Speak up

Sir / In the article "Plum Creek Circle Tour", in the March issue of NEBRASKAland, you mention a book about name sites in Nebraska. Could you tell me the title of this book and where to obtain it?

The book's title is Nebraska Place names by J. T. Link and is published by the University of Nebraska Press. Copies can be obtained directly from the publisher or through most book stores. Editor

Sir / May I congratulate you on the May issue of NEBRASKAland. Not only is it a beautiful number but informative and reasonable as well. We will never solve the problems of ecology without knowing the conditions involved.

Sir / My compliments to you for the excellent job on the prairie grouse section in the May issue of NEBRASKAland. Nicely broken down by topic, well written and illustrated, and interesting to all, I'm sure.

Sir / Regarding the flower pictures exhibited in your April issue. It appears Mr. Beaumont is a better photographer than botanist. AUGUST 1973 Two pictures are titled fringed loosestrife, the cover and the flower pictured on page 41. Neither is correct.

The cover picture is a gromwel I (puccoon) of the genus Lithospermum. Based on detail I can see on page 41 the plant in question is a buttercup (Ranunculus). The loose strife alluded to is of the genus Lythrum and is characterized by four or six petals. The flower shown has only five.

The spiderwort is an excellent picture.

Sir / In response to Carlee Mathis and Charles Adcock (May NEBRASKAland). An objective study of the records will convince most fair minded persons that veterans of the First World War faced a hard path. The educational level of the men serving in that war was about sixth grade. No governmental aid program existed to help them. In short, the World War I serviceman was basically on his own once Uncle Sam gave him $60 on the day of his discharge. So if you men do not think we should be given a license I would gladly turn mine in.

Sir / I am writing in response to the letter appearing in the April issue of NEBRASKA land over the signature of Mr. James R. Sommerville.

It has been the privilege of my sons, several friends, and myself to hunt in the Curtis area for several years. We have made some of the warmest friendships we have ever enjoyed, not only with ranchers and businessmen, but with townsfolk as well. Perhaps Mr. Sommerville is not cognizant of the facts which lie behind his reception in your state. While he evidently took the time to ask for permission to hunt, he may not be aware of the vast numbers of slob hunters who think that they purchase, along with their licenses, the right to the free use of private property and the freedom to spray lead anywhere they choose. Perhaps Mr. Sommerville has not had the opportunity to go out with friends who are landowners in Nebraska to be shown the water tanks shot full of holes, or the dead stock left lying where it fell, or the fences destroyed, or the holes shot through the walls of homes, or the crops trampled underfoot, or the litter left behind by unfeeling and uncaring hunters.

I further believe there is a dangerous and arrogant assumption which is evident in Mr. Sommerville's statement concerning the forcing of the rancher to open up his lands to hunting by federal pressure. It seems in credible that this gentleman cannot see that when it becomes possible for the government to override the property rights of the landowner in Nebraska, or anywhere else in the West, (Continued on page 6)

NEBRASKAland

SPEAK UP

it will also be possible for the government to order Mr. Sommerville to open his land in Toledo to some folks who would like to use his back yard for a picnic.

Sir / It is extremely unfortunate that Mr. Sommerville's recent hunting trip to our state was less than an enjoyable experience for him. I think he should, however, be urged to examine the other side of the coin. Having spent my youth on a farm, being raised by farm people, and growing up around other farm people, I cannot feel that they are all as bad as Mr. Sommerville makes them to be. Mr. Sommerville has obviously never had the experience of seeing his corn and milo crops trampled or driven through by out-of-state cars. He has obviously never had to round up an entire herd of cattle after a gate has been left open and he has obviously never had the pleasure of seeing his mother's guinea fowl blasted from a car window no more than 15 yards from the farm house. Mr. Sommer ville's letter seems to be full of sour grapes. As for his decision not to return to the state of Nebraska, all that I can say is that I certainly hope that the next time Mr. Sommer ville decides to go pheasant hunting, that he finds the people in the neighboring states of Iowa, South Dakota, or Kansas to be more hospitable than he felt they were in Big Red Country.

Sir / We also hunt in the eastern part of the state. In the five years that my two young sons and myself have hunted in Nebraska I have been refused once and that because the farmer had just brought in new feeder cattle. In most cases when we ask permission to hunt, landowners even tell us the best areas.

I find all that Mr. Sommerville says hard to believe. We have found hunting in Nebraska to be just the opposite of what he described.

for the Record

By the People...For the People

Over the years, it has become increasingly apparent that some of the recreational lands owned and controlled by the Game and Parks Commission have evolved into primarily local-use areas. At the same time, it has become obvious that the interests of all Nebraskans would be better served if such lands could be turned over to local control.

Local pride is a factor, for several communities expressed a desire to develop these areas to a much greater level than would be possible under continued state operation. Maintenance, too, could be extended to a larger degree under local control.

On the other hand, the Commission had to determine the best course of action for such areas, given its limited resources and the much broader spectrum of its responsibilities. After considerable study, it appears that the transfer of such recreational lands to local control should be encouraged when appropriate. However, that was but the first step. Legislative action was needed, for the state is prohibited from disposing of its lands to another entity without specific authorization in the law.

When the 1973 Unicameral convened, the Game and Parks Commission backed legislation that would allow the agency to transfer owner ship of certain recreational lands meeting the local use prerequisite. While four specific areas were named in LB/63, the legislation, in a broader sense, encourages counties and/or cities to seek management and control of a recreational facility when it is primarily of local significance.

The legislation signed by the Governor in January establishes the ground rules for current transfers. Essentially, a local entity attempting to obtain management and control of an area must set up a recreational board for that purpose and follow the steps of obtaining Commission approval for a transfer as well as ultimate legislative authority.

The four areas immediately affected included Longbridge State Special Use (wildlife) Area and Arnold, Cottonmill, and Stolley state recreation areas. The Merrick County Recreation Board has already assumed control of the Longbridge area, which encompasses 194 acres, including 86 acres of water. Details are still to be worked out on the other three areas. However, the legislation permits those transfers to be implemented January 1, 1974. Stolley includes 43 acres at Grand Island; Cottonmill is 98 acres with 30 water acres in Buffalo County, and Arnold covers 40 acres with 18 acres of water near Arnold. Should the local agencies abdicate responsibility for these areas, they will revert to the Commission.

Other transfers may or may not be forthcoming in the future, for the Commission must act in the best interests of all the citizens of Nebraska. However, the recreational needs of all the people and how they can best be met are and will continue to be prime considerations in any decisions involving lands under the jurisdiction of the Game and Parks Commission.

too proud to troll

FOR MOST ANGLERS, even avid ones, getting out to a likely spot and losing lures is an occasional thing, an excursion to be fitted in when free time from the job, responsibilities at home, and weather, permit.

Most fishermen would like to get out oftener, especially when they get experienced enough to know how to go about catching whatever species of fish they may be after. Harold Ensley, a television personality at Kansas City, and one of the nation's best known anglers, is about as far on the other end of the spectrum as possible. He fishes as a rule, not as an exception — at least five days a week for the past 20 years. And, he still enjoys it as much as ever, if not more.

His fishing, of course, is not restricted to the local ponds or streams near his home. He wanders quite far afield, hitting exotic waters in many countries, and usually getting there at the right time to find peak action.

On June 6 through 8 last year, he was fishing again, this time in Nebraska. Hardly a rare occasion, he gets here at least once a year. In fact, a several-day fishing excursion at Lake McConaughy has become a tradition, not only for Ensley, but for the angling buffs from a sizable area of Kansas, primarily around Syracuse and Ulysses.

Nearly 10 years ago now, a three-party trip was planned between friends to visit Big Mac to fish. However, when word of the excursion spread at the coffee shop in Syracuse, Kansas, several other people expressed interest in going. When the day came, it must have looked like a mass exodus from that area, with dozens of boat-laden vehicles and campers heading north. It was a carefree and fun experience for the group, and they had time for socializing despite the fact that it was strictly an informal gathering.

All the boats involved do not travel around linked by anchor chains or anything. In fact, they usually disperse over a large portion of the lake, each vessel aimed at a different section of water in search offish.

Whether 15 or 50 boats take part in the fishing foray, the trip is almost certainly a success regardless of the weight of stringers. But, these are no casual, inexperienced anglers, and seldom, if ever, does anyone go long without finding action.

Upon hearing that Harold Ensley was scheduled to arrive at French's Paradise on the north shore on June 7, I arranged things so I could be there at the same time, and mentioned to Harold that we would like to get some photos.

"Grab your fishing gear and hop into the boat," responded Harold and French.

I shoved, kicked, and carried stuff aboard, and soon we were on our way. The fourth passenger in the boat was 12-year-old Darrell, French's grandson, who is a pretty avid angler already. Even if fishing was slow for a while, things never got dull as Harold and Darrell carried on a high-spirited and hilarious rivalry.

Harold's son, Dusty, who does much of the filming for Harold's TV show, was manning another boat. Like his father, he can put in 18 hours or more a day fishing without thinking he is overdoing it.

It was shortly after 1 p.m. when we got underway, and several brief stops were made searching for action. A steady wind of about 15 miles per hour provided good momentum for drift fishing, so we would pull into a likely spot, cast and retrieve, or let the lures trail behind the boat. But, there was no response from the aquatic creatures below.

With nothing happening, Frenchie suggested we troll, but Harold argued.

"Trolling is strictly a last resort. I don't troll unless all else fails, and then do it very grudgingly. It just doesn't seem like fishing, to me."

Frenchie, who has known Harold for a long time, only chuckled and shook his head. He was apparently just ribbing Harold, and he wasn't about to stop there. Later in the day he would have us trolling, and Harold wouldn't be fighting it. After all, he would rather fish then eat or sleep, as I found out later.

During our several moves, we really didn't get much fishing done because whenever we came near a boat (Continued on page 42)

Buffalo City

DESPITE the multitudinous jobs that are tackled and often accomplished by the do-it-yourselfer, such things as laying out towns, zoning, and drawing up plats are usually left to the hands of the professional engineer or architect. Yet one of Nebraska's most recent additions to the roster of communities is a credit to hobbyists in the business, for Buffalo City, U.S.A., was created and built by Mr. and Mrs. Bill Stites of Nebraska City.

Perhaps the need for another town doesn't seem necessary, as there seem to be plenty of urban areas around the country to handle the great numbers of people constantly on the move and looking for a new town to settle in.

Buffalo City didn't start out with elaborate sewer systems, tract housing, and miles of concrete curb and gutter. In fact, it never will have very sophisticated developments, although it is growing bigger and better all the time. Now just seven years old, Buffalo City is a small settlement whose permanent population could all fit into one car, but whose ranks swell during "boom" periods to several hundred.

Located just an hour's journey by ox cart from Nebraska City in southeast Nebraska, Buffalo City is not a zoo or a hangout for retired buffalo hunters. Instead, it is an ever-expanding town fashioned from mementoes dating from late in the last century.

All of the 18 buildings on the site are curiosities unto themselves, but some stand out more than others. The Purple Sage Saloon is one of them. This remnant of a bygone era sports a fancy back bar, battered old round tables, an elevated stage where dancehall girls cavort during summer weekends, and a balcony on two sides which provide an excellent vantage point from which to leer at the girls.

The dancing, random shootouts and other goings on are all in the spirit of fun, provided by students at Peru State College just a few miles away.

Exhibiting a much more sedate atmosphere than the rowdy saloon next door is another focal point of the town —the hotel. The front is what remains of the old Elms Hotel from Nebraska City, but the lobby of yore is now a colorful and excellent restaurant. Buffalo steaks and venison chops are not on the menu, and the kitchen isn't supervised by a grizzled old trail cook, but the setting and good food are enough to attract more than 200 people on Sundays even several weeks before the actual opening of the "tourist" season at the village

Laid out with two streets leading off a main intersection, Buffalo City boasts a two-story bank building which was rebuilt from the remains of a former Nebraska City building built in 1877. Many fixtures and certainly the original flavor of the establishment were incorporated as well, including the iron grills of the tellers' cages.

There is a big general store, complete with potbellied stove, and jammed with hundreds of items most in demand several generations ago. An old-time ice cream parlor which actually dispenses homemade ice cream, sodas, and Sundays is next door to the general store and kitty corner across from the bank. A bandstand will eventually be built nearby.

There is also a newspaper office recreated from photos of the first such shop west of the Missouri River. And, a depot formerly located at Paul, Nebraska lies at the end of a side street, where is also found a barber shop which looks just like it did three-quarters of a century ago. Farther up the main street is a blacksmith shop, several buildings, primarily housing antiques, and at the end, a large stable. Of course, there are a few real buffalo wandering around the area, too.

Visitors to the community don't all react the same, but a general feeling of nostalgic reminiscence comes over those even vaguely familiar with the tail end of the era represented here. And, most youngsters are able to get a better insight and appreciation of what life was like back in the "good old days." The establishments at Buffalo City preserve or recreate conditions as they were.

In some respects, Buffalo City is more the result of evolution than design. Long interested in antiques and such, the Stites had collected quite an inventory of old stuff, some items purchased and others given to them by friends. After a while, when the ceilings started getting in the way, the need for storage facilities became unavoidable. An old building was pressed into service on part of the 160 acres where they operate a summer camp for children. From the vast array of material they had, it was realized they would be able to fully decorate several offices with antique components, and the concept of the town was underway.

From then on, it was only a matter of money, time, and a lot of work. Bill did most of the work himself, and that was no slight accomplishment. With each task completed, at least two more came up, and the urge for authenticity became stronger.

From that first rough building crammed with old goodies, facilities grew until now more than 10,000 square feet in various buildings are devoted to the housing of antiques. And, there is still more to come, including a large structure to exhibit numerous old wheeled vehicles. Still, Bill Stites emphasizes that there will be no problem with urban sprawl and no slums will develop. There is a simplicity and hominess about the place that isn't disrupted even though many visitors stroll about.

Fantastic interest in items of the past has been generated in recent years, but there are too few places where one can sit or stroll among such a realistic setting. Perhaps that is their real value —allowing people to take a few moments or hours to enjoy the flavor of yesteryear, complete with board sidewalks, a few stray dogs, and even a few weeds and clumps of grass here and there. That's Buffalo City, U.S.A.

Even as the water started to rise, fish stocking was started

THE HISTORY OF LAKE MCCONAUGHY PART II

UPON COMPLETION of Kingsley Dam across the North Platte River valley near Ogallala in 1941, Nebraska's largest reservoir started filling, although it took more than 10 years before the 35,000 acres were covered.

And, with each passing minute, the influx of high-quality water increased the potential for a magnificent fishing lake even before maximum pool was reached.

How Lake McConaughy came to be the best fishing water in the state, both in numbers of fish and variety of species, involved many factors and considerable time, and the story is still far from being finished.

In addition to the several species found naturally 16 in the river, stocking of new varieties was started as soon as the pool was big enough to sustain them. Game and Parks Commission records show that as early as August 3, 1941, channel cat fish were put into the new reservoir. More than 22,000 cats of mixed size went in, followed during the next several months by more than 300,000 crappie, perch, northern pike, bluegill and large mouth bass.

Through the foresight of the Fisheries Division, a hatchery had previously been planned at North Platte, primarily to hatch and raise fish for release at Lake Mac and other Platte River and Republican River reservoirs. Other sources were used, including the other state and federal hatcheries. Ensuing NEBRASKAland

Perhaps the most remarkable development at Lake McConaughy, as well as other reservoirs in the state, was that of the white bass.

Late in May of 1944, the initial release of white bass was made. Obtained from Iowa, where they were taken from the Mississippi River, a grand total of 39 adult spawners went into McConaughy. Two years later, anglers using the lake started hauling in unknown fish by the thousands, AUGUST 1973 and started looking around for someone to identify them. A description was called to Lincoln by Loren Bunning, the area conservation officer —where fisheries personnel identified them as white bass.

WILD WEST SHOW

With a flair for the flamboyant, a second showman follows in the steps of Buffalo Bill in North Platte

SOME MEN march to the beat of a different drummer. It is in their souls that they are a breed apart —something special in a world of the mundane. William Frederick (Buffalo Bill) Cody was one such man, a figure to be reckoned with even in his early days on the plains. A tough, brawling character with a shock of flowing white hair gentled only slightly by a distinguishing moustache and beard, Cody was one who stood out from all the rest. Others looked to him for leadership which he most often provided.

A dominating personality and flamboyant air made him a natural when, in 1882, the people of North Platte began casting about for some one to turn their next Independence Day celebration into something unique. What resulted was the birth of rodeo in the form of Cody's Old Glory Blow-Out. But the celebration was only a seed of what lay ahead. The ex-Chief of Scouts and guide for the U.S. Army, who made his name from taking buffalo to feed the troops, had long nurtured a desire to bring the West as he had known it to the masses. With the conception and presentation of the Fourth of July shindig, his dreams were on the verge of realization.

Cody's fledgling show matured and, over the years, evolved into Buffalo Bill's Wild West and Congress of Rough Riders of the World, a production that was to tour not only the nation, but the globe. Every where it went, the production drew rave reviews as it enthralled spectators. All things must end, however, and the final performance of Buffalo Bill's extravaganza came in 1913. Nebraska and the West were fast becoming civilized, and when Cody died in 1917, a pall fell over the raucous circuit he and his show had known.

Though Buffalo Bill and the Wild West of which he had been a part were gone, rodeo was not. In communities across the nation, cowboys displayed their skills for ever-growing numbers of enthusiasts. Bronco busting, calf roping, and bull riding kept the world of the working cowhand alive for most, but there was something missing — the world which had spawned him. That, too, was to change.

In the summer of 1971, shaggy bison once again thundered across Nebraska sod as they had in Cody's time and Buffalo Bill's Wild West and Congress of Rough Riders of the World stirred from a slumber that had lasted more than half a century. Again, the West William F. Cody kept alive reared out of the North Platte dust and set out to leave its mark on a new generation.

Seldom are two men cast from the same mold, but the drumbeat that set the tempo for the first Old Glory Blow-Out in 1883 now counts ca dence for the modern model. Like the great showmen of yesteryear, Montie Montana, Jr., son of the famed Western trick rope artist, had long fostered a love of the Old West and its lore. As best he can recall, the idea of putting together a tour ing Wild West show came to him

when he was the only cavalry officer in the U.S. Army and stationed at Fort Carson, Colorado.

The volunteer cavalry drill platoon, which included a group of ex-cavalry sergeants, had been or ganized and outfitted by Montana. He had visited the former Army cavalry headquarters at Fort Riley, Kansas, and searched the shops of Manhattan and Junction City, Kansas, acquiring old campaign hats, boots, handkerchiefs, brass, saddles, and cavalry wagons.

"In 1959," Montana said, "we put on a pageant of Colorado history. We had Indians attack a wagon train, and the cavalry come to the rescue. The scene was reminiscent of those presented in the Wild West shows which toured at the turn of the century, and I thought to myself how great it would be if such a show were on the road again. That was the beginning of my idea to present a Wild West show for the enjoyment of today's audiences.

"I realized I had a lot to learn about producing a show, however," Montana continued. "I had grown up being a performer and didn't know a lot about what went on behind the scenes."

After leaving the Army in the early 60s, Montana returned home to California where he joined his father for appearances throughout the country. "All the time I was performing during those years though," Montana stated, "I was watching who was selling and buying popcorn and trying to figure out why people turned up to see the show. I asked for other work besides performing and did publicity, sold tickets or anything else they would give me, and I found I enjoyed the production end very much."

It was during this time he decided that, more than anything else, he wanted to recreate and produce a Wild West show.

In the summer of 1971, Montana realized his goal when he opened performances of Buffalo Bill's Wild West and Congress of Rough Riders of the World in Cody's hometown of North Platte, almost a century after the Old Glory Blow-Out had taken place.

"My staff and I had researched Buffalo Bill's show as thoroughly as we could," Montana said, "and we tried to be as authentic as possible in our presentation, along with updating the show a little with the inclusion of some modern variety acts. "This is a family show," Montana stated. "I wanted to present a show where a whole family could come and enjoy themselves. There are few places today where that can be done. I wanted this show to be one of them."

Last year saw larger and even more enthusiastic audiences in attendance in North Platte and, according to Montana, Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show will be presented an extra week this year in order to accommodate the many Nebraska visitors who want to see this revival of Cody's grand old show. The 1973 edition of Buffalo Bill's Wild West will be performed nightly at the Wild West Arena in North Platte beginning July 21 and continuing through August 26.

You dragged junk in; Can't you drag it out?

PEOPLE are still littering. Areas around trash barrels look better than most—perhaps that's progress —but there are too many areas where trash barrels cannot go. It's true, there are few litter barrels right along the lakeshore. It's true, the managers don't make it super easy for all users to be neat. But there are reasons for that. Is there any reason why you, who carried that garbage in, cannot carry it out?

Your empty beverage cans are considerably lighter than they were when you carried them in full. And those tabs; why not just drop them in the cans when you open them? You'll never swallow one.

The Nebraska Game and Parks Commission has no litter barrels along many shorelines because there is no way of emptying them. Sand or mud is often too soft or banks too steep to drive a truck to the barrel. Full, the barrels are too heavy for a man to carry across the soft or steep stretch. Vehicles can't and shouldn't penetrate heavy vegetation. Even if a truck could be driven in, the weekly trips across that unspoiled area you use would erode it away, or kill the plants.

Most users have heard the furor in Nebraska about the operation and maintenance of state parks and recreation areas. There have not been enough funds to go around. Yet no one wants the spot in his area closed.

"The area managers are there —we're paying them —why can't they pick up," you say.

Superintendent Jack Johnson has more than 100 miles of shore line at Lake McConaughy to clean with limited personnel. At Sherman Reservoir, Superintendent John Phifer is faced with 65 miles of shoreline. Perhaps you would like the state to levy a special tax on you to help maintain parks.

Thousands of man-hours and thousands of tax dollars are spent every year picking up litter. You wouldn't tolerate that in your home —why put up with it in your parks and playgrounds. If your youngster walks through your living room dropping his coat on the floor along the way, how do you react? By picking it up without a word? Then he'll probably be one of those who drop whatever's handy, always expecting someone to be right behind him.

Throughout the spring, summer and fall, while you are vacationing, park superintendents are doing their best with manpower and equipment to keep park areas clean. But there are too many of you and too few of them. To keep all park areas spotless all the time would require an astronomical budget if all users just dropped their trash. Yet no one feels he deserves less than spotless parks.

Apparently there are many fishermen who don't believe their monofilament line is offensive. And who could think pop tabs and plastic six-pack holders will do any harm? Who cares?

All three of those items are small and light in color. They don't show up much, but all three are killers and cripplers of waterfowl and fish. Have you ever seen a mallard drake or a white bass dying of starvation because of pop tabs? Pop tabs are shiny, they attract birds' and fishes' attention, and they are lethal. Have you ever spotted a Canada goose choking with a plastic ring around his neck, or a puddle duck with its legs amputated by monofilament? Game and Parks Commission field personnel (Continued on page 42)

Geological Survey topographic map marked Doughboy. Our itinerary is to trace the course of the Snake River from that point to its juncture with Merritt Reservoir, and then to follow the north shore of that impoundment to the retaining dam. We have set no timetable, fully in tending to move at a pace compatible with our interests and encounters —the success of our walk not being measured in miles, but in the written and photographic record of the natural history of this stretch of river and sandhills.

9:00 p.m. If our pace continues as it did this afternoon, we will be a month in our undertaking. From Doughboy to our first night's camp can be little more than four miles. The north bank's terrain was kind to us, being in general a broad grassy valley of low relief. Loose sand, though, made for uncertain footing and even after readjustments our pack frames were not riding well. Sherman Pond, an aging oxbow transformed by silting and invading vegetation into a marshland, was only a mile from our starting point and prompted our first stop.

Geologically, this portion of the Snake possesses all the characteristics of an aging river a meandering course flowing through a fairly wide floodplain. Numerous sandbars and coves are being claimed by red-tinged sedges. Islands rising as much as three feet above the water's surface are common. Thus far the floodplain has been forested beyond our expectations cedars, willow, hackberry and ash being the predominant species. None, in my estimation, exceed 30 years in age. It is likely that the Snake, like other prairie-plain rivers, was devoid of trees until the white man controlled the prairie fires that had previously precluded the survival of woody plants and maintained the grassland composition. Even though they may be ecologically misplaced, they are welcome.

The sandhills are greening unusually late this year, most likely delayed by the extended period of cool, overcast weather. To date, only the lowland meadows have turned, but slowly the color is crawling the valley walls into the hills.

The trees are universally in flower and the shrubs even more gaudily so. Wild plum is abundant everywhere and at its finest point of blossom. Wild currants profusely line the river and are heavy with their yellow, trumpet-like flowers. Chokecherries are a bit more practical than the other shrubs, having set a dense cover of foliage before being so presumptuous as to bloom. Their flower heads are forming, though, and in another week their white blossoms will

command attention.

The earliest of the plains flowers are just now emerging into flower. Showy peavine, the toxic perennial of the sandhills, is the most often encountered. The yellow blossoms of prairie groundsel or ragwort, and of narrow leaf puccoon are just beginning to add their splashes of color to the winter-bleached grasslands.

Animal life, too, is beginning to arouse from winter slumber or return from more Southerly points. The blowouts and beaches are teeming with maroon-and-cream tiger beetles. Generally intolerant of others of their species, the predatory insects have seemingly set aside their differences to facilitate the chore at hand —mating. Painted lady butterflies are swarming the currant blossoms. Mallards and blue-winged teal are paired and abundant in the backwaters. The bird life encountered on our first afternoon has been a compromise of prairie and woodland species. Brown thrashers are unexpectedly numerous in the brushy river-bottom and the occasional warblers are seen or heard. More typical of sandhills bird life, though, were a pair of willets, a threesome of curlew, and numerous killdeer and sandpipers. Two turkey vultures soared briefly overhead, prompting some jests about the outcome of our journey.

Our first camp is set on a plateau 200 feet above the Snake's twisting course. A rapid moving cloud front from the northwest has momen tarily blotted out the sun. Perhaps it will rain tonight. J. F.

Nothing feels as good as this—to pull off boots and shed the agony of this hot day: to be indolent for an hour, to indulge soreness and ache, to bathe in deliberate motionlessness. Ion is down casting where the river narrows. Think ing what? Each cast is evenly spaced, as if measuring and remeasuring the procession of hills which pile to the west. Each cast begins at the herd of deer watching attentively from a distant rim of sand, and arcs across a line of hills which the river finally cuts. Each cast, from where I lie, repeats the distance of today's walk. I find it difficult to think ahead or back, so complete is this fatigue, so enjoyable the luxury of not moving. I am aware only of the simmering pot of stew which is the day's reward, the meandering river which seems to flow golden from the level sun. There is no tomorrow at this moment; even the morning and afternoon fuse with the impossible past. This is freedom, to know only the proportions of the present, to see and draw no conclusions, to watch the world as do the deer, to know only vague desires, thinking nothing, to slip finally into sleep, troubled only by coyotes crying one to another in the countless hills. G. B.

Snake River 1 W, 5 S of the Niobrara Division of the Nebraska National Forest Headquarters May 11, 1973

10:30 a.m. While our hilltop camp last night offered a striking view, it afforded precious little protection from the elements. Reheated stew and hot chocolate comprised our breakfast menu. By 8:30 a.m. we had broken camp and were moving eastward again.

Webster's bridge, our planned but unreached destination yesterday, is still a mile down the river. We covered little distance yesterday. At a windmill near the bridge, we exchange slightly tinted river water boiled the night before for icy clear underground water. The wind is relentless.

3:15 p.m. The physical character of the Snake has proven unexpectedly varied thus far. The first five miles we walked were typical of an aging river —a meandering course, wide shallow flow, numerous oxbows and a broad, forested flood plain. East of Webster's Bridge the channel narrows, shooting rapidly through a steep walled canyon. The banks now are compact sandstone dotted with young cedars. After only a mile of this "young" river, the Snake changes character again. Fording the channel at the foot of a high sand cliff, we enter a broad, flat pene plain that runs uninterrupted for almost five miles. Along this wide, treeless valley we hack away at the miles, more than compensating for the short walk of the previous day. Though we are pressed by no schedules, both Greg and I find ourselves pushing to cover ground. The pressured pace of civilized life is only slowly purged from your system.

A three-foot blue racer was hunting one of those meadows. It was the first snake encountered thus far. While asking permission to hike the private land that borders the river, one rancher told us of the former abundance of rattlesnakes in the area, especially when prairie dog towns were still common. While ranchers still come across a few rattlers every year, their finds are exceptions rather than the rule, especially this early in the season. The racers's speed was impressive, requiring a fast walk to stay alongside —Greg and I kept up with him for a hundred yards or more before he conceded the race and looped himself into a posture more conducive for photos. A reptile of open fields and grasslands, the blue racer is a nonpoisonous, nonconstricting insect-, lizard- and small-bird-feeder. His color is almost as striking as the effortless flow of his movement. Not blue at all in this (Continued on page 46)

From eggs to adults, rainbows make many trips. Often, the last journey is inside angler's creel after putting up a scrap at the Two Rivers Recreation Area lake

Trout for the Taking

AN ARM-TINGLING JOLT, a tight line, a trout breaking water, and a short but furious battle climax management of the trout lake at Two Rivers, a 6.7-acre sandpit in the Two Rivers Recreation Area southeast of Venice. Just as in any venture, events leading to success start many months before.

The first event that starts the wheels turning in the management of this lake is the ordering of rainbow trout eggs from Plymouth Rock, Massachusetts. The eggs are shipped by rail to the Rock Creek Hatchery in southwest Nebraska, located just north of Parks, about 15 months before grown fish are needed in the lake. The eggs are placed in hatching troughs filled with circulating water, and usually hatch in 30 to 35 days.

The trout measure only a little over half an inch at hatching. These newly hatched trout (known as sac fry) carry a bulging "yolk sac" on their abdomens which serves as a portable food supply during the two to three weeks following hatching. Not until the yolk sac is almost entirely absorbed do the fry begin to forage for food. At this point, they are introduced to a high protein diet composed primarily of fish meal. When the fry reach one or two inches in length, they are moved from the hatching troughs to outdoor circular raceways where they grow to four or five inches in length.

At this stage, the trout reach an important crossroad. Half of the trout remain at the Rock Creek Hatchery, while the others are transferred to the Grove Lake Trout Rearing Station near Royal. Even though the rainbow trout are in two different locations now, their life patterns are still quite similar. They are stocked either in raceways or ponds in both locations, and are fed daily until they reach nine to 11 inches in length. They are then labeled "catchable" and are ready to be stocked in the trout lake at Two Rivers. The trout have been checked periodically throughout this period for disease and growth rate.

Once the trout are ready to be stocked in the lake, the actual management begins. The trout lake is managed as a "put and take" lake, one requiring a fee (in addition to possession of a Nebraska fishing li cense) for the privilege of using its intensively managed fishery. State law prohibits the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission from making a profit, but allows for break-even charges. Special regulations apply. A trout tag must be purchased by everyone who fishes. The tag currently costs $2 and entitles the holder to catch up to five trout, but he may use only one pole with no more than two hooks. No trout landed may be returned to the water. The fisherman must return his tag and report his catch at the end of each daily fishing trip.

The trout lake is unique in that it supports rainbows during summer months. Rainbow trout require that the water be 70 degrees Fahrenheit or cooler and that the water have four or more parts per million dissolved oxygen. The water in the trout lake stratifies during the summer, as do most sandpits in Nebraska. When a lake stratifies, it has three distinct layers of water. The bottom layer, called the hypolimnion, is cooler than 70 degrees, but carries no dissolved oxygen. The top layer, called the epilimnion, is warmer than 70 degrees and usually has more than five parts per million oxygen. Between these two layers is a mixing layer called the thermocline, which is usually warmer than 70 degrees and has at least four parts per million oxygen. But in the Two River Trout Lake at least part of this layer is cooler than 70 degrees, a unique aspect which allows it to support trout during the hot, summer months. This is one of very few lakes in eastern Nebraska with this characteristic. During the summer, the trout live in a thin layer of water extending across the lake, usually located between four and seven feet below the surface, and at times no more than a foot thick. This is why an angler who fishes with a bobber and adjusts it so the bait is located in the thermocline experiences exceptional success during summer months.

Occasionally, hot weather during the summer months severely restricts the amount of cool, oxygen-rich water to the extent that trout experience difficulty coping with the lake's midsummer environment. During these periods, the trout may discontinue feeding and become difficult to catch. In July and August of 1972, the amount of trout-support ing water became more restricted than ever in the lake's history, fish ing success declined, and finally, large numbers of trout died. Game and Parks Commission personnel found that by pumping the stagnant water from the lake bottom, cool and clean trout-supporting ground water quickly flowed into the lake. Consequently, by mid-August, the lake had sufficiently recovered so that it was producing good catches with no further losses of trout.

The pumping operation worked so well that in the future the pump will remain at the lake's edge ready to come to the rescue should the trout lake suffer from a recurrence of the condition, with a lack of trout supporting water.

The lake is usually stocked so that the average catch is between 3 1/2 to four trout per fisherman. The trout are transported to the lake by truck from either the Rock Creek Hatchery or the Grove Lake Rearing Station. These trucks usually carry between 2,500 and 3,000 fish a load, depending on the size of the trout and the weather. During an average week, the trout lake receives two loads, one during the first of the week and the other toward the end.

The aquatic vegetation (moss) in the lake is controlled both physically and (Continued on page 44)

WHERE TO NEXT?

Stationing Vacation Guides at rest areas keeps drivers alert, aware of attractions

FOR MORE THAN a hundred years Nebraska's Platte River Valley has been the roadway west. Where thousands of covered wagons crossed the plains a century ago, millions of travelers now follow the twin ribbons of Interstate 80 to the setting sun. But today the trek from Omaha to the West Coast can be made in a fraction of the time it took the early pioneer.

Technological advances of the 20th Century have made travel much simpler with mile after mile of high speed, four-lane interstate highway. But there are hazards which come with such convenience. Engineers have de signed their roadway with a pronounced absence of sharp corners and, in most cases, the scenic wonders and historic points of interest once associated with cross-country driving are well away from the traveler's view and awareness. There is little to divert his attention from the level gray concrete, making boredom a constant companion on extended trips. Accompanying this boredom are a host of dangerous phenomena.

Images float on the distant horizon, growing closer with each turn of the wheel until a driver swerves to avoid a collision with his mystical obstruction, and never sees anything again.

With many hours and miles behind him, a driver succumbs to the nagging fatigue, nods off, propels himself into an overpass support or embankment, and sleeps forever.

These and other perils lurk along the interstate system. It may seem impossible for a motorist to lose control of his auto on a four-lane highway that offers scientific advances and safety engineering second to none. But the road is only as safe and as good as the driver himself, and therein lies the weak link in the chain of automobile travel.

Nebraska was among the first, and continues to be a leader, in implementing and developing a concept which can serve as a deterrent to such happenings. Known to most travelers simply as rest areas, these oases along the interstate highway are officially billed as Safety Rest Areas by the federal government. And it is in the name of safety that they have been and are being constructed.

Tommy R. Thompson, highway architect for the Nebraska Department of Roads, says that while traveling, "People begin to relax —too much so. We're trying to make rest areas as clean and inviting as possible, and travelers may find things other than just restrooms when they pull into one. We've designed walkways throughout as invitations to spend some time. We have provided a place for people to stretch and exercise, to get pets and children out of the car and loosen up after long hours of driving. Picnic tables and outdoor grills are provided as well.

The Department of Roads has designed each area with an eye toward some physical characteristic of the region in which it is located. Near Hickman, one of the few rest areas off the interstate, the site was chosen because its native flora had never been plowed. Area schools even use the facility for field trips to study grasses that have vanished from the Nebraska plains in all but a few places. At Blue River, near Milford, a footbridge leads from the area proper to a man-made island and historical marker. At Sutherland, century-old ruts cut by covered wagons on the Oregon Trail are plainly visible. Because of the rest areas' variety, many travelers are known to hopscotch from one rest stop to the next just to find out what is unique about each.

One of the most unique characteristics at 18 of the state's rest areas are Nebraska Vacation Guides. For the past two summers, the tourism division of Nebraska's Department of Economic Development has placed people in rest areas to serve as hosts and hostesses for visiting vacationers.

Pioneered at Melia Hill, near Gretna, rest areas have become major travel information centers. Older units have been remodeled by the Department of Roads to provide an attractive information booth in space formerly used for storage. Newer facilities, such as the two at Ogallala, have been designed to include information sections in their basic design. Rest areas now being planned for Kimball and next to the Platte River in Sarpy County will also include information centers. Other modifications are in progress where existing buildings were not suitable for remodeling.

The job of a Nebraska Vacation Guide is intriguing. They greet hundreds of travelers daily throughout the summer and personally acquaint each visitor they meet with the state's many vacation possibilities, sharing with them "the Good Life" Nebraska offers.

An average of more than 225 people have applied for positions as Nebraska Vacation Guides during the past two years. Each guide selected is given extensive training, part of which is a seven-day tour of the state. The tour gives the guides first-hand exposure to Nebraska's attractions and points of interest, providing them with an element of credibility to the traveler. They can draw upon these personal experiences to help encourage vacationers to spend time in Nebraska and make stops which can be highlights of any visitor's trip.

Interstate 80 is a federally funded highway, and matching federal money helps provide today's rest areas in Nebraska. In fact, about 90 percent of the cost is now covered by federal money, although it hasn't always been that way. Nebraskans footed the bill for the first few.

The first four facilities to appear along the interstate at Alda, Gibbon, Kearney and Cozad-were entirely financed by the state. The cost of each came to about $175,000 excluding concrete entrance and exit ramps and parking areas. The new rest areas at Ogallala, including information centers, are estimated to cost $241,000. That adds up to quite a bit of money, no matter how you look at

In like manner, the $20,000 plus annual budget for the Nebraska Vacation Guide Program is more than returned. Statistics show that Vacation Guides and informa tion centers are effective means of communicating with travelers. In 1972 alone, approximately 37,500 visits to attractions across the state were directly attributable to Nebraska Vacation Guides. Those thirty-one hosts and hostesses accounted for additional hundreds of thousands of dollars spent by vacationers in Nebraska that year.

In the end, interstate rest areas, coupled with Nebraska Vacation Guide information centers, are extremely important to Nebraskans and out-of-state visitors. They provide the traveler not only with the opportunity to rest and avoid becoming a hazard to himself or anyone else, but also the opportunity to learn about the land and people around him that are Nebraska.

NOTES ON NEBRASKA FLORA... ARROWHEAD

Common over much of North America, the roots of this water plant were called swamp potatoes by Indians

ARROWHEADS are considered modern representatives of an ncestral stock of monocotyledons, or plants with just one seed leaf. Belonging to the waterplantain family Alismataceae, the plants are represented by some 75 species. The range of the arrowhead family is quite large, covering all but the extreme north edge of North America.

The species most common to Nebraska is the broad-leafed variety, scientifically named Sagittaria latifolia. It is referred to by the common names of duck potato and wapato.

During summer, the waxy, three petaled, white flowers of this plant decorate the edges of many lakes, ponds, marshes and streams. The flowering stalk rises vertically out of the water, sometimes as much as a foot, and bears several flowers at its summit. Overall, the plant is usually 15 to 25 inches in height.

About one inch in diameter, the flowers are unisexual and occur in whorls of three. The less attractive and inconspicuous female flowers form the lower whorls. On the upper part of the stock are borne the male flowers, comprising a center of golden stamens sur rounded by three snow-white petals. Insects are attracted first to the more conspicuous male flowers, with pollination occurring later as the female flowers are visited. Quite a variety of insects carry arrowhead pollen. The majority are insects common to wet places, among them the large-winged dragonfly.

Most arrowhead leaves are clearly arrowhead-shaped, but they also occur in different natural forms. These forms include broad as well as lance-shaped leaves. In general, leaves borne beneath the water are linear or grass-like, since a broad, flat blade would not remain intact in water currents. Leaves borne above the water are broader, giving greater photosynthetic efficiency. The larger leaves are usually present in bunches of three or more. Their long and thick, somewhat fleshy stalks over lap at the base in a way similar to that of the leaves in a tuft of celery.

The spreading, tuberous root system secures the plant solidly in the soil. These tubers are known to have been a source of starchy food for the Chinese and North American Indians. Early settlers learned of the plant's usefulness from Indians and called it swamp potato. In 1805, when Lewis and Clark made their exploratory trip down the Columbia River, they saw Indian women wading in the swamps, harvesting the tubers of arrowhead by breaking them off with their toes. Along the medicinal line of former uses, the plant is one of those which enjoyed an undeserved reputation as a cure for rabies.

Both the small, flattish seeds and tubers are eaten by waterfowl. More than 16 species of ducks, especially mallards, and geese are known to feed on the plants. There are drawbacks, however, as far as the ducks are concerned. The tubers of the plant are often too large and too deeply buried to be useful to ducks. Unless the plants are growing in water or very soft mud, the tubers may not be available to feed ing waterfowl. The plant can be introduced by planting the tubers, to improve feeding areas for waterfowl. Marsh birds and shore birds, too, are known to utilize the seeds. Furbearers, particularly muskrats, and game animals use both the plant and its tubers.

While the one species Sagittaria latifolia is most common in Nebraska, three or four others are also found. Their range is primarily in the Sandhills and toward the eastern end of the state.

If one were to collect differently shaped arrowhead leaves, it would be like finding real arrowheads, all of them looking alike, yet each one have ing its own distinctions. Depending on conditions, leaves vary in width and taper. But, it is this general arrowhead shape which gives the plant its unusual name.

STOP IT, LITTERBUGS

have — time after time.

Everyone has heard the phrase "transparent as glass" and everyone should be able to see through the damage broken glass can do just as effectively as the phrase suggests. Still, there are people using our parks who don't seem to care about the harm they do to other people. They seem to assume that it's up to every individual to take his own risks in enjoying the out of-doors.

Are you one of those who leave broken bottles lying in the sand? Perhaps the one you left there was whole.

Any glass lying in sand or mud is dangerous. If you are doubtful about the danger, ask the young lady who was on crutches for a year after stepping on a broken bottle at Johnson Lake. She severed her Achilles tendon.

Perhaps you don't litter. Perhaps you just watch, and shake your head sadly as you watch others do so. Those litterers you see are violators of the law. They are spoiling your environment. Doesn't that make you angry? It should. Report them. You don't owe them your silence. If nothing else, report them to themselves. Perhaps they don't realize how offensive they really are.

Are you a litterer? Whether you're fishing your favorite lake from a boat and throwing your waste overboard (where you think it will disappear) or sitting under a shady tree somewhere, absent-mindedly tossing cans aside, or leaving snarled line, you're a menace. You're a menace to the environment, a menace to wildlife, a menace to other human beings, and a further menace to yourself. Do you care?

TOO PROUD TO TROLL

with Kansans in it, we would stop and chat awhile. Most people were catching a few fish, but there seemed to be no pattern. And, most fish were taken while trolling.

"What we have to do is figure out where the fish are and what they are hitting on. We have to put something together," said Harold, "before we really can do much."

Only occasionally would he change lures, partly because he did not have his own tackle box. "I didn't think we would need anything fancy, so I didn't bring my box along. At least I don't mind losing a lure now and then because I'm using Frenchie's stuff," he chuckled.

About an hour after starting, Frenchie latched onto the first fish, and after the usual tugging, pulsing scrap, swung a keeper white bass aboard. "Was there a bet on about the first fish?" he immediately asked. Everyone answered heartily to the negative, so he started sorting through his gear in search of a stringer. "I just imagined we would have some sort of bet on," he mumbled, glancing accusingly at the rest of us.

During another move to the west, we encountered a small boat looking for ice to preserve a nice rainbow trout. The lucky angler had cast out to persecute carp and had caught the trout just below them. It weighed nearly four pounds. Then, about midway in the lake, Harold's first action of the day came. Like Frenchie, he was using a Repala in hopes of attracting a walleye while also appealing to white bass, and it was the latter that responded. A nice one, slightly over a pound, dangled from the lure when he cranked in.

"Now that I'm safe, I might mention that whoever doesn't catch a fish may be put ashore to spend the night," Harold threatened. "You guys better get busy and start hauling in the fish."

"If all it took was desire, I'd have covered the floor with those rascals by now," I answered, "but apparently my equipment is not functioning the way it should. I'm already starting to feel like my elbows need an operation and I haven't had a hit." "Maybe we should troll awhile," Frenchie said casually, winking behind Harold's back. "Oh, let's not," Harold said, but with less

enthusiasm than earlier. "Let's pull in closer to that weed bed and see if we can raise a walleye. We might check a cove or two, too."

"We could just troll on the way over there," Darrel tossed in, always ready to needle. "That's the way most of the other people are catching fish."

"What's the matter, don't you want to sleep on the beach?" Frenchie asked his grandson.

Eventually, after more than a dozen moves and samplings, we started picking up a few fish. Finally, after six or seven, I dragged one in, then another, and a third. I was assured of a ride back, but Darrel still hadn't connected, and as about six hours had passed without a nibble, he must have felt jinxed. But he continued to fish as diligently as ever, and toward evening, landed his one and only white bass of the day.

Dark, somber clouds started gathering in the southeast, and a suspicious feel developed in the breeze. Slowly more of the sky grew dark, hurrying sundown. About 8:30, during our hottest action, and amid rough, choppy water, we decided it was time to head for the dock.

A few quick arrangements for the following morning, and the day was officially ended. Heavy rains fell to the south that evening, but the next morning was almost perfect-bright, calm, and oozing with optimism. Before driving around to the north shore to meet the rest of the crew, I stopped off at the south side of the dam and flipped a white-skirted spinner among the big rocks of a cove. Several small mouth bass, just under pounders, hesitantly chewed on the skirt and then took the hook. Finally, one fish pushing the two-pound mark hit solidly and the battle was on.

I had been working my way along the bank, and had gradually been going uphill. With an ultralight rig and cheap six-pound line, I played the bass cautiously, slowly sidestepping back down the hill where I could get to the water. I know I was grinning to myself when I finally got a thumb into his mouth.

NEBRASKAland photographer Greg Beaumont, who had finished another as signment near Oshkosh, was joining us that morning, which eased my conscience for not taking many photos the day before.

But, despite the additional audience, the fishing did not go extremely well. Drifting mostly before another stiff breeze, water from near one shore, across the lake, and near the opposite side was covered, with only an occasional white bass hitting. How ever, most of them were over a pound.

A bright, warm sun prompted Frenchie to stretch out for a snooze at one point, but Harold continued to drift one line and cast another at all times. After watching him for many hours for two days, I began to under stand how he could wear out an arm or two.

Despite 20 years of full-time fishing, he hasn't lost his love of the sport. In fact, he probably enjoys it more now than ever, and AUGUST 1973 it doesn't matter much what the species.

"I used to consider the largemouth my favorite fish, and it still ranks way up there, but there are some great fish. Fighting a big tarpon is hard to beat, and grayling —now there is some fantastic fishing."

Still, good old walleye must have a secret niche too. During the annual excursions to Lake McConaughy last year, Harold was casting in one of the coves and brought in a big walleye, about 1116 pounds worth. That fish alone made the trip a success, but almost everyone's stringer was laden with delicacies. As Dusty, Harold's son observed later,t"lt always seems we have great success every other year. We always catch fish, but every other year it is really good."

That comment was almost negated late Wednesday. Following the annual picnic for the 50 or 60 people taking part in the expedition, Harold was ready to go fishing again. The lake was almost mirror calm and as inviting as a south-sea island lagoon. Now, even if the fish were completely absent, it would be a great time on the reservoir. But things were destined to be even a little better than beautiful.

The sun was reflecting brightly off the water when the white bass started to hit. Then, for over an hour, it was hectic and exhilarating as everyone caught them nearly as fast as lines could be returned to water. It was one of those magical moments which make up for many long, tedious hours when nothing is happening.

White bass came over the side in almost frantic succession. They hit the lures viciously, and it was great. Like in the old fisherman's dream of catching so many fish he sank the boat, the bottom of the craft was literally covered as there was not even time to put them on stringers except during the brief lulls. Even a running count could not be kept in the heat of activity, as all concentration had to be on taking fish off the treble hooks and getting the rig back into the water.

Perhaps the success could have continued for hours, but at last a halt was called. "We have about all the fish we can carry now," Harold grinned. "I know it is more than we can clean in an hour or two, so let's give them a break. Besides, it'll be dark in a little while, and I suppose you guys want to get back."

Harold was scheduled to leave the annual outing early, as he had two speaking engagements in Kansas, so he would not be able to fish the following day. But, the an nual affair was turning out very well for most, with the white bass cooperating. This year, however, the trip may be planned earlier in the season to take advantage of the walleye run along the dam. That is a time of fantastic fishing. As Harold Ensley says, "Those walleye —they're really some thing." He didn't catch a keeper walleye last year, but he'll be back again.

TROUT FOR THE TAKING

chemically. Physical removal involves actual lifting of the vegetation from the lake with a pitchfork or rake. Chemical removal requires application of a selected concentration of chemicals, which kills vegetation, but does not harm fish.

Located within 15 miles of Omaha and 45 miles of Lincoln, the trout lake experiences very heavy use by anglers. During 1961, its first year of management as a put and-take lake, 26,017 fishermen fished the lake and a total of 85,890 trout were stocked there. In 1968, records reached an all-time high when 52,937 fished the lake and 182,231 trout were stocked.

From 1961 through 1972, a total of 1,474,162 rainbow trout were stocked in the lake. Of these, 93 percent were harvested by fishermen. Mortality during transport, natural mortality within the lake, hooking mortality, and trout escaping from the lake during floods account for most of the remaining seven percent. A 93-percent harvest is considered to be excellent, and has contributed to the lake's successful operation.

It has been determined that the majority of the trout in the Two Rivers Trout Lake are caught by anglers within one week and that nearly all are caught within three weeks after they are stocked. Very nearly, the only food to be found in the lake is that on the fisherman's hook, which may explain this high rate of turnover.

Used more than 170,000 angler hours a year, the trout lake experiences the greatest fishing pressure per acre in the state. Angler use is particularly high on weekends and holidays, resulting in tangled lines and some complaints, but this is only to be expected when so many fishermen are at the lake at the same time. Crowded conditions can usually be avoided, however, by fishing the lake on week days whenever possible.

So imagine, if you will, the angler at the edge of a placid lake working his lure along the shoreline. Four fine trout already lie in his creel. One more trout and a limit catch will be the perfect culmination of a fine day's fishing. His wish is suddenly granted with the slashing strike of a good trout. One would expect this sequence of events from a high mountain lake in Alaska or Montana, but who would expect it in eastern Nebraska? Yet it happens every day from the season opener on April 1 through the first of December at the Two Rivers Trout Lake near Venice, Nebraska.

HISTORY OF LAKE MAC

necessary, as the McConaughy population had reached such proportions that stock from there went into many other reservoirs in the state.

That one instance probably made the biggest impact on Nebraska fishing, as virtually all suitable waters now have offspring from the initial stocking, providing thousands of hours of fishing enjoyment each year. Not all efforts have been so rewarding, but others have come close.

Walleye were known to inhabit the North Platte River in rather limited numbers prior to construction of Kingsley Dam. And, the first release of them totalled half a million fry. That stocking was in the spring of 1943. In late summer of 1944, a serious effort at building up a walleye population began, with the North Platte hatchery turning out nearly 190,000 large fingerlings. This was followed up in 1945 and 1946 with nearly 1,700,000 fry and fingerlings, with periodic releases then continuing through 1962.

Somewhere along the line, some of those releases also took hold, and a spawning population of walleye became established — one capable of providing another major portion of the overall fishing activity at the lake. So much so, that no additional stocking was necessary, and eggs have since been taken from fish there for hatching and release at other locations.

Much of the same procedure, and for tunately the same result, came with the rainbow trout stocking efforts. The first release of this amazing critter was on April 25, 1947, when 1,500 near adults were brought from Rock Creek Hatchery, followed the next day by 3,000 more of the same size. In the next few years, every conceivable size of rainbow was put into the lake from as many sources as available.

Something highly unusual for inland waters had happened which greatly changed the emphasis of the trout program. Rather than being content with staying in the reservoir, or the streams, whichever they were put into, the trout were migrating. This movement had apparently started years before.

A few, then an increasing number of rainbows, were caught in feeder streams more than 100 miles above the lake. As some of the early trout had come from the Pacific Northwest, these fish could have produced

Gradually, through studies on the spawning streams and with the aid of the electric weir and fish trap near Lewellen, the strain of fish which was migrating was singled out for special study, and a concerted effort made to extend their spawning to other adequate but largely unused streams. These feeder streams, many of them small, clear, and with sandy or gravel bottoms, would have good stretches for trout spawning or rearing with only minor improvement. A study is presently underway to determine if trout eggs or fry can be placed in these streams to imprint the young. Thus, when they become adults, they will return to these same streams for spawning. Other streams are adequate for rearing trout, but have no spawning habitat, so fry are being released in them to monitor success.

Such work can further improve the trout fishery of the lake and the streams. Much is still to be learned about the entire procedure, and such things as the fish trap and further study on some of the streams can help determine the full potential and present extent of the migratory trout spawn. At this stage, fisheries biologists are optimistic about the future of rainbow fishing, believing the already good success can be improved both in Lake McConaughy and in the various streams involved.

Some work at bank stabilization and erosion control has already been done with marked success, but much more remains.

Other management and stocking programs have been less spectacular, but almost as gratifying to those involved. Take the case of the smallmouth bass. When the reservoir started filling, it was observed that many of the rocky coves appeared to be ideal habitat for smallmouths, especially with the clear water which was gradually rising^n them.

A limited number of adult fish were put into the lake back in 1947, but it was about 12 years later that a couple batches of 10,000 fingerlings each turned the tide. In later years, up to the present, those 20,000 smallmouths expanded into nearly every suitable area. So much so, that newly hatched fry have been removed while still hovering above the nests, to release in other areas of the state.

Channel catfish, likewise, have done well, but their presence is not as much appreciated because of their wide distribution elsewhere. Crappie fishing at Mac, as at other places, has had its ups and downs despite intensive stocking for many years. Much the same is true of northern pike.

Several other chapters of the stocking history of the lake were somewhat less than thrilling, but another has just started to show promise.

It might be a tossup to determine which was the biggest disappointment —the kokanee salmon or the coho salmon. Both attracted considerable attention following announcement of stocking. However, neither species was as desirable or successful as the rainbow.

Kokanee salmon were stocked in 1958 through 1961 with the last stocking in 1967. While some were caught from the 1967 stocking, their success could only be termed limited, and no further stocking is planned.

Much the same is true of the coho salmon. After their amazing introduction into the Great Lakes, and considering their migratory nature, a sizeable importation began in 1968. The first batch of 3,990 fingerlings went into Lake McConaughy, then about 400,000 fingerlings and near adults were placed in Wildhorse Creek in 1969 and 1970. An idea of their fate in Wildhorse Creek comes from the study carried on through the summer of 1969 which found fair to good growth through early June, but by late June, none of the fish were found.

It was also learned in 1970 that the coho were potential carriers of disease, and because growth rates indicated the habitat was marginal at best, the coho program has been terminated. The largest fish caught was 53A pounds.

Most recent fish stocking at McConaughy, which is still too early to evaluate, is of (Continued on page 53)

SNAKE RIVER JOURNAL

his western range, the racer has a greenish olive dorsal and yellowish-white ventral.

Gradually the flatland shifts more north of the river and we find our trail on the south shore more rugged and ascending. Occasionally a soaring pelican or laboring cormorant crosses the eastern horizon, her alding our approach to the headland of Merritt Reservoir.

9:30 p.m. The easy miles of flatland end abruptly as the river butts against high choppies on the south margin of its floodplain. Reluctantly, we pass two dense groves of ash and hackberry, hoping to log an additional mile or two. By 6:30 p.m. we climb to the top of a high, sandy point and first sight the widening of the river. Shelbourn Bridge and the upper reaches of Merritt Reservoir lie before us. Pelicans drifting at eye level seem amused by our shuffling pace. Still following the south shore, we pass the bridge even though we will have to retrace our steps in the morning to reach the north side. A shady park-like area half a mile beyond seems worth the extra mile.

Though the wrapper looks exotic, dehydrated shrimp Creole is little more than a stomach filler.

As the crow might have flown it, we covered 10 miles today, but following the weaving river and undulating hills probably added half again as many. Tonight we can afford the luxury of lingering around the fire to sip tea and relive the day. J.F.

Merritt Reservoir May 12, 1973

A whirring: then a shriek of song. All nerves come taut awake at once. The noise is as if the sun, which is shining brightly through the nylon tent, is a cymbal crashed.

It is a male redwing blackbird, toenails scratching on the slick nylon to maintain itself, perched on the tent peak. Again he rasps his dominion so loud it hurts the ears. Now he is gone to patrol his territory. The faraway morning song of a brown thrasher drifts across the river. For a moment the reality of the situation fails to dawn, but with the awareness of wilderness comes the pain and stiffness in muscles and joints. With the sharp unzipping of the tent fly, a pair of mallards are startled to flight from the marsh nearby. The scolding of the drake seems a fitting sound as we struggle into our boots. G.B.

12:40 p.m. Again we were late breaking camp —after 11 a.m. this morning. The night was fitful and the unhurried morning a welcome reward for the previous day's march. After pausing to fill our water containers at the spring between camp and Shelbourn Bridge, we crossed to the north shore. Though we've scarcely earned a break, our packs now lean on a fallen tree in one of two park-like clumps of hackberry overlooking marshy backwaters. Pelicans are at rest on a reedy point and gulls are gathered on a sliver of sand nearby. A great blue heron flew away at our approach. Coots, clustered in the reeds, padded their way awkwardly across the water below us. Just as the forest's edge holds the most varied and abundant wildlife, so must the back water marsh. One could spend a lifetime studying a small marsh and still not fully understand its natural complexity. Reluctantly we slip into our pack harnesses and continue eastward.

Again the character of the terrain changes dramatically, though now unnaturally at the hand of the reservoir. We are forced to follow a tortuous path through the choppies above the reservoir's north escarpment. We have, in all likelihood, seen the last of the flatland.

The choppies' microenvironment is profuse with flowering hairy puccoon —blossoming far in advance of puccoons in the moist meadows. Peavine and ragwort are also more advanced on the upland sites. It is almost as if plants growing on the drier uplands are directed by nature to flower early while moisture is still abundant.

Though we have walked only half the distance of the main arm of the reservoir, a corpulent striped swift prompts us to drop our packs again. Unlike the sandhills' more common spotted lizard, the swift is brown ish or yellowish-olive and has two pale yellowish stripes running along its sides. Males are often marked with elongate blue patches on both sides of the belly. Our specimen is obviously a female. Innately flighty, this lady seems so dulled by the physical comfort of a bulging stomach that we photograph her at our leisure. Though she seems to be filled to capacity, none of the sand colored leaf-hoppers that venture too close get by her.

3:10 p.m. Greg and I are feeling the discomfort of loose (Continued on page 55)

where to go... Blue Valley

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Circle tour LINCOLN

MORE THAN a century ago, explorers like Colonel John C. Fremont and Kit Carson journeyed through Blue Valley Country on their way west. Settlers followed. Some stayed, others trod the Oregon Trail, and 17-year-old Wild Bill Hickock started his legendary career near Fairbury. The famous Homestead Act, signed by President Lincoln, became law at the same time as the Emancipation Proclamation. In Nebraska Territory, Daniel Freeman eagerly filed the first claim for land under the new act.

Leave the doldrums of interstate driving behind and relive the excitement of the Old West by exiting from Interstate 80 at Interstate 180 and follow it to downtown Lincoln. At this point follow U.S. Highway 77 south 16 miles and turn west on Nebraska Highway 33, following it 14 miles to Crete.

Crete (No. 1 on the map) is the home of Nebraska's first liberal arts college Doane College —established in 1872 and named after the first chief engineer of the Burlington Railroad. Doane celebrated its 100th anniversary in 1972. Crete is the site of Nebraska's oldest milling operation and the state's largest corn mill, Crete Mills, founded in 1870.

Back on Nebraska Highway 33, drive a mile west of Crete to the junction with Nebraska Highway 103 and turn south. Go six miles to the Czech Settlers' Monument (No. 2), commemorating Czech settlement in the valley dating from 1865.

Back on the highway again, still heading south, drive 14 miles to Wilber (No. 3), Czech capital of Nebraska. Each year this community celebrates its heritage with Czech Days, August 5 and 6 this year. At the intersection of Nebraska highways 104 and 41 in downtown Wilber, tour the Czech Museum from 1 to 5 p.m. on Saturdays and Sundays. The Czech bakery, located on Wilber's main street, is open 46 NEBRASKAland AUGUST 1973 47  

Now pursue Western lore by follow ing Nebraska Highway 41 to Nebraska Highway 15, 11 miles west of Wilber. Go south on Nebraska Highway 15.

The discovery of gold in California in 1849 raised the hopes of many an Easterner as he scurried along the Oregon Trail, but many didn't make it. Some 21 miles south of the intersection of Nebraska highways 41 and 15 is an original gravestone marker (No. 4), a 48 memorial to George Winslow, a 49er who died of cholera as he headed west.

Still heading south on Nebraska Highway 15, the next stop is Fairbury (No. 5). On the west side of the city square you can trace the history of a bygone era in the community's fine museum.

Now head east on U.S. Highway 136. Along this highway it is still possible to discern the wagon ruts left more than a century ago when westbound emigrants followed the Oregon Trail (No. 6). Portions of the trail are visible where the prairie has not been molested by the plow. It was also along this route where Pony Express riders sped, link ing the east and west coasts with the fastest mail-delivery service known in the mid-1860s.

You can sit back and enjoy the rolling croplands of Nebraska for the next 27 miles, the distance from Fairbury to Beatrice. Just inside the city limits, turn left on Nebraska Highway 4. From there it is only Vh miles to Homestead National Monument (No. 7), a tribute to Daniel Freeman and the homestead way of life, complete with treasures from the past. The monument is open 8 a.m. to 6 p.m. daily and admission is free.

From there head back north to Lincoln via U.S. Highway 77, and you have completed the Blue Valley Country Circle Tour.

What to do

AUGUST, more than any other month, is a time for rural Nebraskans to leave their farms, ranches and small communities to gather for an annual event that is uniquely agricultural in nature and so typical of the Midwest.

That event is the county fair, and it will be repeated more than 50 times in as many counties during August. At each of these, the carnival atmosphere of the midway and a spirit of friendly competition will prevail, while gregarious agrarians gather to talk shop, look at the latest equipment, and proudly display examples of their work.

All this activity on the county level will culminate August 31 through September 9 at the biggest fair of all, the State Fair in Lincoln.

Many of these county fairs also add the western fun and excitement of rodeo, pitting both local cowboys and touring pros against the toughest of broncs and bulls. These include performances August 2 to 4 at Harrison, 6 to 11 at Wahoo, 9 to 11 at Bladen, 11 to 13 at Ogallala, 13 to 16 at Chambers, 17 to 20 at Sidney, 21 at York, 23 to 26 at Stapleton, and 24 to 25 at Gordon.

August also offers gatherings keyed to other tastes, such as country western and fiddle music at Ainsworth August 10 through 12, Lincoln August 25, and Brownville August 25 and 26.

One of the biggest and most festive of the year's gatherings comes early in August. Wilber's Czech Festival will 50 find that small southeastern Nebraska community ringing with Old-World musing and laughter for two days, August 4 and 5.

At the other corner of the state, Crawford offers a pair of more sedate yet interesting events, a gun collectors show August 4 and 5, and a rock show August 18 and 19.

August is also an active month for outdoorsmen. August 18 sees the open ing of the state's first big-game hunt of the year, when 100 or so stealthy archers set out after antelope. The first portion of the season runs through September 21.

It is also a good month for fishing, provided anglers adopt new tackle and tactics. Bass can still be taken in ponds and sandpits with a bit of patient effort, and catfishing in the state's rivers should be good.

But, most anglers in the know will turn their attention toward the big reservoirs, where lightning-fast action on white bass has become a summertime tradition. For this season, however, white bass fishermen will have to observe limits, 25 fish per day and 50 in possession.

Other fishermen will be out starting August 1, practicing a sport that is unfamiliar to all but a few residents of this land-locked state. Wearing diving gear and carrying spearguns, underwater powered spearfishermen will go after their quarry in private lakes, plus 15 of Nebraska's reservoirs. The season runs from August 1 through the end of the year.

Spectators will find plenty to watch in August, and participants will have more than enough activities to keep them busy.

the Rise, Fall and Future of the Ringneck Pheasant

HISTORY OF LAKE MAC

striped bass. Started early in 1961 with 10 adults from North Carolina, this program has the potential of providing large, voracious fish to delight any angler. With an expected growth of 25 pounds or more, the striper could benefit the lake by utilizing forage fish too large for other species to control, while also creating an extremely desirable sport fish of scrappy disposition and high quality for the table.

Being fairly similar to white bass in many respects, it is expected the striped bass will also migrate upstream in the spring to spawn in the river somewhere above the lake. Because of the age distribution, this is really the first year that any appreciable number of potential spawners would make the upstream journey, so their movements are being watched very carefully.

Again, the weir across the river could be invaluable in determining how extensive a spawning migration is being carried on. In the event a good number of ripe adults do move upstream, some of them will be re lieved of their eggs, which will then be fertilized and hatched for later release back into the lake. Hopefully, others will continue on their trip and spawn naturally.

If this does occur, the lake is well on its way to having another important attraction. The stripers have done very well in other states in nearly similar reservoirs, and there is every reason to expect the most from them here. Good numbers of them have been caught in recent years, and although the state record has remained at 10 pounds for two years, larger fish have been collected by fisheries technicians, including a 12 pounder and a 16-pounder.

Besides out and out fishing, Lake McConaughy has many other qualities which make it invaluable. There is, of course, the important role as a storage reservoir for irrigation, heading the giant network of canals, canyon lakes and power plants of the Central Nebraska Public Power and Irrigation District headquartered at Holdrege.

In conjunction with this is the flood control capability, plus the water-oriented sports such as boating, skiing, scuba diving, swimming and other miscellaneous activities, including research.

And, because of these, there has been considerable development of recreation facilities, including marinas, camping areas, and even an air strip. Included in these developments are several installed by the state, including eight boat ramps, several camp grounds at Lake McConaughy and adjacent Lake Ogallala.

Public access to all areas of the lake was assured through an agreement in 1959 between the Game and Parks Commission and the landowner, Central Nebraska Public Power and Irrigation. With the exception of one small area, all shoreline not controlled by concession operators is for public use.

The length and openness of the lake, which is about 21 miles long, makes it difficult to traverse in a small boat, especially in windy weather. Numerous boat ramps, in close proximity to sheltered coves, are therefore important to users of the lake.

There are 12 concessionaires on the lake or nearby which offer a range of services from fuel to restaurants, some of which are open year-round.

Usage at the lake has increased steadily as fishing improved, as services expanded, and as word of the lake spread, but the stage where it is overcrowded is still some way off.

Water quality remains good, siltation is minimal, and water temperature and vary ing volume have apparently not been overly detrimental. Opinions of persons involved with the various aspects of the lake are generally optimistic. Fishing for most species is expected to remain good and possibly improve, provided conditions remain about the same. Only major changes in water in flow or outflow, severe weather, or other such factors can affect a lake of this size.

Lake McConaughy, with its many state fishing records and its vast productivity and potential, should continue to earn its well deserved recreation reputation for many generations.

SNAKE RIVER JOURNAL

footing, the unrelenting terrain and the heated miles behind us. We have taken temporary refuge under a hackberry that seems to be floating on a grassless patch of sand. Perhaps a cup of hot soup, dried fruit and chocolate bars will help recharge our rebelling limbs. J.F.

Now the sun has gained its greatest stature and lances down. Now is come the time of testing —the slow, tasteless time of heat. Now the sand dances white and the spirit dwindles like grass. Think of the good and cool shadows of morning. But they hiss away like steam. Think of the evening waiting behind the far bend, the pockets of cool air hiding in the hackberries, the thickets of plum. But the hours rise up like camels, for midable and slow, and do not pass. The horizon becomes a mirage and dances away, unreachable. Do not think of the weight, the insufferable weight of the pack, But it bloats with the heat, it presses down to jelly the knees, it sends fingers of sweat to tease the back. You must not think of the straps which pierce your shoulders, or the torment of your feet, caught in these leather ovens. This is crazy, you are going crazy with heat; you must ignore, not think about, heat. Concentrate on the ground swaying past, on the spiders that race about. The sweat on your legs is running like spiders, sweat on your back like centipedes, sweat on your face leaches. Ah, the fire now has found your brain. Sweet delirium, yellow and pink, touching your eyes. No feeling now, no pain. Water, cool limitless water, laps against a boat, a dull sound like feet shuffling in sand. But I sleep on a boat at last, drifting, drifting. How comfortable it is here, going nowhere, watching camels of ice walking the water, rapidly away. G.B.

5:50 p.m. Just beyond our resting site we are confronted with a series of sheer sand cliffs that plunge from the choppie domes to the reservoir's surface. We have decided to cross the sand faces rather than detouring back into the sandhills. The sand, though it appears to be loose, is compact, threaten ing to skid us down to the water. Only by slamming our feet down are we able to break the surface and gain firm footing. The time and energy saved at the risk of a several-hundred-foot slide and a watery ending is worth the gamble, though. Once across the sand cliffs we are able to walk a two-foot-wide beach of wet sand where the hills have dropped into the reservoir. Though we're forced to follow the shore's every twist and turn, the firm, level surface is a welcome relief. We're just across the water from Boardman's Bay and expect to sight the dam at every point.

Merritt Reservoir May 13, 1973

9:05 a.m. At the fork of the reservoir's two branches we camped the night, our third and final. For three days we have escaped the hustle and bustle of motorboats and pickup campers that are now just half a mile across the bay. The fatigue of yesterday's walk holds us in sleeping bags well into the morning and we are just now getting to morning chores. J.F.

That was no way to set up camp. A hard time we had of it yesterday, pushing up and down and around those choppies, pressing on to make the point of the north bay, walk ing too far in one day, and stumbling at last through moonlight. It was 10 o'clock when we finally quit. Too late to do things properly, too exhausted to enjoy what had to be done. So the tent got pitched on bad ground and our backs paid the penalty. There is such a thing as becoming too tired, making for fitful sleep, but when there is lumpy ground, comfort is impossible and the night becomes an ordeal. I was happy, finally, to break out into morning, not surprised to find our water bottle frozen.

So this is to be our last day out. Our destination lies not a mile across the bay, tan talizingly close, but eight miles around by land. I find myself annoyed at the prospect of this last day's walk, and wish myself at the car. What we are doing seems nonsense. What I want is real coffee in a porcelain mug, an extravagant breakfast someone else has fixed, the feeling of moving fast on a highway. A dish of ice cream seems pleasurable beyond belief. And sleeping between sheets after a long shower!

Because this will be a short day, or because we dread this last, people-infested leg of the journey, we linger over breakfast. The air quickly warms. Listening to the potatoes frying, it is easy not to talk. I think we are trying to absorb these last hours, to bottle them up to think on later.

I think back to last night when we collapsed and lay on our packs, almost asleep, not wanting to face the chore of setting up camp. Across the dark water shone lights of campers and fishermen. The play of radio wavered in from somewhere with the occasional metallic thump of gear against gun wale from an invisible boat. These were irritating sounds, somehow inappropriate. So it hadn't taken long to purge our senses of the toys of civilization. I found myself wanting, and at the same time being repulsed, by them.

Since this is the last use of the stove, I take it and the cook kit down to the water's edge to scour away the carbon and grease. Working over the pots one by one, being careful not to let the soapy water back into the lake, I work mindlessly. There is a certain pleasurable efficiency that develops from doing small tasks over and over, a simple skill that seems to tend itself, allowing the mind to go blank. Working there in the tall grass beside a grove of flooded willows among which minnows darted, feeling the sun soak into the soreness of my shoulders, listening to the starts and stops of a dragon fly, I know that I want nothing, not to go forward or backward, only to live. Perhaps this is the appeal of backpacking: to break down the complex machine of our living, to peel away and day by day reduce the skins of our lives —the desires, the ambitions, the wants — until we find the simple, precious kernel itself. Only to live. This I think about—I should say I feel —all the miles thereafter. Such knowledge is pleasure, such pleasure peace, which has no equal. G.B.

NEBRASKAland TRADING POST

OUTDOOR NEBRASKAland of the Air

Book Shelf

Ducks and Spaghetti

THE SUBJECT of hunting ducks and other waterfowl is here given an interesting popular treatment by Lou Ovenden, who for 60 years has been a hunter and conservationist. Before his retirement, he served as both a commissioner and director of the Washington state game department. In addition to covering the topic very fully, the book also features an appetizing recipe for the author's favorite dish —"Ducks and Spathetti".

Among the many items he discusses briefly and readably are duck hunting clubs, what to wear when hunting waterfowl, rules of retrieving, duck hunters' personalities and what they observe and think about while waiting for game, geese, waterfowl migrations, and work being done by conservationists to better waterfowl conditions, particularly west of the Rockies.

The author, a native Nebraskan from Nemaha County, has a definite literary flair which shows especially in his evocations of natural settings in such parts of his book as his description of the courtship and migratory flight of a pair of pintail ducks who fly together with their vast flock from the Gulf of California to British Columbia. Fascinating bits of information are included about global travel of banded water fowl, some which fly from Canada to England, or from Texas to Russia.