "They'll be in there about now," he said.

Minutes later, we walked through the slippery creek bottom. About 30 yards into the cover, Brad's prediction proved right. A baker's dozen of prairie chickens burst from the brambles ahead of us. I raised my gun and fired, filling my two-bird limit. Brad was in an unfortunate position and didn't get a decent shot.

"I know one more place," he said enthusiastically when he joined me. "Nice shot," he added, pointing to the plump chicken in my hand. We agreed it would make a delicious stew.

Back into the station wagon and off again, we moved only 20 yards when a whirring sound told us we were in trouble. I opened the door to find we were running-board deep in good old Sand Hills sand. I groaned.

"Never fear," Brad admonished, rocking the car backward and forward.

I climbed out and picked a place to sit and watch. It was 4:15. In 45 minutes it would be dark.

"Don't even ask," Brad hollered from the car. "It's about 15 miles to the nearest farmhouse."

"What about the other hunting place you know about," I teased.

But that "other spot" had slipped his mind for the time being. He was trying to get his trusty machine back into business. Finally, we went the jack-up-the-back and put-limbs-under-the-tires route. The sun was just setting as we loosed the rig from the sandy trap and headed back to Ainsworth.

Breaking a brief silence, I told Brad there were two things I was happy about. "First, I'm glad we didn't both get our limits, let alone get them easily, and second, I'm glad we had such a great time."

Brad chuckled, "Say, I know of one more place..." Ω

BOYS ARE LIKE THAT

boys and one tadpole doing the side stroke in a rusted can. Pressey State Special Use Area south of Broken Bow would be the legion's bivouac.

Take 1,500 acres of public land with a cool, shallow river running through it, line it with gnarled old cottonwoods grown just for climbing, sprinkle in a generous supply of wild creatures, turn loose four sticks of dynamite wearing sneakers and you'll learn what being a boy in the summer is all about.

David, charging down a hill under full steam, tripped on a gum wrapper and crashed into the river. Greg and Royce teamed up to skewer a pair of night crawlers on a hook made to hold one medium-sized gnat. And Eric, hampered a bit by the stitches in his knee, made a conservative probe into the brush for whatever it might hide.

Before long, Royce inherited the fishing pole and proceeded to help all the little catfish in the South Loup lay on winter fat; no small task considering David and Greg were cavorting like frisky young otters only a few feet away.

Though the kids didn't much care, Pressey has a rather interesting history. The late Henry E. Pressey was considered an eccentric in his day. Though a farmer by profession, he operated a private fish hatchery along the river, a sane money making pursuit back then. But he had the odd habit of releasing the fish into the river when they were nicely sized, rather than selling them. Strangely, too, he set aside some land to help wildlife make a go of things. Locals could have accepted that, if he had just wanted to pot a few birds and such for the kitchen now and again. But he had this quirk about liking to watch quail and deer. All in all, everyone thought him a bit strange.

When he died in 1943, Pressey left the state 1,500 acres of farm and river-bottom land with the agreement that "it be used for the development and maintenance of said real estate for public recreation and the propagation of fish and wildlife."

While the boys didn't know or really care about all this, it's a good bet that Henry E. Pressey would have been happy to see them cavorting about on his land.

It is hard for adults to remember just how many things there were to do when they were young; things that won't wait like trees to climb, grape vines to swing from, swimming holes to discover, marshmallows to roast, pollywogs to feed. Small things? Maybe. Depends on what size jeans you wear.

Roy assumed lifeguard and fishline-untangling duties while Jim baited setlines and strung them out. Jack formed hash browns into hand-sized patties, and turned them a rich gold in the skillet. The boys? Well the boys were just being boys. After all, there are better things to do than peel potatoes and untangle setlines when you are that age.

Steaks spat back at flames they created and at brown-backed boys that nosed too close. Wandering caverns of a bleached cow skull held the boys' interest momentarily, but by the time the beans were steaming and assorted eating gear had appeared, a large bag of marshmallows had been speared and passed through the flames.

When you send four boys to the river bank with a stack of dirty dishes and instructions to scrub them down with a little sand, you're never quite sure just what you are going to get —a stack of dishes on the bank and four boys swimming, or four instant gold panners. Hint that the sooner the job is done the sooner everyone will run the setlines, and more than likely you'll get an acceptable job. Jack may have had to do a little touching up here and there, like brushing off a bean or two, washing off a little sand or scraping away some dried moss, but minor things like that are nothing to quibble over.

The first run of the lines was disappointing, fishwise that is. Four or five little catfish, hardly larger than the chubs that had occupied the hook before, is not a big haul; not unless you're eight years old and have to wade to check the lines. Boys seem to have an affinity for work like that.

Four boys on a camping trip is an experience. Three boys in one sleeping bag is a comedy. Eric, finally feeling the pain of the afternoon's run-in with broken glass and probing needles, crawled into his bedroll and was soon oblivious to the uproar around him. The other three were applying no restraints. The last of the marshmallows disappeared. (Continued on page 57)

where to go... Rock Creek Circle tour

MORE THAN a hundred years ago, deep wounds were gouged into the earth west of the Missouri River as thousands of wagons carried hardy and adventuresome pioneers over the Oregon Trail to seek fortunes and to settle a new land. Today, those scars remain as reminders of our heritage and the hardships our pioneer forefathers endured. Visitors to Jefferson County who follow the Rock Creek Station Historical Tour can stand in the ruts of this magnificent "highway" of the past and visualize perhaps only a bit of the history that went into the winning of the West.

Of all the stories associated with the Oregon Trail era, probably none other equals the tale of Wild Bill Hickok. Opinion is polarized over the incident and variations of the story abound, but one fact remains: James Butler Hickok did shoot from ambush and kill David Colbert McCanles at Rock Creek Station in Jefferson County, Nebraska, July 12, 1861. Rock Creek Station lies some six miles southeast of Fairbury (see No. 2), and although the land has been acquired by the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission, the area has not been developed. Consequently, it takes a hardy person to walk the quarter mile to view the ruts. Looking southeast across Rock Creek, you can see East Rock Creek Station where the killing took place. A toll bridge across the creek was operated by D. C. Jenkins from 1865 to 1867, dividing the east from the west station. A replica of the post office has been constructed at the west station site, and signs have been erected to direct you to the ruts. You may leave your car at the abandoned farmstead.

After leaving Rock Creek Station, a scenic drive leads to another interesting area now being restored. If weather permits, and there hasn't been a recent heavy rain, go east to the first county road, then south until you come to a winding road which twists and turns through scenic hills, wildflowers and cattle country. In case of rain, it would be better to go 1/2 miles east of the Rock Creek Station entrance and then 2 1/2 miles south. This will bring you to the last half of the scenic drive, and you will still be able to see beautiful vistas of virgin prairie spread out on either side. Either route will bring you to blacktopped Nebraska Highway 8, just one mile from historic Steele City (see No. 4). Here, three old buildings are being restored. One, the brick bank building, is finished and serves as a banking museum. It is constructed OCTOBER 1972 55   of bricks kilned at Steele City. During the early 20th Century, Hugh Elton Clapp operated the bank. He, his wife and daughter lived in the rear of the bank and in the basement. A stairway on the south side of the bank, which was torn away in recent years, provided access to the kitchen in the basement.

The stone blacksmith shop in Steele City was built in 1900 by a Mr. Peters. The blacksmith lived alone in quarters above the shop which is being restored. A new, safe stairway has been constructed in the shop but the old and narrow, steep stairs, showing the indentations of many trips up and down, have been kept in their original condition.

A stone livery stable built in 1902 stands south of the bank museum. It is hoped that it can also be restored to its original character. Living quarters were also above this place of business and, without benefit of tight flooring and air conditioning, one can well imagine the odors drifting upward on hot summer days and nights. Since blacksmith shops and livery stables are extinct for their intended purposes, Jefferson County is fortunate to have these buildings to educate younger generations about their historical past. A bonus is a visit to Steele City the third Sunday of each September when the Flea Market is in progress.

Fairbury lies northwest. About halfway to Fairbury lies Endicott, a small but active town where each fall, the first Saturday in October, residents celebrate the Lord's Acre Festival. This is a worthwhile event featuring a parade in the morning, a meal at the church at noon and a big auction sale in the afternoon. The House of Vaughn, a privately owned place of antiquity and museum items, is open to the public.

What is there to see in Fairbury? Fairbury has three beautiful parks with a swimming pool in the city park, plus many other facilities. Crystal Springs Park, located 1 1/2 miles southwest of town, is an excellent free camping park in a beautiful setting and is the home of the annual Crystal Springs Camp-In the last full weekend each July. McNish Park in the northeast part of town also boasts beauty augmented with adequate facilities. A fine museum is located on the west side of the town square. It is open Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays from 1 to 5 p.m.

Gracing the center of the square is the stately 1891 courthouse. During daytime hours, except Saturdays and Sundays, you may visit the various offices of thecourthouse and walk through the marble-floored halls. Some of the offices boast old ceramic tile-fronted fireplaces and two even have marble-topped washstands. The district courtroom holds interesting antique furniture and railings. Stone cutters from England, who settled here, were the major builders of the courthouse and cut the stones by hand. The antique clock in the tower was installed in 1910. The hands were made of wood and the clock had to be wound once a week. In recent years, it was equipped with metal hands and electrified. Kind words to the janitor might even result in a climb up the main stairs and ladders past the big bell and up to the clock's balcony.

Upon inquiry, you may find maps, post cards and booklets showing other historical and scenic places to visit while in Jefferson County. Ω

Limited Offer ^l09 Enjoy the latest issue of HUNTING DOG | Magazine. (The monthly authority on all Sporting Dog Breeds) ...Plus this colorful American Heritage "Quail Hunting" SHOULDER PATCH Sold Nationally for $1.29 each A TOTAL $1.79 VALUE YOURS FOR ONLY $1.00 Order by Mail Today! Name, Address. City/State Zip Code. HUNTING DOG Box 33 N , Dept. 81 Greenfield, Ohio 45123

BOYS ARE LIKE THAT

and each of the sun-browned saplings retreated to respective bedrolls—momentarily. Before the bags had a chance to recover from the intrusion, Greg decided to sleep with Royce and shortly thereafter, David crawled in, too. Boyish giggles and all the calm of a feature tag-team wrestling match ensued.

The night was warm and windless. Too warm to retreat into the depths of the sleeping bag and too windless to ward off the mosquitos that plagued you if you didn't.

The boys faired the night best, or so it seemed, since they were up and about before the sun even thought about it. By the time they and Jim returned from the river with the morning's catch, Jack had the bacon browning and eggs ready to make their forced landing on the skillet. When it came time to be thinking about toast, a search for the loaf of bread left on the cooking gear the night before turned up nothing. Raccoons had probably raided the camp during the night. Jim had awakened during the night and spooked another visitor —a deer — from the center of the camping area. Young eyes widened at the thought of the night-time visitors.

While wildlife had visited the camp, catfish had called on the setlines. A five pounder and several in the two-pound class adorned the fish basket. Prouder and more excited boys would have been difficult to find. Fggs were a bit cool and the bacon brittle by the time they settled down enough to refuel.

Cleanup duties and policing the area dampened the morning's activities a bit, though even those disagreeable chores became a game as youthful enthusiasm bent to the purpose. This campout was over, but there would be more during the summer. Jack aptly tied together all the loose thoughts about boys, dads and the outdoors.

"I don't have a lot of money. Enough to get by on and that's about it. But when I go hunting, fishing or camping, my boys go with me. You can't put a price on that."

FORT HARTSUFF

close enough that the brave dropped his booty before hightailing it off to overtake the rest of the band.

If the air had been frigid before, it was absolutely frosty when Chase got to the house. The heavy cedar door yawned open, and little remained where it had been before. Food, clothing, blankets, tobacco and anything else of value was gone. All Steve Chase could do about his misfortune was stand in the doorway and hurl epithets at the fleeing intruders. Late that night, the rest of the trappers straggled in to report a band of Indians who had stolen a cow and were feasting on it three miles up the valley at Pebble Creek. The whole affair exuded guarded humor until they learned that part of the feast had belonged to them. Then battle plans were laid.

Buckskin Charley assumed command of 15 men —all that the neighborhood could spare. Plans called for Charley's "troops" to confront the Indians with an ultimatum: either they return the stolen goods and pay damages, or be prepared to fight. Since there were considerably more Indians than whites, little doubt existed as to the reply. Still, White intended to try his strategy, and on January 19, 1874, he deployed his men just outside the Indian camp and called for a talk with the Sioux leader. Buckskin knew a little of the language and managed to get his message across, but the Indians were in no mood to compromise. The chief drew a rifle cartridge from his belt, called the rest of his band together, took one last look at Charley, and let out with the traditional battle cry. White hustled back to his men who were huddled under the bank of the North Loup River returning Indian fire, but when he arrived they were having trouble. It was cold -too cold for a good fight, and shell casings kept sticking in the weapons. Steve Chase, scurrying from one spot to another, pulled the trigger of his rifle, and when the casing wedged in the breech, he simply sat down right out in the open. While hostile and friendly bullets whizzed past, Chase pulled out his pocket knife and proceeded to repair his rifle. Gunsmithing completed, he jumped up and galloped off, looking for a place to hide.

At that point, no one was sure if anyone on either side had been hit. The whites were almost wholly protected by the river bank, and the Indians were crouched behind an enbankment a few yards away. But the hostiles decided to change all that when they split up, half of them trying to flank the enemy. Noting their move, Marion Littlefield popped up to get a better target, and picked up a bullet for his trouble.

"My God," he screamed. "I'm shot!" He keeled over dead on the river bank. The shot that killed Littlefield mav have been one of the last of the fight, because the Indians pulled out shortly thereafter. Littlefield's body was carted home, and several whites returned to the scene of the battle to pick up an hours-old trail. But the tracking was soon abandoned since the quarry had too big a head start. So ended the Pebble Creek fight. It was over, but it was far from forgotten.

Up until 1871, settlers were few and far between in the North Loup River Valley. Despite statehood four years earlier and a growing population elsewhere, the area was still considered to be a hotbed of Indian unrest which made homesteading uncomfortable. Little or no military protection existed north of the Platte River Valley, a situation those who did settle there frequently pointed out to the government. Incidents like the fight at Pebble Creek and an earlier one at Sioux Creek continued, and the residents of what are now Garfield and 58 NEBRASKAland Valley counties bombarded Washington with cries for help. For their efforts, though, they were frequently reminded that Indian troubles were on their way out, and there was really no need for a fort in that region. By 1874, however, the government had second thoughts, and the death of Marion Littlefield may have given military presence added impetus. At any rate, that same year, $50,000 was appropriated to establish what was to become Fort Hartsuff, a reservation that may have been much more ornamental than functional. Fort Hartsuff just never seemed to take itself seriously, even though it was built to afford protection from warring hostiles for the area's settlers.

Perhaps second guessing the War Department, the Department of the Interior and President Grant, General E.O.C. Ord directed Captain Samuel Munson to head up the North Loup and find a suitable location for a fort even before the appropriation was ever made. Munson was told not to do anything rash, however, and to wait for Ord to join him before making any reports. That he did, and when the general arrived, the combined commands continued on up the valley where the general was smitten by an area called The Forks four miles northwest of what is now Burwell. Lying between the Calumus and the North Loup rivers, The Forks offered plenty of timber, water and grazing grounds for a post. So, General Ord dashed off his recommendation to Washington. At the same time, the expedition's engineer, Captain W. S. Stanton, filed his report in Omaha, pointing out an area nine miles east and farther down the river as the best site. Ord's recommendation swept through the War Department and the Department of the Interior with almost immediate approval. President Grant, however, never saw the report on The Forks, and on September 16, 1874, passed on Captain Stanton's choice. Thus Fort Hartsuff was born —at least on paper.

Captain Munson was placed in command during construction but actual building fell under the direction of the army quartermaster. And what a job he had. During 1873 and the summer of 1874, locusts blanketed the countryside, gnawing it bare. Hot winds baked the land and prairie fires incinerated what the insects left. Then the rains came, eroding vast stretches of naked land. Consequently, there was little work, less food, and no money for the area residents, and the military project became something of a 19th Century WPA. Every able-bodied man was put to work cutting and hauling timbers from Cedar, Oak and Jones canyons. Gravel and sand were imported from Gravel Creek. Lime rock and a poor-quality lime were trucked from Dr. Beebe's homestead 35 miles below the post. And, when the time came, finishing lumber and cement had to be hauled in from Grand Island some 80 miles south. All in all, it was a massive endeavor, and when it reached actual operation it seemingly turned out to be an unnecessary one from the military standpoint. But it gave the settlers of the area a sense of security; it gave them jobs, too, and in 1874, both were vital to the survival of the white population of the North Loup River Valley.

Simply called "The Post on the Loup" until officially named Fort Hartsuff December 9, 1874, the installation hardly resembled the popular conception of a fort. Buildings were situated around a rectangular parade ground, forming with their walls a sort of barricade for defense. Construction was of grout, a mixture of sand, lime, cement and coarse gravel, and walls ranged from one foot to 18 inches thick set around frameworks of native timber. There never was a stockade around the installation, and it was small by modern military standards. By December 1874, seven buildings sprouted on a reservation made up of only seven or eight acres. Two houses, one the post headquarters, the other the commander's quarters augmented a hospital, commissary depot, guard house, quartermaster's office and a barracks building. Sergeants whose wives joined them during their tours of duty made their homes along laundress row where the ladies took care of post washing and ironing. Just beyond the rectangular parade ground stood the stables. Much as any frontier outpost would have been considered drab, Fort Hartsuff was no beauty. It was, however, considered by many to be the cleanest, most orderly of the army's outposts. It should have been; it cost enough to build.

Originally, $50,000 was set aside for the project. Then, the appropriation was increased to $75,000, and after a fire ripped through some of the new buildings in 1875, Congress kicked the total cost up to $110,000. By period standards, that was a heap of cash to spend on a fort, especially considering most such endeavors drew from existing manpower and native materials. But Fort Hartsuff was different, and that was evident almost from the first.

Completion of the first buildings in December 1874 called for a celebration and the doors of the post were thrown open to everyone. Judging from later accounts, that bash set the stage for the remainder of Fort Hartsuff's existence. Dress uniforms and ceremonial sabers were almost daily dress according to many stories, and discipline ranged far below that of most other Indian War outposts. At least once, civilians in the area complained of the high level of partying the troopers enjoyed. Scouting patrols and maneuvers augmented standard duties and building projects, but the men stationed at Fort Hartsuff had plenty of free time on their hands and they used it well.

A few disturbances did take the officers and men from their revelries, but they were few and far between. Nevertheless, some precautions were taken against attack, even though one never really came. A stockade was built atop a knoll just east of the cantonment area. Constructed of heavy cottonwood logs around the waterworks, the enclosure was 40 feet in diameter with gun ports for protection. A deep trench ran from the barracks (some say its entrance was conveniently located behind the commanding officer's house) to the stockade for safe entry and exit in case of surprise attack. It wasn't a bad defense position, but it was never used (Continued on page 62)

Roundup and What to do

OCTOBER is a month of harvest and last-minute preparation for the coming winter. It is a month of hard work when storage bins and larders are filled to the brim. But, if you think it's a month of all work and no play, you're wrong. There are activities galore to suit the recreation needs of young and old alike.

Miss Linda Aldrich of Lincoln, NEBRASKAland's October hostess, is aware of the fun to be found throughout the state as she nestles in a bed of pumpkins which will grin at the end of the month from the windows of homes where children live.

Daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Ray E. Aldrich of McCook, Linda is a senior at the University of Nebraska in Lincoln, majoring in English and theater arts. After graduation in December, she plans to embark on a public relations career. She is a member of Kappa Kappa Gamma and was crowned Miss University of Nebraska for 1971. She was first runner-up in the 1970 and 1971 Miss Nebraska contests and was named Miss Arapahoe for 1970. Linda is commander of Angel Flight, an organization affiliated with Air Force ROTC, and lists horseback riding, water-skiing, sewing and working with children as her hobbies.

Speaking of children, they are busily carving faces into pumpkins, preparing for Halloween October 31. The jack-o'-lantern, surprisingly, has little historic significance except that it takes its name from a night watchman guarding against mischief, but the celebration itself dates to the Celtic and AngloSaxon era when it was a fire festival marking the return of cattle from summer pasture and the coming of winter.

October is a good hunting month for big game and fowl. The archery antelope season opens October 2 and continues until the last day of the month. The archery season for deer, too, is open throughout the month, having begun September 16 and continuing until November 10. Turkey season opens October 28. For a detailed list of fowl-hunting seasons and a resume of regulations, see page 13.

Waterfowl hunting hours are from half an hour before sunrise to half an hour after sunset each legal hunting day. The limit for wood ducks is two in the bag and four in possession. The limit on hen mallards is also two in the bag and four in possession. Point systems remain the same this year as they were last year with the exception of the black duck which is worth 20 instead of 90 points. The season on canvasbacks is closed nationwide and on redhead ducks in all areas except the Pacific Flyway. Federal guidelines the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission used for setting seasons this year are much the same as last year.

The football schedule continues with two home games, the first October 14 against Missouri and the second October 28 against Oklahoma State.

Beginning the last day in September, the Stratman Steam and Gas Engine Show at Wilcox continues through October 1. Displays include antiques, threshing machines, corn shellers and many other collectors' items. For further information, contact Don Studnicka in Wilcox.

Turning to indoor entertainment, the Omaha Symphony Orchestra performs twice, featuring soprano Eileen Farrell October 3 and flutist David Van de Bogart, a member of the symphony, October 31. Both concerts take place in the Omaha Civic Auditorium at 8 p.m.

In the world of theater, the Omaha Playhouse stages 7776 October 1 through 8. The Lincoln Community Playhouse features You Know I Can't Hear You When The Water's Running during the first portion of the month (see Iist of dates) and Hansel and Crete!, a puppet show, October 27 through 29.

Larry Faught of Billings, Montana is guest caller at the annual Prairie Schooners Square Dance Festival in Sidney September 30. October 1 he emcees a program including callers from all parts of the country. It's a jamboree complete with froth and fun for the whole family.

Joslyn Art Museum's two special exhibits continue through October 22 featuring the works of Alexander Calder and prints by American sculptors.

Motorcycle racing draws to a close with several events scheduled during the month and the season championship race to take place October 22. The site of the championship has yet to be selected.

Anyone wishing to join any of these activities must, without doubt, plan his or her participation around fall work schedules. But, as the saying goes, all work and no play makes Harry a dull boy, so leave the ho-hum activities behind and live a little.

FORT HARTSUFF

to any great extent since the hostilities Fort Hartsuff knew took place well away from the post. At least one instance of that ilk remains outstanding in official records of Nebraska's honored military men.

On April 28, 1876, Second Lieutenant Charles H. Hoyle took on half a dozen Indians who were entrenched near the fort. With three other men, he charged the position, overwhelmed the defenders, and walked away with the Congressional Medal of Honor.

That same day, Jeptha L. Lytton, a corporal in Company A, 23rd U.S. Infantry, was cited for "gallantry during a charge on hostile Sioux near Fort Hartsuff, Nebraska." Whether he was with Lieutenant Hoyle or not isn't recorded, but if he wasn't, it was a busy day at the fort and two medals of honor were given out.

Fort Hartsuff had its high old times, of course, but even at the time it was built, the War Department must have known that it couldn't last. By 1881, the need for the post had dwindled, and its abandonment, considered for some time and hastened by the establishment of Fort Niobrara in October 1880, was ordered. Enough settlers had moved into the region to provide a strong local government and Indian troubles in the area had abated. Fort Hartsuff had served its purpose. So, Captain Munson and his men gathered up what they could carry and marched out of the post forever.

As soon as the Department of the Interior could, it sold the fort lock, stock and stockade to the Union Pacific Railroad, which paid it little attention. Consequently, much of the lumber in the fortification atop the knoll ended up as beams in local houses. But the rest of the facility stayed much as it was because of sturdy construction. In a few years, the U.P. sold its interests to locals, and the commanding officer's house became a corn storage bin while families set up housekeeping in the barracks, and most of the land was turned over to crops. Then, during the early 1950s, Ben Rose of Burwell and Dr. Glen Auble of Ord bought the entire section on which Fort Hartsuff was built. In 1960, Dr. Auble bought out his partner and that same year offered the post to the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission. The price was right, and officials jumped at the chance to include the old fort in the State Historical Park system.

That park is now under development and many of the preliminary steps have been taken for its restoration. Before long, Fort Hartsuff may once again echo to the trill of laughter and the shuffle of visiting throngs. But, protection of the area's residents won't be the post's prime objective this time; recreating history for a public whose interest in the past grows with the years will. Ω

THE WEST AT ITS BEST

PIGTAIL DUTY

from the pigtail line. We were about to move on to more milo when someone suggested we swing through a deserted farmstead nearby. The sun was climbing, burning the frost from the landscape. After the frigid morning, warmth was welcome as we passed through the shelterbelt and into the knee-high grass surrounding the weathered old farmhouse and barn. A hundred yards of walking produced nothing. Then, near the end of the farmlot, a hen jumped, followed by a cackling rooster. Deke needed two shots from his 1 2-gauge Krieghoff to bring him down. The shots brought up two more roosters and a hen. Someone snapped off a quick shot hauling down one cock as the other two glided across the road.

More milo and picked cornfields produced more shooting, and by 11 o'clock the bag tally stood at 14. It appeared the birds were beginning to drift back into heavy brush and grass, so we decided to return to the field which had been unproductive the first time through.

Earlier I had thought I heard some strange noises coming from under the hood of my bus. Now they were unmistakable.

"I think I smell something burning," Deke reported, as I pulled to a stop.

Everyone had a look, but Bill turned out 62 NEBRASKAland to be the part-time mechanic. After a quick examination, he announced that the generator had stuck and the fan belt was burning up. A few well-placed taps with the tire iron and several squirts of oil put the bus back in business.

We decided to take the same swing through the grassland that we had tried earlier. We hadn't walked 10 yards into the field when a rooster erupted behind Pete. Swinging around, he nailed the bird in one smooth motion.

"Good shot!" Len called as Pete plucked a tail feather from the bird and added it to the one already in his hatband.

"That makes two for me and one to go," Pete announced.

The field held birds, but after only a few hours of hunting they were spooky, running and flushing wild. The swing was nearly completed when Earl scratched down a rooster more than 40 yards away. The crippled bird hit the ground running with Earl right behind him. A quick sprint, and the bird was added to the bag.

Woodrow's suggestion that we head for lunch drew unanimous approval.

"Don't you fellows work too hard this morning," Mrs. Hansen had warned at the breakfast table, "because we're just going to have a light lunch."

A light lunch indeed! Roast turkey and dressing, pork chops and sauerkraut, mashed potatoes and yams, vegetables and salads, and homemade bread. Conversation ended the minute the food was served.

The last piece of pumpkin pie was gone when Woody pushed his chair back.

"I think I'd keep coming back to Nebraska even if they closed the pheasant season," he grinned. "I don't know of any other place where you can find so many nice people and such delicious food."

The statement met with hearty agreement around the table. After more compliments for the cook, the group retired to the recreation room. Everyone dropped into an easy chair for an hour of rest.

It was after 2 p.m. when we loaded back up for the afternoon hunt. A couple of passes through milo and brome produced nothing, so we moved to some standing corn. Unpicked corn makes for tough shooting and tougher walking, but the birds are usually there. That field was no exception.

Bill proved his ability by dropping two cocks with consecutive shots from his over-and-under 20-gauge. More corn held more birds, but the going was rough. Frank, though, nailed a cock on a difficult cross shot from the pigtail line. The bird seemed to fall dead, but then disappeared in a tangle of tall weeds. Everyone joined in the search but it was Midnight who finally burrowed into a tunnel of downed cornstalks and weeds and came up with the rooster.

Our last field of the day was a long and narrow picked cornfield alongside a meandering creek bed. Although the patch was void of pheasants, a small covey of quail flushed wild from the brush at the edge of the stream.

"Let's swing through that grass on the way back to the bus," Pete suggested, "then we'll call it a day."

The swing netted nothing but exercise for everyone except Frank. A lone quail exploded from the grass at his feet, and with a smooth swing he dropped the bird 20 yards out.

Back at the bus, everyone dropped contentedly into their seats.

"I'm like Woody," Bill said. "I'd keep coming back even if they closed the pheasant season, but I hope they never do." Ω

MALLARDS MEANT MONEY

his mother. It began a hunting career which continued to his last days. Through buying and selling and trading, he eventually wound up with the 97 Winchester he cherished. The reliable gun accompanied him on many hunting excursions. Shickley and the surrounding towns are in the Rainwater Basin in south-central Nebraska. Growing up in prime waterfowl country, it was only natural that Carl learned to love duck and goose hunting.

Carl recalled one day when he and his brother were shucking corn. As they headed OCTOBER 1972 63   to the house for lunch, the boys saw and heard row after row of mallards coming toward their pond. Carl's brother volunteered to unload the corn if Carl would go out and shoot a "mess" of ducks. Needing only the suggestion, Carl put on a pair of overalls and his boots, grabbed his shotgun, and headed for the pond.

The mallards sailed in and lit on the rush-surrounded pond. Working his way cautiously to the edge of the rushes, Carl beheld a sight to quicken the pulse of any hunter. Thousands of mallards were resting on the open water. With two shots he had all he wanted.

The first shot he unloaded on the water. When the birds raised up, he shot once more. Carl still remembered the sight. "I shot a round hole right in that flock," he recalled.

Having nothing with which to carry the ducks, Carl took off his overalls, tied knots in the legs, put the mallards in them, threw the load over his shoulder, and headed for home.

In 1904, Carl established his hardware store in Shickley. When he wasn't hunting or fishing, Carl's business and other hobbies kept him close to the activities he loved. At his store, he sold guns and ammunition. He was an avid trap and skeet shooter, and was once the state skeet champion.

But Carl's first love was hunting. His memories were filled with story after story of successful hunts, the kinds of experiences which others have found only in their dreams.

Even though Carl spent many hours of his life with a gun in his hands, he was not an indiscriminate killer of wildlife. Nothing was ever wasted, and while he practiced market hunting, much of the game which he took was given away as food. It wouldn't even be inaccurate to classify Carl Wennersten as a conservationist.

For like most hunters, Carl had more than just a passing interest in the status of the country's wildlife. Hunters have always been in the forefront of game management and improvement programs, and Carl was no exception. When pheasants were first being stocked in the state, Carl, on his own time, went to a nearby town and picked up several hundred pairs of the birds, for which he built pens and later released in the area. For two years, Carl raised pheasants for the state. Given 1,000 young birds the first year, he lost only 8 before they were ready to be released.

Carl dug ponds which were stocked with fish and provided resting spots for migrating waterfowl. He planted trees and shrubs, another long-time interest. He marveled at the increase of Nebraska's deer herd, for he remembered the days when there were but a few in the whole state.

Carl Wennersten was one of the last of market hunters. It is unlikely that this practice will ever be allowed again. In the years that passed since Carl first began hunting, things have changed. There is little chance that the continent could ever again support the number of ducks and geese which Carl so readily remembered. But with the determination of hunters like Carl, there will always be ducks and geese enough for everyone to enjoy. Ω

OUR CASTLE

that very day to yell at a stubborn cow that wouldn't get out of the barn.

A sod schoolhouse was built early in the century. Men came to help from throughout the district. Father, a carpenter, built the roof of double, 12-inch boards. What an improvement over those willows, clay, and sod!

Many children walked several miles to school, although most of us drove or rode horses and tied them, out of the cold wind, behind haystacks. During those years, the teacher always boarded at our house. Mother and father and part of the gang slept in the kitchen and the hired man occupied the boys' bedroom, so the teacher had to share a room with my sisters.

All those early-day teachers (except one from an Eastern city) remained family friends through the years. Just a short while ago I wrote to the only one still living —K. Leola (nee West) Morris of Woodlake, Nebraska. A few days later my phone rang. What a lovely surprise! Mrs. Morris was calling. More than an hour later we regretfully said goodbye, refreshed with memories of long ago.

Miss West always arrived at the schoolhouse early to make a fire and sweep the room. Ink never froze in the inkwells, for sod school houses were warm. There was a backless bench in front of her desk and we would sit on it when called upon to recite. All eight grades were taught in the oneroom school.

Many years after leaving the Sand Hills, I returned to visit our old home place. Usually, after years of vacancy, the place where a sod house originally stood can be located by a mound where the walls have collapsed and have been overgrown with grass. But on our old site, all evidence of a mound had blown away and only the heater that had warmed our little bodies during those early-day blizzards lay on the ground.

At first I felt sad as I sat on the overturned stove. But later, while my sister and niece explored the cottonwood trees that had grown to great heights, I seemed to hear our old home talking to me of bygone days; of happy evenings and parties when friends and neighbors gathered from miles around to sing as my sister played the organ; of delicious mashed potatoes and brown gravy; of tasty fried ham that had been preserved in a barrel of oats; of laughter and love. It told me of some who had journeyed afar to seek fame and fortune, and of other neighbors who had long since passed away.

Yes, the memories of helpful neighbors, clouds of wild ducks, the smell of newly mown hay, the springtime song of the meadowlark, and the warmth and comfort of the old soddy are precious to me. They are treasures to keep and always enjoy. May the great Sand Hills continue to furnish new and delightful memories for generations to come. Ω

NEBRASKAland TRADING POST

OUTDOOR NEBRASKAland of the Air

Outdoor Elsewhere

Got A Cigarette? Charlie was a cigarette-bumming deer who, tame as he was, often visited a store in a Texas park. In addition to the cigarettes he mooched from customers, he also kept the area clean of butts. The store owner's friends, however, often said that if a hunter didn't get Charlie, the cigarettes would. Sure enough, the deer was killed, but not by a hunter or the smokes. A car struck him one evening on the highway. Some people still insist, though, that tobacco still killed Charlie. You see, he was on his way back to the store to mooch another cigarette. — Texas

Keep Your Distance. Photographers have a million and one tricks up their sleeves when it comes to capturing nature's little creatures on film. One veteran developed a unique method of photographing ducks up close. He built a fake muskrat house in which he hid to shoot waterfowl. The idea was great and he got some good close-ups. Everything went well until another outdoorsman pointed out that muskrat houses are favorite targets for boys with .22-caliber rifles. The photographer immediately resumed photographing ducks with telephoto lenses.-South Dakota

Man Or Mouse? Herbert Mouse couldn't make it with the girls, but he finally figured out they just didn't like his name. Now he is a person who can honestly say he is a man, not a mouse, because he changed his name to Herbert Man. — New York