Speak up

Sir / The May magazine gave an invaluable boost to the U.S. Highway 20 Association. Although the emphasis of this issue was on the Sand Hills, I'm sure readers must have been impressed by the tremendous variety of terrain through which this northern route passes, including lakes and woods, gently rolling farmland and lush hay fields before entering "Cowboy Country."

There is so much to see and do that a total of 43 self-guided tours have been prepared, using detailed maps and descriptive literature to help the traveler enjoy the scenic and historic treasures along U.S. Highway 20. These are available at businesses such as motels, restaurants, Chamber of Commerce offices and service stations.

Sir / With reference to the article "Roundup Of Forts" in the March issue, I think it is quite evident to the Indian people that Nebraska was a pretty good place to live before the whites came. The present-day descendants of the original inhabitants of this area are more than picturesque tourist attractions who come out at powwow time. They are Nebraska's first families with a rich heritage all could learn from.

Sir / I enjoyed your article "To Net A Songbird" in the April issue. I would like to see an article on the wren.

Sir / There were several references in the story to Rock Creek, once as a station for shipping horses back East for the Army, and again as a settlement. I was wonder ing if you could pinpoint the location.

Rock Creek Station was located in present-day Jefferson County on the Oregon Trail near the confluence of Rock Creek and the Little Blue River, just north of present-day Endicott about six miles southeast of Fairbury.-Edltor

Sir / I just received my latest NEBRASKAland Magazine, and I want to say that the pictures are beautiful. But who except an ardent hunter wants only that. What happened to those interesting articles which used to be in the magazine?

NEBRASKAland

SPEAK UP

Sir / Mr. Sommerville need not waste any of his hypocritical sympathy on Nebraskans. I imagine that Nebraska and Ohio churches are much the same. I hardly lay it to Ohio church teaching that Mr. Sommerville seems to have had a course in revenge as indicated by what he says. If he is so anxious to hunt on federally controlled land, why doesn't he go farther west where there is a lot of it.

Sir / With his (Mr. Sommerville's) attitude toward and attack on Nebraska ranchers and farmers, no wonder he was refused the right to hunt in so many places. To start with, if he had been a true sportsman, he would have made reservations before the season opened, thus ensuring a place to stay and an area to hunt.

Sir / Thanks to everyone we met in Nebraska, we spent three wonderful weeks hunting small game and deer last fall. We are holding our breath hoping you don't stop issuing out-of-state permits.

Sir / After we reach 65 years of age, we do not have many years to enjoy fishing and hunting. Besides, there are a lot of out-of-staters who come into our state to fish and hunt, and a lot of money is taken in from them. Therefore I am very much in favor of our free hunting and fishing permits. I don't think it is going to hurt one bit for us to have a small handout. Ours is a drop in the bucket compared with a lot of others.

Sir / We oldsters don't need things for free.

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

Fish!

It was that time of day when dusk descends and everything is bathed in twilight. Then cat-craze crept in.

ON THE LOOKOUT for a night angler, I was extremely interested when, at a banquet in Lincoln last year, I heard about Ben Garner. Ben and his family go after catfish almost every weekend as soon as the spring weather warms, my table partner told me, so it was a foregone conclusion the moment I heard about him that I would try to get in touch with him. Little did I know at the time what a delightful trip lay in store.

Ben, supervisor of budgets for the Central Telphone and Utilities Corporation with operating headquarters in Lincoln, usually leaves his Milford home Saturday morning to arrive by midday at his favorite campsite alongside the Tri-County irrigation canal between North Platte and Johnson Lake, my dining partner said. Lila, Ben's wife, and Tom and Bob, his 12- and 9-year-old sons, tag along every time. From the moment they get there until it's time to leave, Ben and his boys have cats on the brain, the conversationalist said.

That worried me. I can't stand fishermen who think of nothing more than filling their creels with too many fish, but my misgivings were not strong enough to dissuade me from pursuing the possibility of an outdoor weekend with what sounded to be a very nice family.

Knowing what I did about the Garners after the banquet, I phoned Ben first thing Monday morning.

"We'd be delighted to have you come along," he beamed. Obviously, that person I dined with had already called him and told him about the banquet.

"Our friends will be there, too, so we'll have a good time," he said. "Bring your own gear and sleeping bag, (Continued on page 46)

hans burchardt old world craftsman

HANS BURCHARDT left post-war Germany at the age of 23. He left behind a family of the aristocracy, a father who expected him to pursue a military career and the security of a comfortable life. But he took with him years of training as a horticulturalist at the University of Berlin—years of grafting thousands of fruit trees under the critical scrutiny of professors, day break-to-dusk hours of back breaking mulching and tedious days of following reluctant teams of horses preparing the nursery soils.

In the employ of a German owned banana plantation in Spanish Guinea, West Africa, Hans found himself thrust into the company of masses of uneducated natives and a supervisor possessed with tormenting him.

The hardships were many. The remoteness of the plantation demanded a pioneer spirit; it demanded that difficulties be met with rugged stoicism. Into a house frequented by baboons and monkeys, and surrounded by guinea fowl and dwarf goats, Hans finally brought his wife from Germany.

It was shortly after the beginning of World War II when German holdings were seized by Brit ish authorities. Because of their nationality, Hans, his wife, and their three children were moved with only a handful of possessions to a prisoner-of-war detention center in Jamaica. Hans' 15 years in Africa were painfully severed, but the impressions of tropical jungle and its native life were in delibly etched in his mind.

The early years of detention were cruel beyond words. For three of their six years of confinement, Hans and his family were separated, even though they were being held in compounds less than a mile apart. Like so many others, they had become the innocent pawns of war.

Hans' talents were immediately recognized and put to use as manager of the horticultural aspects of a private British citrus fruit-coffee plantation.

In secret, because all potential weapons were withheld from prisoners, Hans began to carve, his only tool a simple grafting knife. First he made only simple toys for his children, but as the war turned for the allies and restrictions eased, he chiseled more detailed pieces for the British officers. With the little money he earned from the sale of these early carvings he bought air fare for his family to Miami at the end of the war.

Again thrust into an alien world, Hans relied on his long association with plants to sustain himself and his family. Working in commercial nurseries, first in Missouri and later in Nebraska, he and his family began building a new life. In 1959 he began work in plant research and propogation at the University of Nebraska. When the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission expanded its recreational and habitat planting programs, it needed a horticulturalist with practical experience to establish a nursery of native plants, so Hans was recruited for the job. During the last five years he has nurtured that budding program to life with his practical philosophy of imitating and encouraging nature's scheme.

UNDENIABLY, biographies meet a need, but all too often the person is lost in superficial details about his life, becoming a mere composite of times, places and experiences.

Five years ago, when we met in a sultry little greenhouse, I saw Hans Burchardt as a grower of plants, a wood carver, a worldly man. I was dazzled by his uncommon life, his unusual tales and his deep knowledge of plants. I didn't really see Hans at all.

Hans is a dreamer, a romantic, a man possessed with fantasies, yet a cold, practical man with a taste for barley soup and hard, dark bread—a ripe fruit with the impishness of green apples.

Works of the hand reveal more of what is at the heart of a man than words or appearances. The wood chips on the floor are Hans, and so is the tangle of wildflowers in his garden.

Understand that when you look at his flute players or rambling elephant, it's the soul of the man you see. Tread lightly. Strain to perceive the gnarled, crippled hands that guided each chisel stroke, the deeply lined face that chronicles a hard life. Try to comprehend how, in some ways, he has been made to bend under society's cold pressures, suffered at the hands of the insensitive. Watch for his defiant flashes and know him as more than a grower of plants, a carver of woods.

It is rare to glimpse into a man's soul. Perhaps we are too preoccupied with our own self-importance. We discover bits of a man when suddenly he's swept free by the moment, when in the middle of a conversation he's alone. He continues speaking, but more to himself than anyone nearby who might hear.

in his arboretum, Hans is like a father with his children. Plants are not just living or dying, but happy or sad. With sweeps of his cane he rambles endlessly as if each plant were a child to call close and tell of times past.

"And there, the Valentine juniper, the bronze one, crouched like a crippled old man over his harem of blue-fruited females, surveying his progeny. No denying his off spring! And over there the pecans, the finest pecans, from the Wahoo orchard. Remember the Wahoo orchard? Weeping junipers, rare, from Colorado. The one-leaf ash, grafted. Poppymallow, puccoon, liatris and butterfly weed. Ah! look at the butterfly weed, how it has spread from just a few plants."

After sweating rivers together you know the smallest details of his life—which spade is his favor ite, that there's-always a bandage in his wallet in case a grafting knife slips, or that without fail he'll comment on the deliciously salty taste of toasted, homemade bread.

You feel as if you know the man intimately when you hear the same stories you've heard so many times before and you realize their importance in the life of this man, that they kindle an essential fire. You live those times with him as if they were your own ... his bach elor days in Africa and Sunday dinners with cronies, the meals of weaverbird breast and manta ray liver . . . roast monkey on a silver platter, lying there with hands folded like a recently deceased little man.

You feel the unspoken hurt that remains from those years of imprisonment in Jamaica, the hope lessness when he arrived in America, the burden of a family.

Perhaps you first know a man when you discover that you your self have been living his past, consuming his every word. Embarrassed, you realize he knows you covet one of his carvings. He knows you would not be so presumptuous as to ask for one. And then, almost casually, as if it were nothing at all, he places it in your hand.

The History of Lake McConaughy Part 1

From a casual idea to get extra moisture on area farmland, it was many years and troubles before giant reservoir evolved

NOBODY can expect to take over 35,000 acres of good riverbottom land and put it under 100 feet of water without running into some arguments. But now, long after the feat was accomplished, the advantages far outweigh the initial drawbacks.

Of course, not just everybody could have accomplished such a feat. To someone content with putting a sink drain back together with no leaks, it is difficult to imagine the satisfaction that must have come with the completion of a tremendous project like Kingsley Dam and resultant Lake McConaughy.

Yet, somehow, that momentous structure came about through the efforts of people who probably also had occasional trouble with sink drains. It would be impossible to trace all the individuals responsible for the culmination of a dream which started about the turn of the century in the minds of Charles W. McConaughy, a Holdrege businessman, and George P. Kingsley, a Minden banker.

Both these men became interested in irrigation, or supplemental water for crops, after they saw what a little extra winter moisture could do for crops in their areas. McConaughy had noticed that where shelterbelts and other cover collected and held snow, crops grew much better the next summer than they did in immediately adjacent areas. That, he surmised, proved that just a little extra moisture could mean the difference between good and bad yields.

At about the same time, Kingsley was working on a local project of long standing, calling for construction of an irrigation ditch to draw water from the Platte River and bring it to Minden area farms. Although talked about for years, nothing was ever done, and it seemed an impossible venture.

But, as both men were interested in bringing additional water to their respective territories, it was only natural that they started talking about their mutual interests after they met by chance at a business meeting one day. From that day hence, they formed the nucleus of a movement that didn't rest until the goals were achieved, and which continues today as an important factor in the state.

Although their plans were grand enough, even those two men did not have such an extensive project in mind at first. It was a long process of adaptation and review over the years through which the need and feasibility of the present giant irrigation network known as the Central Nebraska Public Power and Irrigation District became evident.

After much talking and planning, the first meeting for area farmers came at the initiation of McConaughy, mayor of Holdrege at the time, in the late summer of 1913. Several dry years had fostered interest in any sort of irrigation project, but organizing even a small group of apprehensive and not-too prosperous farmers was a far cry from what was needed.

Although considerable interest was expressed at that meeting, some opposition showed as well. Several persons expressed concern that long-term mortgages might be imposed on the land to pay for improvements that might or might not be needed, depending upon the rainfall.

Other opposition would be forthcoming in the form of other irrigators who were already using water from the North Platte and Platte rivers. These users, and others who had legal rights but were not exercising them, naturally assumed that their privileges would be threatened by any major structure on the river. In time, their challenges would be heard.

Initially, however, things seemed to move along rapidly. A government survey was requested and undertaken in the summer of 1914. After much optimism that the project would soon be off and running, it was a bitter disappointment when the written report was finally issued. The surveyor had apparently missed the entire point of the plan, assuming that water would simply be siphoned off the river and diverted to farmlands to the south. This was not the objective, but the negative aspect of the report dampened spirits and caused much delay. To further complicate things, crops were better in the fall of 1914 and for several years after, further diminishing support for the venture.

Persons directly involved in the effort to create the irrigation project became the objects of ridicule, and even of threats and slander from strong opponents. This did little to dissuade the dedicated men, how ever, as they clung to their convictions that over the long run, and despite the short sightedness of many people, additional moisture for crops was a necessity. Thus, they kept the concept alive.

But, barely alive. Years passed, and new state and federal people replaced those with whom initial contacts had been made. This made the task more difficult, yet it did mean that officials sometimes listened with new interest. Key support was given during each election year as both political parties endorsed the idea. The Democratic party was more vocal in its support by including the project in its party platform. But still, time slipped by and despite all the meetings, surveys, opinions, and support given by politicians and newspapers, businessmen and (Continued on page 45)

THE FREEDOM TRAIN SINGERS

THEY TINGLE YOUR SPINE

THE FREEDOM TRAIN! It doesn't run on tracks. It isn't diesel powered. Its crew is definitely under age, and its cargo is intangible.

The Freedom Train rolis, instead, on song, powered by enthusiasm. Its crew is a group of youthful singers and guitarists, and its cargo is goodwill.

Powered by their vitality, the Freedom Train Singers of North Platte have carried their goodwill cargo on singing tours across more than 15,000 miles in Nebraska, Colorado, South Dakota, Kansas and Wyoming. Their 1,000-odd concerts have been staged in places everywhere from meeting centers to nursing homes, from auditoriums to bandshells, and from a command performance in the Governor's Mansion in Lincoln to the foot of South Dakota's Mt. Rushmore.

Founder, conductor and driving force behind the Freedom Train is Errol (Skip) Coleman, a spirited man in his early 30s who intensely believes in the beauty of youth.

"The Freedom Train singers are average kids," Coleman says. "They aren't musical geniuses. They aren't unusually brilliant, and none of them will singlehandedly save the world. On the other hand, none of them will singlehandedly bring about its destruction either."

"In other words, they're average kids, average because they represent the majority of today's young people."

Audiences who have heard the Freedom Train, with its fiery vitality, usually leave with the same enthusiastic belief in young people.

"If the world is going to be in the hands of kids JULY 1973 like you, I feel confident about the future," a woman told one of the performers after a concert last year in Colorado.

The Freedom Train was founded by Coleman five years ago. During those five years, the Free dom Train seldom rolled on level terrain. It is of ten an uphill climb.

"It's been like the little locomotive that kept chugging along chanting "I think I can, I think I can, I think I can'," Coleman says.

Entirely self-supporting, the Freedom Train Sing ers have sold everything from ballpoint pens to safety flares to supplement the nominal performance fees they charge. They need at least $3,600 a year to meet basic expenses to cover costs ranging from sheet music to copyrighting their own music; from rent (Continued on page 56)

Fishing Fanatic

IN ALL MY years of fishing through out the country, I had never caught a walleye weighing more than 10 pounds. It was as if that were a cut off point for walleye —maybe they just didn't grow much larger.

Then, one day in 1971, I was back in my old stomping grounds in Nebraska, wetting a line in Lake McConaughy. Fishing had been pretty good that spring, but things were starting to taper off sort of a mid-summer slump. A few good fish were still being taken, but action was not as fast and furious as it had been.

But some of those rainbow trout were still around, so during the morning of July 5, my fishing buddy, Lee Breyer of Lincoln, and I headed out for a few hours. We had both taken our limit of trout a few days before —two to four pounders.

We headed east out of Lakeview, where I keep my trailer, beyond Kelly Bay to a point straight north of the Red Barn (Boy Scout cabin). It was between 8 and 9 a.m. I guess, when we spotted a lot of minnow activity on the surface ahead. Right in the middle of the minnows came a big splash every now and then, and I just knew a big trout was in there feeding.

Both Lee and I had two lines out, one deep and the other shallow. I guess I had about 300 feet out on the top line, so I made a big circle with the boat. You don't want to get too close or youll spook the fish. Well, I circled the boat around to get the red Thin Fin as near the splashing as I could. I thought my lure must have gone far beyond the disturbance, and was about to give up on the fish when he hit.

I set the hook and knew he was a good one. But, instead of acting like a trout, the fish went down —way down. I reeled in as much slack as I could and gained maybe a third of the line, about 100 feet.

There wasn't a chance I could pressure him, since there was a knot in my line. I knew it was there, but just hadn't bothered to change the line. It was about70or75 (Continued on page 43)

Pond Life

SUNLIGHT is the energy source of the pond's ecosystem. Directly or indirectly, all life springs from it. Minute suspended phytoplankton organisms, among them the diatoms, desmids and green algae, perform the initial, crucial conversion of light to energy. A veritable carnival of geometric entities, the zooplankton organisms—ameobas, rotifers and cope pods—graze on these tiny plants. From these primitive organisms, the base of the pond's pyramid of life is built. Larger, yet minuscule invertebrates feed on these building blocks of pond life, and so the system grows greater in complexity until it is a living web of relation ships and interrelationships. Small forage fish and amphibians prey on lesser creatures and are in turn preyed upon by larger, more voracious animals. Ultimately, the pyramid peaks with only a handful of transient predators—the mink, heron or coyote. These, too, meet their commitments, returning to the pond in death, renewing the water's nutrients that support microscopic life.

The pond is a world unto its own, a microcosm of the earth. Each creature in the pond is intricately related to all others in an interwoven scheme. Though each must die, life is spawned from their death, for death is part of the blueprint; nothing is wasted. And, while there is violence and harshness, there is also serenity and beauty.

Each pond has its own personality, yet all are subject to the same forces—to the whims of nature. During the quiet hours of morning, the pond lies silent, its surface broken only by the dimple of a feeding bass. On stormy days it churns wildly, the wind tugging relentlessly at its surface. While inky skies still shower it, the surface is transformed by the sun into molten gold, broken only by a spray of rushes. Murky and heavy with silt, tomorrow it will again be clear and inviting.

Sit in the shadows as darkness claims the pond. Watch as the peripheral life is drawn to it. Watch the minute-to-minute struggle for life.

A bullfrog warms in the evening sun. Perhaps he has survived his 15th season. His life is a lull, interrupted by the (Continued on page 33)

(Continued from page 22) necessity of day-to-day feeding. Minnows, moths and smaller frogs fall to him, but soon he too will pay his debt to the pond.

The remains of a towering cottonwood spread across the corner of the pond. Mired in years of decayed vegetation, its roots are home for a muskrat heavy with young. Its branches are the guarded territory of a male bluegill, fanning the bottom nervously at the approach of a female, ripe with a thousand eggs. Painted turtles and leopard frogs sun lazily where the trunk slips obliquely to the surface.

Wading the shallows, a young raccoon probes every weedy nook, turns every rock. With dexterous fingers he searches into the night. Crayfish are greedily crushed; soft tadpoles consumed without ceremony. Tomorrow, only hand-like prints on muddy shallows will tell the tale of his visit.

The bittern erect and reed-like, the garter snake slitting a duckweed carpet, the snapping turtle stalking the depths—all are part of the pond's dynamics. All are intrinsic characters in the miniature world. All have a living to earn and a debt to be paid to the life of the pond.

Highway 26 takes you to state's historically significant areas

Westward Ho!

WAGONS HO was a cry that echoed up and down the Platte Valley but a century ago. Today, horseless carriages ply twin bands of concrete that now span the route carved by the pioneers. Nebraska's Interstate 80 is the jumping off point for a host of sights and attractions. A jog south of U.S. 281 from Grand Island will take you to the House of Yesterday at Hastings with its excellent collections from days long gone. Another 40 miles to the south is Red Cloud, the home of famed author Willa Cather. For some real nostalgia, take a jaunt through Catherland and see firsthand some of the settings used by this famous author. From Red Cloud take U.S. 136 west to Harlan County Reservoir, one of the state's top fishing and water fun spots.

To continue southwest, stay on U.S. 136 until it joins U.S. 6-34. Your U.S. 6-34 route will take you through the Republican River Valley and the heart of Nebraska's southwest reservoir country. Major lakes along the way include Harry Strunk Reservoir (Medicine Creek), north of Cambridge; Hugh Butler Reservoir (Red Willow), north of McCook, and Swanson Reservoir near Trenton, which the highway skirts as you approach the border. These man-made lakes are part of a complex of dams to provide flood control and irrigation waters for the rich farmlands in the region. The recreation they provide (Continued on page 44)

CHILDREN OF THE WIND

FROM THAT DELIGHTFUL somewhere beyond the horizon they came. In all kinds of bizarre vehicles, coaches, vans, and fantastically decorated wagons, they drifted slowly along the dirt country roads. From unknown times and places in the East they came. Now they were in a new land, a place of which their ancestors knew nothing. From between red curtains, dark-haired girls peered out at the lay-out and illustration by Martin Almanza rolling countryside. Strong and silent, the swarthy young men studied the alien land with eyes accustomed to foreign features. From beyond the horizon these eternal visitors came west. Gypsies had reached Nebraska.

From as early as the 1870s, and perhaps before, Nebraska witnessed the mysterious visits of these children of the wind. (Continued on page 48)

Whatever your own outdoor preference, areas will fill your particular needs

Stale Parks at your Service

MOST AMERICANS face the prospect of more leisure time in the future and the challenge of using it for their own enrichment and development as individuals and as citizens. Outdoor recreation, whether undertaken lightly or with some serious approach, is essentially a regenerating experience, a pleasant change from the routine of work and daily living.

The use of leisure is important to the health of people and society. Outdoor recreation has cultural values. It strengthens the educational processes of our minds and bodies, broadens understanding of nature and increases appreciation of the beauty nature offers. Being out doors is a wholesome and constructive use of leisure time.

By the year 2000, the population of the United States may increase to approximately 350 million, doubling the demand for recreational facilities. With higher incomes and more leisure time, trends indicate that in the years to come, people will be participating much more in recreation than they are now.

There are important differences in the desires for outdoor recreation between young and old, rich and poor, and city and country people.

In today's pattern, families are seeking out door recreation more than ever. Parents are educating their children to a level of their own needs to help them experience and appreciate the values of outdoor recreation.

As the number of visitors in park areas increases, the need for regulation of their activities also increases. Regulations are required in the interest of public safety and as a means of apportioning recreation resources where uses conflict.

In some instances, Nebraska has begun zoning watercourses to restrict the areas in which power boating, waterskiing and other types of water sports are permitted. Other recreation activities are coming into increasing conflicts-swimmers and fishermen, campers and picnickers, hunters and hikers. Area development must be planned to provide a system atic approach to serve the interests of all types of visitors.

Although this agency, like other state authorities, is reluctant when it comes to imposing regulations, restraints are needed in outdoor recreation activities to avoid dangerous, unsanitary and unworkable conditions. We ask that when you use the state's park areas this year, that you take a few moments to familiarize yourself with area rules and regulations. If you need additional information about the park system and its activities, write to the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission in Lincoln or one of its district offices, or contact your nearest representative.

Whatever your choice of recreational activity, be it fishing, horseback riding, swimming, boating, camping, picnicking, hiking, water skiing, or just plain loafing, Nebraska's park areas can fill your needs. Areas of the park system are well distributed throughout the state, so each visitor can choose his routes and set a vacation pattern to meet his individual desires.

In recent years, 43 areas of the state park system have been acquired or significantly improved. This year, visitors will see improve ments at many areas. To mention but a few: the Republican Valley reservoir system, Enders, Swanson, Medicine Creek and Red Willow, Johnson Lake near Lexington, Lake Ogallala, Ponca Park, Louisville, and the Weigand area at Lewis and Clark Lake. Restoration and interpretive work continue at Fort Atkinson (near Omaha), Fort Hartsuff (near Ord), and Ash Hollow (Garden County) State Historical Parks. Buffalo Biil Ranch at North Platte and Fort Kearny near Kearney will again offer visitors an interesting and informative look into the history of the West. Ever popular Interstate 80 areas- Mormon Island at Grand Island and Windmill near Gibbon—offer new and modern facilities that are being very well received by visitors and natives alike.

Ever popular are the modern house keeping-type vacation cabins located at 38 NEBRASKAland JULY 1973 39  

Modern swimming pools are available at Chadron, Niobrara and Ponca parks. Horseback riding is also offered at these areas, and at Fort Robinson as well.

Visitors this year will find some park areas undergoing construction. We ask your patience and observance of signs until the work is complete. Among these projects are several recrea tional road-paving programs. Areas scheduled to receive road work include Indian Cave and Chadron State Parks, Arbor Lodge and Ash Hollow State Historical Parks, and Fremont, Kearney County, Louisville and Pawnee State Recreational Areas. The road paving at these areas will be accomplished under the State Recreational Road Program in cooperation with the State Department of Roads. Warm weather is a requirement for road paving. Therefore, these projects have to be carried out during prime vacation time. Visitors are urged to check with the Game and Parks Commission concerning construction status at areas which will be involved in the road-work program.

Boat launching and recovery ramps at major water areas in the park system will again be heavily used. Although the system offers some good facilities of this nature, the increase in boater participation requires that more ramps be added to the system. Users are urged to plan ahead and allow themselves extra time during peak-use days. Current plans call for the construction of new ramp facilities at Johnson Lake, Lake McConaughy and Merritt Reservoir during the 1973-74 fiscal year if funds are appropriated.

This season, modern and semi-primitive camping areas are again available throughout the system. Camping space is available on a first-come, first-serve basis. No reservations are taken for camping space. Campers are charged for the use of camping facilities at Chadron, Arbor Lodge is one of eight historical parks Fort Robinson, Niobrara and Ponca State Parks, Fremont, Johnson Lake, Kearney County, Louisville, Two Rivers and Victoria Springs State Recreation Areas, and Mormon Island and Wind mill Interstate 80 Wayside Areas. All other camping areas of the system are open to the public free of charge unless otherwise designated.

Finally, one of the biggest sores today is littering. This activity ruins the attractiveness of our park areas and the countryside. Thoughtless and careless actions by a few persons reduce the pleasure of others. They also add to the maintenance cost of state areas-money that could otherwise be used for other types of upkeep. As you use our parks this season, we ask you to be litter conscious and help us in our program to better educate our public in this vital matter.

We invite you to visit your state parks this year. It is our desire that you have a safe and en joyable experience. Your park system is at your service.

FISHING FANATIC

feet above the lure, so I took it real easy until I finally saw the knot go onto the reel. Then I felt better.

Lee set his gear down and dragged out the net, but I told him I wasn't ready yet.

I guess it took about 15 minutes before we saw the fish. It was a walleye —a darn big one. He rolled over in the water a short distance from the boat and appeared to be tiring a bit. Most walleye don't put up much of a fight but this one was a scrapper. He wasn't about to be dragged around by the nose. He wanted to get to the bottom and rub that hook out of his lip. They'll do that, you know, and it works a lot of the time. They don't have much feeling in their mouths and they have cartilaginous tongues with which they push lures out.

Anyway, I didn't let him dive to the bottom. I knew it was about 90 feet deep there, so I just let him run around. There is always the chance that a fish will get himself off, and the longer you leave him in the water the better that chance is, but trying to force him into the boat is just as tricky. I let him work away down there as much as he wanted to, but slowly brought him in closer. Final ly, the time came when he could be netted, so I told Lee to get ready. He put the net in the water, holding it straight up and down. I steered the fish in, while Lee held the net steady. He was almost as long as the net and didn't fit easily, but the task was finally done. We both gave a sigh of relief when the fish was safely in the boat.

That was one big fish. It was the biggest walleye I ever landed by far. After untangling a few lines I took Lee home. Of course there were a lot of people to show the fish to, and pictures had to be taken, so it took about an hour and a half to get him back to Lakeview where the official scale was. I kept him in the water about half that time, but he still dropped several ounces, I'm sure. When we finally put him on the scale, he plopped the needle right up to 16 pounds, 2 ounces. I am sure he must have weighed more than 17 pounds when I first landed him, but he was still big enough to break the state record by an ounce.

I planned to have it mounted even before the fish was dry. But first, there were pictures to be taken, many more people to show him to, and details of how he was caught to be told. I'm known around the lake, having lived there from early spring until late fall for the past three years. I'm a native Nebraskan and have traveled across the state many years as a salesman of oil and grease products. Since retiring 17 years ago, my wife and I have done a lot of travel ing, usually going to places where there is plenty of fishing water.

I went after ocean salmon and steel head in the northwest once, and had the distinction of taking the biggest steelhead-a 27 pounder— in the community where I was at JULY 1973 the time. I also took a 40-pounder once.

But, Lake McConaughy is my favorite spot, and I would work it year-round if I could. Being so familiar with the lake and having a lot of spare time to devote to angling, I have become a guide. I don't usually fish for walleye this time of year, I guess be cause I don't like to use worms. Give me artificials every time.

Partly because of my aversion to using worms, I devote much effort to going after trout. White bass are also fine because they are receptive to lures. Late in the fall when white bass seem to start holing up for the coming winter, they hang around in semi-deep water without moving very far. If a school can be located, and an attractive lure can be put into the area, some big ones are sure to bite. But, it is perhaps the prospect of catching the big trout that really holds my interest. I have learned to know the lake well, have become familiar with the underwater terrain and water depths, use landmarks to co-ordinate my efforts, and select my lures with care. I even modify the commercial ones so they perform the way I think they should.

After years of experience on all kinds of water, I have definite ideas about what fish want, but I'm not opposed to trying some thing new and I still ask other successful fishermen what they had their best luck on. No one ever gets so good they don't still have a lot to learn, and I like learning especially if it involves fish.

I hold the state walleye record now, and I expect to hang on to it for a while. There just can't be many fish that size around. Walleye just don't grow that big. I think they reach a certain size —probably 10 pounds or so —and then don't grow much more. They slow down with age and don't eat as much, and therefore stay about the same weight until they die.

I'll keep trying, though, just on the off chance there are more big ones around. All I do anymore is fish, and that is the only way to catch them. I figure the more time you spend on the water, the more fish you catch. How you fish when you are out there determines the size of your catch. I guess I just have a better chance than most folks because I'm a fishing fanatic, and I expect to stay that way. It's the greatest sport in the world.

I'm 78 years old. My wife and I celebrated our fiftieth wedding anniversary two years ago, and we live in a trailer only a few yards from the water's edge. My boat stays in the water, ready to go all the time. From early morning until late at night, if there is any fishing activity at all, I'm out there. My only compromise with age is a short nap I take after lunch every day. Immediately after my nap, if I don't have to drive into town on errands, I'm back into my boat and heading toward where the fish are. It's been like that a long time, and even though I don't anticipate landing an other huge walleye right away, it will stay like that.

WESTWARD HO

is an added bonus. From fishing derbies to sailing regattas, the big reservoirs of fer lots of summertime action, both for the participant and the spectator.

McCook was the home of Senator George Norris, credited as the "father of rural electrification." His residence is now a registered National Historic Landmark and open to the public. Your routes divide near Culbertson; U.S. 6 takes a northwesterly direction, while U.S. 34 angles southwesterly to the Colorado border. You cross the time zone at the Dundy-Hitchcock county line, so remember to set your watch back an hour for Mountain Time.

As you pass Trenton, take a little time to visit Massacre Canyon monument. The locale was the site of the last great battle between the Sioux and Pawnee nations. Such side trips can make your jaunt through southwest Nebraska a memorable one.

For those who elect to continue west on 1-80, Ogallala offers a unique opportunity to view the land where the history of the West was forged and to drink in some mighty powerful scenery to boot by traveling U.S. Highway 26.

As you exit the superhighway, set aside at least a few hours or an overnight for Ogallala, Nebraska's "Cowboy Capital." You will enjoy Front Street, the re created frontier cowtown, complete with dance hall and cowboy museum to recall the days when Ogallala was end-of-trail for cattle drovers. Sip a sarsaparilla and enjoy the shows staged there throughout the summer. You can also visit Boot Hill and the Mansion on the Hill when you follow the Old West Trail city circle tour.

As you leave Ogallala, swing by Lake McConaughy via Highways 61 and 92. With 100-plus miles of shoreline, "Big Mac" is the state's largest reservoir and offers all manner of water fun, including some of the best fishing in the West. You will rejoin U.S. 26 just east of Lewellen. As you journey westward through the High Plains region, you will notice a marked change in the countryside. You are following the historic route of the pioneers. Pause at Lewellen to visit Ash Hollow State Historical Park to see the ruts carved by the white-masted prairie schooners of yesteryear. It was here at Windlass Hill that 19th Century travelers had to winch their covered wagons to the valley below. It was but a taste of what was to come as they crossed the Rockies.

At Lisco, a side trip via a country road will take you to Crescent Lake National Wildlife Refuge with its diversity of Sand Hills lakes. As you continue on U.S. 26 into the rugged beauty of the Wildcat Hills, keep an eye peeled for Courthouse and Jail rocks near Bridgeport and Chimney Rock National Historic Site near Bayard. All were famed landmarks on the Oregon Trail. You can learn the exciting history of the region at the Oregon Trail Museum at Scotts Bluff National Monument as you follow the Scottsbluff-Gering City Circle Tour. From the top of the famed landmark you can see Laramie Peak off to the West in Wyoming and Chimney Rock back to the east.

You might consider following Highway 71 through Fort Robinson and the beautiful Pine Ridge country. You'll enter the Pine Ridge near Cochran State Wayside Area. This beautiful region gives promise of the scenery that abounds throughout the area. Ahead is Fort Robinson, a prime vacation retreat. Nearby is Toadstool Geologic Park and to the east, Chadron State Park where you can fish, swim, and trail ride in the shadow of the timbered butte country.

Or, you could turn south at Gering to rejoin I-80 at Kimball via Highway 71. You'll take the high road to excitement when you go adventuring amid the scarred beauty of the Wildcat Hills. Listen closely as you move into the history rich canyons of the Wildcats, and perhaps your imagination will pick up the creaking and squeaking of wagons as

they struggle up Stagecoach Hill. Here, you can visit Wildcat Hills State Recreation Area and Game Refuge. It's a shut terbug's haven. Buffalo still roam the plains here, along with deer, elk, and other wildlife. Majestic views become almost commonplace as you move northward through the rugged hills.

Suddenly, thoughts return to the 20th Century as you journey into Kimball, Nebraska's Oil Capital and "Missile Center U.S.A." While in Kimball, pause a bit to see the mammoth Titan I missile at Gotte Park, a prized memento of the Space Age.

There's beauty and history waiting for those who will seek it out in the "Good Life" that is Nebraska.

HISTORY OF MAC

farmers, accomplishments were small.

World War I came along and federal appropriations were few. By 1921, drought and depression were heavily apparent throughout the state. Interest in using the Platte's water spread to other areas, and a Lower Platte Irrigation Association was formed and pressed its own interests, but support for the Tri-County project also increased once again. Additional surveys were made, others were requested and denied, but some progress was made from one of them. As the Tri-County boosters had said all along, the original survey had been wrong, and a 1922 survey by engineers of the Bureau of Reclamation turned out to be very favorable for the project, and prospects again started looking up.

Other factors entered into the picture at this time as the possibility of generating electrical power was strongly proposed as an integral part of the overall plan. Still remaining to be carried out was another survey by the Department of Agriculture to determine the water holding capacities and fertility of the soils in the proposed irrigation area.

Before and after each survey, engineers with Tri-County had to adapt, in corporate changes, and remodel their plans. Often, they worked feverishly through the night to make deadlines. But, the dimensions of the project grew, and as new concepts were included, the feasibility increased and the entire project became more polished and worthwhile. Eventually, even the few weak spots in the plans were weeded out. Opposition didn't necessarily lessen, however, as the fear of bonded indebtedness for possibly 70 years was a frightening prospect for farmers already on the borderline of bankruptcy because of drought and poor prices.

Arguments between the various factions continued to rage, although some progress was gradually made by Tri-County proponents. Still, the project was not complete. (Continued on page 47)

"FISH!"

but don't bring any food. My wife and Marion will take care of that."

How often do things just fall into your lap like that?

Three weeks later I was on my way. When I arrived at the campsite, follow ing the rough map Ben had drawn and sent to me, Ben was sitting at a picnic table sipping soda, Lila was cooking supper, and the boys were playing down at the water's edge.

With introductions out of the way, Ben got right down to business, thinking I was interested in nothing but fish, not realizing that I didn't even have a license and carried no rod and reel.

"We set 30 lines along the canal starting half a mile beyond where it leaves the lake," he said. "We'll run them at sundown, and then again at midnight."

Conversation flowed easily and it didn't take long for me to realize that, contrary to what I had been led to think, Ben was no fish-crazy angler.

True. Ben was anticipating another night of canal fishing with enthusiasm even though he had been doing it for three years, but it soon became obvious that he was as excited about being outdoors with his family as he was about catching cats.

Dwayne and Marion Keller of Lincoln arrived during supper. Dwayne is a brick mason. Both he and Ben agree that their two families get along extremely well. The Kellers are the best friends the Garners have. Along with them were their two children, 11-year-old Brenda and eight-year old Alan. The four children wolfed down their hamburgers, then disappeared into a world of adventure all their own. There was just enough time for Dwayne to set up his tent, and then it was time for the first canal run.

We sped across the reservoir toward the irrigation canal's mouth. Halfway across the lake a muskrat scrambled out of the boat's way. It was just that time of day when dusk descends and everything is bathed in twilight warmth. The fading sun slipped toward the horizon behind us, and a few stars began showing.

Half a mile down the canal, Dwayne suddenly cut the motor and slowed the boat to a crawl.

"There's the first line on that limb we call Old Faithful," he said. "We call it that because it extends out over the water just the right distance and we usually get a fish from the line on it."

That made sense.

"It's calm tonight," he said. "You can tell when there's a fish on the line because it jiggles the bush."

This time, however, Old Faithful produced nothing. The first five lines, in fact, held nothing and the baits were gone.

"Those sneaky cats," Dwayne said. "They do that all the time—grab the bait and run."

After rounding a bend in the canal, the boat nosed toward shore again, Dwayne at the throttle in the stern and Ben in the bow pulling up another loser. He slipped a crawdad onto the No. 4 hook and dropped the weighted, seven-foot line back down into the water.

Tom and Alan, the two youngsters who had decided to come along this trip, looked eagerly into the waning light. Both wanted to see a shaking bush first. Both wanted to holler first.

It didn't take long. Easing the boat to another bend in the channel, Dwayne tapped Alan on the shoulder and pointed at the north bank.

"Fish!" Tom yelped. You couldn't see his face for the grin.

Sure enough. There was a bush dancing just inches above the water, the line spasmodically jerking it down to kiss the surface. It turned out to be a 21/2 pounder and it fanned the crew's enthusiasm.

Soon it became too dark to see with out light, so Ben pulled a spotlight from the paraphernalia at his feet.

It was a tranquil scene, the boat creeping lazily along between the canal's 20-, sometimes 30-foot walls, Ben crouching in the bow shining the light on bush after bush, and the motor gurgling in the apex of the craft's gentle wake.

"This is as far as we go," Ben said. "This is the last line." We had covered about a mile of canal. "All the hooks are baited, so let's head back."

Dwayne turned the boat around and gunned it. By the time we reached camp, Alan was fast asleep amidships with his head on his arm, and Tom was dozing.

Now it was time to wait. The stars were out and the campfire glowed with coals from supper. It was calm, and only a whispering breeze rustled the canopy of cottonwood leaves above.

All four kids finally went to bed. After an hour, even the breeze" died down. It was a fine moment when all of us sat around the glowing embers. Coversation fell silent, but everyone felt at ease.

Then midnight came! Brenda and Bob were roused to join us, and off we went again across the lake.

Bob saw it first when Dwayne cut the motor and steered the boat around the last bend toward Old Faithful.

"Fish!"

Bob's voice pierced the night above the motor's throb. He bubbled with enthusiasm. The boat moved in and Ben lifted the line. There it was-a three pounder.

From then on it was all business, the throaty push and pull of the motor nosing the boat toward shore, then out again in the middle of the channel and on to the next line.

Brenda was wide awake now and in the swing of things. Soon it became a contest to see which of the two of them would catch a glimpse of a dancer first, and who could scream the loudest.

"Fish!" Brenda screeched with excitement—another 31/2-pounder.

It became more and more apparent why Ben and Dwayne liked this sort of thing. They were having as much fun with their kids as they were with the catfish.

Only a long band of stars was visible straight overhead where the irrigation canal's walls opened up to the sky.

In against the bank, then out, in again and back, the boat pushed through the darkness, an inky blackness broken by nothing more than the spot's sweeping beam of light.

Each time Ben checked a line, he pulled it up to rebait it, either boating another cat or muttering something about the thief that stole the bait, then dropped it back to the lip of the under water shelf about six feet down and a few feet out from shore. That's where the catfish find their food, he explained. They stay in the 20-foot depth of the main channel most of the time, but nose up to the ledge to feed.

Suddenly it was over.

The last line checked, we headed for camp, the boat's spray disappearing into the blackness behind the rear running light as we crossed the reservoir. It was 2 a.m.

Ben tied the stringer of fish to the pier when we got to shore. They would have to be cleaned in the morning, but right now everyone was ready for bed. It had been a good run-19 cats, just within the 10-fish daily catch limit for two fishermen. That would make a nice freezerful of fillets for a Southern catfish fry with hush puppies some day soon.

Next morning I bid my friends farewell and headed back to Lincoln.

A month later I got a call at the office.

"Hello. This is Ben," that same beaming voice said at the other end. "How would you like to come to our house for Friday evening?"

I didn't hesitate a minute. I had learned to like the Garners and knew what would be on the menu. You guessed it—the best deep-fried catfish you ever had and hush puppies prepared the way Southerners make them-gold en brown and delicious.

The Kellers were there. We talked about the trip and laughed at the pictures we had taken, especially the one we got of Ben losing a hooked fish just as he was pulling it over the side of the boat. Then Lila brought out their slides and we spent the rest of the evening looking at the scenes of places where she and Ben had lived before coming to Milford-the Azores and Guam.

I never knew the Kellers or the Garners before that fishing trip, and we'll probably never get together again except by chance, but that's what I like about fishing. You meet nice people.

HISTORY OF MAC

In 1934, a major accomplishment was brought about. It incorporated a large, on-river dam above Keystone to serve the water needs of an expanded area, combining the Tri-County area and that of the Sutherland area.

All phases of the struggle were now basically incorporated into a master plan, termed the comprehensive approach. It was one totally new in the nation, featuring tributary flood control for the Mississippi River, irrigation, and power generation. Such a plan was sensible from all angles, and was favored by some factions of the several federal engineering divisions, opposed by others. Likewise, it was supported by some Congressmen and attacked by others who thought levees on the Mississippi were more critical than dams far distant from the area of flood ravages.

Finally, through pressure put on by Senator George Norris of McCook, a $20 million loan and grant was approved by President Roosevelt in 1935, but this amount was cut exactly in half before the funds actually arrived. Later still, other loans were approved for the dam and canal system until a total of just over $431/2 million was actually spent on construction.

Ground work began in 1936 on both the canal system and the Keystone Dam, which was subsequently named Kingsley Dam in honor of the co-originator of the idea, George Kingsley.

The dam is the world's second largest hydraulic-fill structure, and involves many sophisticated engineering operations. At the base, dirt was scraped away down to gravel. Then steel sheet pilings were pounded down to bedrock. Over this went an earthen core about 120 feet wide at the base, supported on each side by sand and gravel. When completed, the base of the dam was 1,100 feet wide and about VA miles long, including the approach.

Through the base projected two huge steel-reinforced concrete tubes, one of 20-foot-diameter to the outlet tower, which stands 186 feet high, and a 28-foot tube to the Morning Glory spillway, which is 170 feet tall. The dam itself is 162 feet high and contains 26 million cubic yards of hydraulic fill of which 6.5 million cubic yards is core material. Lake McConaughy contains almost 2 million acre feet of water and covers 35,000 acres when full.

The dam was closed in time to start holding the spring runoff in 1941, but it was not until 10 years later that maximum pool was reached. The following year, 1952, saw the first major test of the system, and proved its worth. Each year between 1952 and 1956, the Midwest received little rain, and considerably more water was withdrawn for irrigation than entered the reservoir. Without the lake, crops would have suffered markedly or failed in the area. The total cost of construction may well have been repaid dur ing those five years, when the lake dropped 70 feet in depth to supply the increased needs of irrigators.

During the building of the dam, fill material was pumped up from the river bed. Pipelines atop the structure released the fill material through adjust able openings, and the water was allowed to return to the lake below while the fill material settled. For most of the dam's height, building was done by this hydraulic method? with the core of clay being pumped from the hills south of the structure simultaneously between the two outer layers of gravel.

Nearer the top, however, the core material was hauled in by truck and mechanically compacted. Finally, concrete slabs were placed on the upstream side of the dam as rip rap, but this was later undermined by wave action and replaced by rock. Additional rip rap has been placed on the face of the dam periodically to repair rip rap damage caused by wave action. There has been no threat of structural weakening due to wind storms and resulting rip rap damage.

In conjunction with the building of McConaughy was the digging of the 75 mile-long supply canal carrying water to three hydroelectric plants generating 18,000 kilowatts of power each. The supply canal system includes 24 canyon lakes. All these lakes, the canal itself, plus the much-stabilized Platte River created a vast recreation potential where before there was very little opportunity for development.

Thus was created Nebraska's largest body of water, with its unmatched fish ing and other water-related sports, and all the other benefits. It was a monumental project, built at considerable cost both in money and personal commitment, but repaying the cost many times over. Perhaps the rewards of the long struggle are going to people other than those most deserving, but that was the original intention.

Several men involved in the project from its early days are still active in the operations of the irrigation district, but probably no one person knew exactly how involved and difficult the struggle would be. Although George Kingsley died in 1929, and Charles McConaughy resigned from the fight before success was realized, there were able men to take up the cause.

Of immeasurable value, not only to south-central Nebraska but to the state and nation, the development of Lake McConaughy really just began when it was completed. Next month, NEBRASKAland will trace the improvements of the lake itself-the stocking of fish, the establishment of marinas and other facilities-and take a look at public use of the area.

CHILDREN OF THE WIND

Their campfires glowed many a night near the edges of towns and villages near Omaha, Fremont, and Columbus; Nebraska City and Brownville; Beatrice and Fairbury. As dusk settled across the land, the sounds from their encampments carried through the cool, clear air. Playing children and barking dogs chased each other around the cluster of wagons, while the women chattered be side their cooking fires. Handsome horses snorted beneath a group of cottonwoods as they settled down for their day's rest. The men tended to the common camp chores of mending harness and greasing wheels. And over them all settled the mistiness of the chill Nebraska evening.

From the mists of eternity the gypsies had come to Nebraska. The route they had followed was long and circuitous. Though the precise origins of the gypsies are shrouded in those mists, some suggestions have been made regarding their beginnings. Once thought to be the children of Cain, the mixed multitude that followed Moses out of Egypt, or the 10 lost tribes of Israel, the gypsies are apparently from none of these. Rather, be cause of similarities in language and customs, it seems they came from India. There they began their everlasting pilgrimage sometime around 1000 A.D. Some apparently traveled south and west through Egypt and Africa, while others moved into the Balkans and Europe. It is documented that by 1417 there were gypsies in Germany, in Italy by 1422, and by 1427 they were encamped at the gates of Paris.

When traveling in Europe, the gypsies claimed to be Christian pilgrims from "Little Egypt." Presenting themselves as pilgrims prevented persecution, and saying they were from Egypt got them a better price for their fortune-telling. But their Christianity was about as genuine as their Egyptian origin. Yet the name persisted. They were henceforth known as Egyptians or gypsies.

By the 17th Century, there were gypsies in England, and in 1715, nine Scottish gypsies were transported to Virginia, perhaps the first to reach the New World. Apparently most of the gypsies which came to America after that were from England.

Once in America, the gypsies followed the westward migration not far behind the first settlers. The roads which carried them all west soon became the home for these homeless nomads, leaving behind them a trail of poetry and pilferage.

Nondescript wanderers in cheap wagons and gaudy clothes from every quarter of the globe have been called gypsies, and Nebraska had its share of 48 them, too. But true gypsies were of a better class. They could be recognized by their beautifully ornamented and carved red wagons, shaped somewhat like cradles, drawn by fine horses. The typical wagon, or "wardo," had a large door at the back surrounded by lattice work and curtained windows with carved casings on the sides. Such finely crafted gypsy wagons were being made in Maryland as early as 1870, the best costing close to $2,000.

Despite their finery, the gypsies were known more for their shady practices than their fancy facades. Wherever the gypsies went, their reputation went with them. The prejudices against all minority groups followed them, too, as they were chased from place to place. The Fremont Herald of July 1, 1880, noted: "A tribe of gypsies has been encamped for two or three weeks near Omaha. They have been ordered away by the police."

But such local prejudice was usually not unfounded. While many gypsy men had honest trades such as copper smithing, lock mending, barrel making, and basket weaving, the primary source of their income was from the question able practices of their women, fortune telling, "bajour"—a sort of confidence game, and out-and-out stealing. As one chronicler states: "Wherever they roamed, the women told the fortunes and swindled and stole. Just about any thing they saw lying around loose, if it could be eaten or worn or sold or swapped or pawned, and if nobody was watching it, and if they could lift it and carry it, they'd steal it."

Perhaps compared to stealing, for tune-telling was an honest living for the gypsies, but this practice too was not well received, probably because it played on the intangibles of human nature, rather than the realities of the pocketbook. The gypsies themselves apparently did not believe in their soothsaying, even though they were superstitious and believed in charms and curses.

The Beatrice Express of June 17, 1875, recorded this incident: "A strolling band of gypsies visited the city Tuesday, and have since been plying their vocation fortune-telling. One of the female outfit gained admission to the jail and insisted on making some revelations for Preuit, confined for murder. She told him that he was perfectly innocent of the deed, which we suppose, of course, has lifted a great burden from his mind if he had any doubts of his own innocence." The judgment of the gypsy woman notwithstand ing, it was noted in the Express the next spring that Preuit was hanged.

Though most Nebraskans would have outwardly denied any affection for the gypsies and their romantic way of life, many surely longed inwardly for the freedom and excitement which gypsy life seemed to offer, for their lives were indeed like no others.

Babies were born in the open, and old men died in the open. Marriages were said to be valid only if performed by the light of the moon. Their costumes were unique, though real gypsies were rarely guady and ostentatious. Large earrings, a sash, a bright silk handkerchief or a shiny gold coin around their necks were their trademarks. Their language, Romany, was theirs alone. A sonorous, precise language, it is closely related to Sanskrit, the mother language of India. Romany is unwritten, yet many a song was sung and many a tale was told in its beautiful syllables.

They loved life for what it was. Shunning materialism, they were not avaricious. Though their practices could not be condoned, they stole from those who had plenty, and only for necessity.

They loved singing and dancing. No wardo was without a violin, guitar, or mandolin and no occasion went without music: weddings, baptisms, even funerals. It was said of the gypsies that when they were poor, they sang and danced, and when they were rich, they sang, danced, and ate, for food was another of their great loves. The common gypsy conception of paradise was a place where there was plenty to eat.

The gypsy's love for life and his fellows was the primary force in his life, as they had no religion, other than an occasional mixture of Christianity and ances tor worship. The harshest punishment, other than death, that a gypsy could receive from his own court of law, the "Romano Kris," was banishment.

Perhaps they feared being banished since they had no one else. While their lifestyle gave them freedom to a certain extent, it was also a sort of "vagabond age." While they came and went as they saw fit, they were still trapped in the life into which they were born, that of the foxes of the earth, always cowering from suspicious farmers, villagers, or any "gajo," as they called all non-gypsies.

But for better or worse, these colorful wayfarers quickly passed from the Nebraska scene. With the advent of the railroads, and later the automobile, the gypsy wagons were seen less and less. Perhaps the final blow was the depression. With odd jobs hardly available for the locals, the gypsies could find none at all. Their days on the road came to an end.

Nebraska saw the gypsies come and go. Really they were much like everyone else among whom they lived and moved-especially moved-and had their being. As they traveled down Nebraska's dusty trails, they watched for "patterns," those arrangements of sticks and grass and stones that served as signposts for their thousand years of roving. The messages might have said that Nebraskans were friendly and hospitable. They might have left saying in their Romany, "Miduvel atch pa trumende"-may God rest upon you.

where to go... Omaha Circle tour

THEY CALL Omaha Nebraska's Gateway City, for it stands on the threshold of the meandering Missouri River, welcoming travelers into the broad expanses of the Cornhusker state. All too often, though, visitors scurry through our largest city, shunning what they consider the hustle and bustle of big-town life in favor of more quiet environs outstate. They miss

Along with a number of other communities throughout the state, Omaha is now displaying the brown-and-white symbols of the Old West Trail City Circle Tours. By following these markers and the map on this page (also available from the local chamber of commerce) travelers will find their keys to adventure in Omaha all that much easier to use. With these aids, visitors need waste little time moving from one attraction to the next, to points of interest which might otherwise be over looked. Everyone wins with a Circle Tour.

Omaha offers a wide variety of at tractions, beginning at Joslyn Art Museum. An imposing $10 million structure, Joslyn features both permanent and traveling art exhibits ranging from traditional and old masters to pop and op. An extensive collection of early Western art is found here, too, and special programs are slated throughout the year, so that a full slate of events offers a constant variety.

The Mormon Cemetery is next on the agenda. This spot recalls the winter of 1846 when Brigham Young established his flock's cold-weather quarters here enroute to the promised land. That bitter winter, more than 600 saints perished, and today the cemetery is a nationally recognized memorial to their trials and hardships. Thousands visit it annually.

Omaha's Home for Boys is a 70-acre tract highlighted by Inspiration Hill and a spectacular view. Tours through this institution, known for its extensive 4-H program, are available by checking

with personnel at the administration building. Or, many may opt for a visit to the city's World War II Memorial Park, a $500,000 tribute to the nation's war dead. A moment here is a date with solitude that is heightened by the dignity of a sprawling rose garden.

Boys Town, the subject of two movies and uncounted written articles, is an incorporated City of Little Men. Established by Father Edward J. Flanagan as a home for unfortunate lads in 1917, the site today is a thriving community with its own post office and local government—all staffed and administered by youthful residents.

Spell Nebraska backwards, and you have Ak-Sar-Ben, a civic organization which lists its membership at more than 55,000 and reaches from one end of the state to the other. Omaha is the home of Ak-Sar-Ben Field, and no matter when a visit is planned, there is something in progress. Its rodeos, live stock shows, and pari-mutuel horse racing meets are known throughout the nation. And it is little wonder, since the city's Union Stockyards make livestock a major interest in this agricultural state. Sprawling over some 100 acres near the heart of the city, the stockyards have made Omaha the uncontested livestock marketing center of the world.

With their fingers on the pulse of the world, Omaha and adjacent Bellevue boast a distinctive feature in the head quarters of the Strategic Air Command. Security prevents tours of this 1,800 acre reservation, but the Aerospace Museum there is open to the public for a glimpse into the past, present, and future of man's airborne progress. Also on hand are the Bellevue Church and Bellevue Cabin. The former is the old est church in the state, built in 1856 by Presbyterian missionaries. It is in use even today as an Episcopalian place of worship. The cabin, which once stood on the Missouri River flood plain a few miles from its present location, is preserved as a memorial to the pioneers who settled the area in the 19th Century.

Omaha's Mount Vernon Gardens also invite a look. Replicas of George Washington's gardens, they lie on a promontory reputedly visited by explorers Lewis and Clark in 1804. And nearby, smallfry and adults alike will enjoy Henry Doorly Zoo with its out standing and growing exhibits of wild life, both rare and commonplace. Then, to round out Omaha's tour, the Union Pacific Museum awaits all who care to enter. Displays recall the people and places involved in the massive project of linking East and West by rail.

What to do

JULY brings to Nebraska 31 action-packed, fun-filled days of color and excitement. Starting with the fireworks of Independence Day, right down to the events of the last day, July holds fun and colorful entertainment for everyone.

Almost too numerous to list, activities on the opening day of the month include the State High School Rodeo finals at North Platte, the an nual Czech Festival at Clarkson, and the Famous Days of '56 Rodeo at Ponca.

Add several celebrations, throw in a sailing regatta, spice them with concerts, art displays, even a golf tournament, and July is off to a fast beginning.

The noise and thrill of the Fourth can be found in many organized celebrations across the state. Weeping Water, Kimball, Aurora, Bellevue, Humboldt, Oshkosh, Ralston, Red Cloud, Seward, and Tekamah are a few among the Nebraska cities and towns planning fireworks and other entertainment.

Governor J. J. Exon has proclaimed the first week in July as Safe Boating Week. In addition to following the proper rules of navigation and safety, boaters across the state are reminded that only constant awareness can prevent accidents from marring the fun to be had on Nebraska's lakes and rivers.

The Wild West Show at North Platte and the many rodeos and western celebrations add to the pageantry of the Old West. Cowboys, Indians, and the ageless traditions of Western life are brought back in numerous parades and celebrations. Notable among these are the 107th annual Indian Powwow at Winnebago and Gering's Oregon Trail Days.

Indian tribes from the United States and Canada attend the annual celebration of the return of Indian veterans more than 100 years ago. The Powwow brings together the lore and tradition of the first Americans. Buckskin, beaded dress, and traditional Indian dances highlight the three-day celebration.

Gering's Oregon Trail Days is a reconstruction and celebration of homesteading days and the trip west before the turn of the century. Set in the butte country of the state, the gathering recalls the hardships and the joys of frontier life in Nebraska.

The World Champion Steer Roping contest at Ogallala has all the excitement and color of the Old West. Between 25 and 35 top entrants from across the country vie for the fastest times with the proceeds going to the National Society for Crippled Children.

The eastern part of the state is not forgotten during July and activities in the urban areas include horse racing and baseball, concerts and plays. Among these are "Japan 72," a contemporary graphics display at Joslyn Art Museum in Omaha, and Larry Stark's "50 States" art show at Sheldon Art Gallery in Lincoln.

Brownville, on the Missouri River, offers much to the tourist and Nebraska as well in July, with concerts and art shows throughout the month.

The Lincoln Community Playhouse offers two plays during July, alternating productions to satisfy play-goers. The first, The Wizard of Oz, is followed by the more recent Broadway show, The Boys in the Band.

The Omaha Royals baseball team has some tough home games on schedule for July, with a meeting against the Iowa Oaks and a three day series with the Wichita Flyers starting the action at Omaha. Omaha also plays Denver and Tulsa at Omaha during the month.

The National Roller Skating Championships in Lincoln also attract par ticipants and spectators to the east ern part of the state. More than 1,500 skaters from across the nation have signed up for the nine-day event at Pershing Auditorium. They represent JULY 1973 the finalists from some 16,000 skaters in the country who competed in regional contests before coming to Lincoln in July.

All in all, July offers entertainment and activity for everyone.

FREEDOM TRAIN SINGERS

and utilities on a rather rundown but adequate rehearsal hall; to gas, oil and insurance for the panel stage and sound equipment to concerts. Services running the gamut from publicity to book keeping to transportation to preparation of posters are furnished by the Freedom Train's Parents Booster Club.

The group's self-sufficiency has brought out some of the finer character istics of what Coleman calls "just average kids." The dedication of individual members is almost overwhelming to an onlooker, especially when you realize the youngsters' age range is from 11 to 17 years.

The group has almost $11,000 worth of guitars, and almost all the money to buy them came from babysitting, washing cars, walking dogs, running errands and allowance savings. The group has also invested in more than $7,000 worth of stage sound equipment for its performances, the first of it purchased when a Freedom Train member donated his entire summer-job earnings to the cause.

"There's no time left for stealing hubcaps," one youth quipped, when asked how he budgets his time.

Devotion to the Freedom Train by in dividual members means more, however, than just the work of supporting and sustaining it.

"There's no point in collecting money if we're not worth hearing," a bright eyed 12-year-old says.

Making themselves worth listening to requires a great deal of rehearsal and preparation. The singers adapt all their own music for the more than 50 songs on their repertoire. This requires arrangements according to male and female voices, taking into consideration the maturity of individual voices, so that lead and harmony parts blend. Guitar music is arranged to provide pleasing accompaniment. Youngsters also practice in private so that they know their individual parts. The entire group rehearses once a week for three hours. Guitarists hold an additional three-hour practice session each week. When the group prepares for a concert or tour, the rehearsals double to two weekly workouts.

For Freedom Train Singers who are members of the select Casey Bach group (the title comes from Casey the railroad engineer, and Bach the father of har mony) there are many more hours of rehearsal. The same holds true for the Section Gang, an eight-member boys group. Despite the long hours, it's a rare occasion when a member of the Freedom Train is absent from a rehearsal, and it's almost unheard of for anyone to miss a performance.

Such a record means the youngsters give up a lot of other activities. Someone 56 might ask if that much self-discipline doesn't become a drag.

"Sometimes it does," one youth says, "for a minute. It's like being part of a family. Sometimes it seems like a drag, but no one would ever change it."

"We've learned to accept each other as individuals," another youth says. "That means leaving petty feelings about someone else behind. We're a closely knit group, and when two or three of us are angry or down, it hits everyone. For just that reason, everyone gives and takes and listens. We try to help each other whenever we can."

"Everybody must carry his share of the load and accept his share of responsibility," a soft-spoken boy says. "If one person falls down on the job, it's like dominoes. It starts a chain reaction affecting everyone."

The Freedom Train has created an other kind of closeness. "I never traveled before I joined the Freedom Train. Now I've been all over Nebraska," a freckled 12-year-old says. "I really like Nebraska and I really like its people."

The Freedom Train has learned that a sense of belonging is a two-way street. Last year it was named North Platte's "Goodwill Ambassadors in Song." The title was bestowed on the group by an official resolution passed by North Piatte's City Council.

"These young people, with their music, have expressed faith and confidence and pride in North Platte, in Nebraska, and in this country. They have generated in other people that same faith, confidence and pride not only in the town, the state and the country, but in the qualities of young people today," North Platte Mayor Robert Phares said at the time.

Negro children in the ghetto of a Colorado city made one of the strongest impressions on the Freedom Train and what it means to be Goodwill Ambassadors. "For six- and seven-year-olds, those kids sure knew a lot of four-letter words," one singer said, as he told about the incident. With free time between performances, some of the singers had gone walking and had stopped to sit on the steps of an old building.

"The kids came up and started yelling at us, using the best of their worst language," the storyteller went on. When the Freedom Train members got no response from the children by talking, they resorted to singing.

"There we were, singing everything we knew while they shouted all the obscenities they knew. Then suddenly, those kids sang with us and asked us to sing some more. It was like sunshine breaking through. Music is like that. It reaches a lot of people."

Music has also been a breakthrough for many of the members who joined the Freedom Train during the past five years. "The first time I heard the Freedom Train I knew I had to be-a part of it someday,"

NEBRASKAland TRADING POST

OUTDOOR NEBRASKAland of the Air

one girl says. "I forgot I wasn't really talented."

"It's not all singing voice or talent that counts when you audition for the Freedom Train," Coleman says, pointing out that there are 35 understudies waiting for openings. "It's also the drive and desire and willingness to pull with the group that matters. When an understudy joins us, we simply start working on polishing his rough edges."

Once the rough edges are gone, some truly lovely gemstones emerge. An example is 13-year-old jim Grabouski. Jim was eight years old when he joined the Freedom Train. Two months later he wrote his first song. The Freedom Train now has 16 copyrighted songs, 12 of them composed by Jim. All 16 songs music and lyrics—were written by Free dom Train youngsters under 14 years of age.

As the group has grown during the past five years—the 1973 Train represents the third turnover—five of the singers have become music majors in college, even though none of them ever had much interest in music before joining the Freedom Train. wo 16-year-olds teach a total of 50 guitar students in addition to the tremendous amount of time they devote to rehearsals and performances. Neither of them was more than a plucker before the train spurred them on.

That the rough edges can be honed to such a fine sheen is a credit to Coleman's willingness to work with the Freedom Train.

"How many people do you know who are willing to devote five years to a bunch of kids?" one member says with the pride they all feel about Coleman. The Freedom Train! It doesn't run on tracks and it isn't diesel powered. Its crew is under age and its cargo is intangible.

It rolls on song and is powered by enthusiasm. Its 45-member crew carries a cargo of goodwill. In their bright red, white and blue outfits; the singers have traveled thousands of miles to bring smiles and happy tears, laughter and applause, warmth and friendship to thousands of people.

The fire and vitality of their performances leave hearts lighter with echoes of youthful exurberance. They tingle your spine with a message that comes across . . . loud and clear and sweet.