NEBRASKAland
February 1974 50 cents 1CD 18615
NEBRASKAland
VOL. 52 / NO. 2 / FEBRUARY 1974 Published monthly by the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission. Fifty cents per copy. Subscription rates $ 1 for one year, $6 for two years. Send subscription orders to NEBRASKAland, Box 30370, Lincoln, Nebraska 68503. commission Chairman: William G. Lindeken, Chadron Northwest District, (308) 432-3755 Vice Chairman: Gerald R. (Bud) Campbell, Ravenna South-central District, (308) 452-3800 Second Vice Chairman: James W. McNair, Imperial Southwest District, (308) 882-4425 Jack D. Obbink, Lincoln Southeast District, (402) 488-3862 Arthur D. Brown, Omaha Douglas-Sarpy District, (402) 553-9625 Kenneth W. Zimmerman, Loup City North-central District, (308) 745-1694 Don O. Bridge, Norfolk Northeast District, (402) 371-1473 Director: Willard R. Barbee Assistant Director: William J. Bailey, Jr. Assistant Director: Richard J. Spady staff Editor: Lowell Johnson Editorial Assistants: Ken Bouc, Jon Farrar, Faye Musil Photography: Greg Beaumont, Bob Grier Layout Design: Michele Angle Farrar Illustration: C. G. Pritchard Advertising: Cliff Griffin Circulation: Juanita Stefkovich Copyright Nebraska Game and Parks Commission 1974. All rights reserved. Postmaster: if undeliverable, send notice by form 3579 to Nebraska Lame and Parks Commission, Box 30370, Lincoln, Nebraska 68503. Second class postage paid at Lincoln, Nebraska Travel articles financially supported by Department of Economic Development Ronald J. Mertens, Deputy Director John Rosenow, Travel and Tourism Director FEBRUARY 1974 Contents FEATURES CAMP-OUT AT SOLDIER CREEK PADDLEFISH WHAT ABOUT TOMORROW? 12 SNAKE RIVER IMPRESSIONS 14 PLATTE VALLEY SPECIAL 18 A SUMMER REMEMBERED 36 LEARNING TO CARE 38 PRAIRIE LIFE/MIGRATION 42 DEPARTMENTS SPEAK UP TRADING POST 51 COVER: Surrounded but not caught in winter's grip, Snake River Falls creates frosting on adjacent trees. Photograph by Bob Grier. OPPOSITE. Always severe in appearance, the skeletal formations at Toadstool Park seem an appropriate setting for the rigors of winter. Photograph by Lou Ell.
Speak up
He Has PhotosSir / I would like to respond to a letter in the November 1973 issue of NEBRASKAland from Mrs. B. K. Kruse titled "No Chicken Photographs".
First I would say that although Mrs. Kruse is obviously anti-hunting and anti-hunter, I certainly respect her right to feel this way and give her opinion as she sees them. I do feel, however, that since she has given her opinion I too should have a right to mine.
I am proud to say that I am one of the sportsmen with a high-powered gun, in fact several of them. In your letter, Mrs. Kruse, you say that you object to pictures of dead birds and animals in NEBRASKAland, also that your husband has killed many farm animals but has never taken pictures so that he could brag about it.
I would like you to know that I have shot and killed several deer and antelope, untold numbers of squirrels, rabbits, quail, grouse, pheasants and even now and then a fox or coyote.
About three years ago I shot an Alaskan brown bear, not because I hate bears but simply because I wanted his skin, and I didn't know how to get it without killing him, but more important, I enjoy the chase. I enjoy the challenge. The killing of a bird or animals is the climax, the end of the hunt.
The hunt itself is the stalk, the matching of wits with Mother Nature. Let me assure you many times Mother Nature wins. I don't consider myself a killer — maybe some do, maybe you do. It is most difficult to explain why some of us enjoy hunting. But most of the hunters I know respect wildlife much more than non-hunters or indoor type people.
Oh yes, I have many pictures of myself and my friends taken on hunting trips, and I am happy to say that there are some with propped-up animals on them. There are also many more without animals. These pictures too, are just as valuable to me as the ones in which I was successful. These pictures are not for bragging, as you say. They are for remembering.
My license fees for the year 1973 are over $220. As you may know, this money is used by the various states for management of game. Certainly money well spent, money that is used for maintaining a healthy deer herd or antelope herd or maybe releasing a flock of wild turkeys. Money that is an absolute necessity so that those of you who do not approve of hunting may also have the enjoyment of an occasional fleeting glimpse of a deer or the chance to see a family of pheasants.
In closing, I would ask those of you who do not care for hunting, not to deny the sportsmen of our right to do so. We support our wildlife through hunting permits and donations. You need not help if you so wish, but remember that without the hunter, there would be fewer birds and animals. Wildlife that we can all enjoy in any way we like, both hunter and non-hunter alike.
Robert Alberts Hooper, Nebr. Kill The TameSir / Not all people can agree with Mrs. Kruse's line of reasoning (Nov. Speakup) concerning hunting.
Since man evolved as a hunter (as did the coyote and wolf and other predators) it is impossible to argue logically that hunting is not natural, especially when many scientists agree that this instinct to hunt is still present in our genetic makeup. Or perhaps Mrs. Kruse believes in the Creation theory as I do, but there again, man was created a meateater and hunter. ('We don't have a stomach in four sections like a cow!) Regardless of which theory you believe, man is by nature a hunter.
I will remind Mrs. Kruse that those hogs, cattle and chickens she mentioned were once wild, and then man domesticated them so as to have an easily available food supply so that all his time did not have to be spent afield in pursuit of meat for the family's survival.
Hunting and fishing are beneficial sports. As a den mother, I became aware that Boy Scouts of America has long recognized this fact, and they do help turn out some pretty good citizens. (Hunting and fishing are two sides of the same coin: the act and the end result are the same, only the "weapon" is different.)
Under the careful supervision of our Fish and Game departments, legal hunting is an asset to our wildlife, and also provides the necessary funds for study, care and enhancement of our wildlife resources.
Not being a golfer, batting a silly ball around with a stick seems a ridiculous pursuit for an adult, but to many, it is recreation and necessary. Just recently, I watched a bulldozer clearing land for a new golf course, uprooting the beautiful old trees that Dame Nature had spent 100 years fashioning. She spends only 2 to 10 years producing most mature big game animals, and a year or two on game birds!
Perhaps Mrs. Kruse should go back to Arizona Highways as she suggested, if she cannot recognize that there are two sides to every human endeavor and every argument.
Mrs. Lucille Harris Santa Ana, Cal. Small Farms GoingSir / First I want to say how much I enjoy NEBRASKAland and look forward to each issue. When I would go home on vacation I would dig out all the issues around the folks' home and take them back with me. So one day while there my dad had me drive him to Lincoln and he took out a two year subscription for each of his children (six total), so we have them as they come out.
My real purpose in writing this is to ask why you don't put more in about people. You cover hunting, wildlife, etc. but I feel we also have a vanishing breed, the small American farmer. When I go home each year there is another missing.
My great grandparents, grandparents and parents were all farmers near Walton. My parents were married over 55 years ago and moved on their farm near Walton and are still living in the same house. Many of the furnishings are the ones they first got. Round oak tables, oak chairs, beds, etc. Dad is now 80 and mother 75 years of age, but both are in good health, and I hope to be able to visit them for many years to come. So, before it is too late, please cover the vanishing American family farmer.
Philip Faulhaber, Lennox, Cal.Sir / Why was there no events listing in the December issue of NEBRASKAland? I had to sit home all month with nothing to do because I thought nothing was going on? What's the scoop?
Bored ReaderAs NEBRASKAland is gradually phasing out of the tourism business, due to several factors, we are no longer publishing an events listing or activities page. All such material should be directed to the Tourism Division, Department of Economic Development, 1342 M Street, Lincoln, Nebr. 68501. Anyway, people could well spend more time with their families, or staying home to read NEBRASKAland. Editor
NEBRASKAland Magazine invites all readers to submit their comments, suggestions, and gripes to Speak Up.
Management studies brought us to the area, but any excuse was welcome. Fall weather appeared risky, but the terrain posed our biggest obstacles
Camp-out at Soldier Creek
SPOOKS SUDDENLY shoots away from us like an arrow from a 40 1 pound bow. Down the meadow he goes, into the shallow draw and up to the ridge line of Ponderosa pine. Seven mule deer rise from the grass, bound in a disordered scatter, then stand to stare. Only at the last moment —with the dog closing fast do they turn their heads disdainfully and dance over the crest.
Standing under a load of full packs, we are annoyed by the delay, yet glad at the first sight of deer.
"Spooks, get back here!" Carl at last shouts.
Hot after the deer, the dog disappears.
The sun is going down rapidly now. The evening wind has taken an edge, reminding us that this is after all the last week in October, however kind the afternoon sun has been. Standing still, we begin to shiver. To make camp before nightfall, we will have to hurry the last mile. Carl looks at his watch.
"Spooooks!" ring the canyons again.
We were in the Soldier Creek Special Use Unit, a 10,000-acre box of land just north of Highway 20 and 7 miles west of Fort Robinson. Formerly known as the Fort Robinson Wood Reserve, this area is now under the jurisdiction of the U.S. Forest Service. Slated to be come a primitive recreation area, open to hiking, horse travel and backpack ing, this near-wilderness will offer the outdoorsman an opportunity to hunt, fish and explore the habitat of deer, turkey, bobcat and beaver.
Larry Robinson, a wildlife biologist with the Forest Service and Carl Wolfe, a research biologist with the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission, represent the joint endeaver of these agencies to prepare and develop guide lines for wildlife habitat and species management for this area. They would descend into the middle fork of Soldier Creek, establish a camp, and from there hike the unit to determine the effect of grazing on the creek bottoms.
Along with Carl was his 12-year-old son Jeff. As yet, all the survey work had been handled by Jeff's two-year-old black Lab.
At last Spooks reappeared, prancing proudly back. "Like a trooper strutting to rejoin the line after a successful foray," noted Carl. That light which excitement fires in a Labrador's eyes quickly faded, however; as he came up to us, his tail lowered with the reprimand not to chase deer.
Since the area we will explore lies in the west-central portion of the unit, we have entered the area not at the main entrance at Fort Robinson, but from the southwest corner, leaving our cars in a pasture near the highway. An old lumber trail takes us quickly to the main valley of the South Fork. In places, erosion has sunken the road so severely it looks like a dry irrigation ditch snak ing into the canyon. Along the embank ments grows a thick stand of young Ponderosa. A flock of pinon jays drops into a grove of nearby pines, chattering and mewing. We leave their quarrel behind, beginning the steep descent into the valley.
As we drop below the level of the sun, the wind hisses in the pines along the ridge above us. In this first shadow of night the air is already cold. At every turn, great windfalls of trees have been swept down or snapped mid-trunk, grim reminders of the wind which winter must chase up this slope.
It has become uncomfortably dark before we break out into the flat, surprisingly broad creek bottom. The pines give out abruptly to cottonwood, elm and boxelder. The stream itself has cut a narrow, deep trench in the valley. It meanders erratically, here and there impounded in long, deep pools, else where running noisily like a dog's impatience to be on, ever on.
At last we reach our campsite. Our rush to get set up produced a rattle of cook-kits, the hurried snapping of fire wood, a swish and billow of bright nylon as tents blossomed beneath the growing army of stars. Finally a fire danced before us, water was heating for the making of supper, and we were too busy to properly welcome in the night. Looking at the bright risen moon, I knew the night would be cold, but the clear sky promised good prospecting for tomorrow.
Morning coffee is never cooked soon enough. Jeff is down by the water examining the skim ice and having no success whatever in urging Spooks in for a morning dip. Sleepily, the three of us stare into a pan of water, waiting for it to boil.
Very slowly the sun climbed, as reluctant as we had been to face the morning frost. But with the activity of making breakfast, boots warmed and the smell and sight of eggs sputtering on a hot grill put a better prospect to the day's hike.
With Jeff detailed to rinsing the scoured dishes, and lunches stowed in a pack, we could sit down with a final cup of coffee and arrange a route down the valley. Carl pulled out the map.
If we traveled down the South Fork for several miles, we would pass the ruins of an old Boy Scout camp and the remnants of picnic stops used by of ficers from the fort. Then, leaving the valley and heading north, we would intersect "Trooper Trail," a newly constructed horse and foot path. This trail links the east entrance to an old access road which had dead-ended in the middle of the reserve. We would follow the trail for a mile or so, then drop back into the valley and head back to camp.
On the map all this proceeds quickly enough. I found myself wondering why we even bothered to pack a lunch. What I was not yet seeing, of course, were all the impediments: the contorted, deeply cut stream bed, the leaf ridden pools of quiet water and their stop-and-go traffic of water striders; and the heavy arms of cottonwoods which held a last gold fringe of leaves against the shadow of the canyon's cliffs. In short, nobody with a camera could walk those four miles in less than a day.
Spooks was after more exciting game. He nosed the brush for anything that might move. Having flushed a mouse, the fever was on him, and soon, with Jeff in train, they were lost to sight downstream. The sounds of rushing feet through collected leaves and breaking twigs drifted back to blend with the soft voice of the creek.
With so many spider webs against the morning sun I was finding it difficult to pay any attention at all to Larry and Carl, who were already conferring over a clump of wild plum.
"This whole area has taken some pretty extensive browsing," Larry said.
Carl was noting the location on his map. The condition of the banks and the converging cow tracks showed it to be an area of heavy use.
"Here's a good example of problems we want to overcome. The trouble with cow/calf grazing is that they never get out of the stream bottoms. These areas are abused while the higher grasses are never touched."
A possible solution, Carl went on to theorize, would be to modify grazing practices, either through use of different time periods or different modes of grazing. Steers, for example, tend to exploit the high ground and range farther afield.
After examining the sorry condition of some chokecherry and snowberry, we were again on our way, soon fining Spooks, who now thought he was a sheepdog, trying his best to round up a straggling of cattle.
I know of no pleasure that can quite compare to looking at a brilliant sky through closed eyelids while lying in a pile of dry leaves. Patterns of stars dance across my eyelids like visions of water striders. Even the wind seems to doze with the noon sun. Our sand wiches of jelly and peanut butter, and water from the stream make the best feast for such a day, and seem to drug the blood with peace. What must the trout see, looking up at the brilliant air, motionless in their bright pool until a wind gust wrinkles the surface and sends them shooting beneath the bank?
A box elder bug lands on my nose. So I sit up, letting go of such late October reveries, and find both Larry and Carl sound asleep. Jeff has buried Spooks completely in a pile of leaves; only his tail protrudes, wagging occasionally under Jeff's soft teasing.
NEBRASKAland FEBRUARY 1974
Hearing my camera shutter click, Carl asks without opening his eyes what I'm shooting.
"A couple of old porcupines I found sleeping in the sun."
"Really?" He sits up to find my lens pointing in his direction.
The valley is becoming narrower and the north outcroppings steeper. About a mile from the east boundary, we leave the creek and start north to intersect Trooper Trail. We cross a broad grassy 8 NEBRASKAland slope, largely undisturbed by grazing, before coming into broken stands of pines. Almost immediately we notice bird sounds and flights. Flickers, nuthatches, chickadees and jays abound, a contrast from the mostly silent creek bottom.
In less than half a mile we have crossed three life zones. The riparian stream course, with its hardwoods and understory of flowering shrubs, yielded abruptly to the terrace slope. This transition zone, mostly open grassland, exhibits a few mixed patches of shrub species. As we approach the bluffs an overstory of Ponderosa becomes dominant. Climbing briskly for 200 feet, we gain the upland zone. Here there is little protection from the wind and the pines show dramatically the effects of exposure; contorted and stunted.
From this upland zone we can sense the severe nature of the open plains, the great domes of mixed grassland rolling away unprotected from the harsh extremes of the continental climate. The wind dissolves the warmth of the sun, forcing us to put on our jackets.
Larry explains that the wind and rain sculptured formations along the ridge and outcrops of the Arikaree for mation, a hard clay substance which forms the dramatic bluffs and buttes of the Pine Ridge.
From our vantage point we can see
to the east the confluence of the south
and middle forks of Soldier Creek. Fort
Robinson, its water towers gleaming in
FEBRUARY 1974
Up the middle fork runs the old Hat Creek Military Road, which at one time connected Fort Robinson to Dead wood, S.D. The ruins of the Wood Reserve's caretaker's cabin lies up this valley near the north border of the unit. It is well worth a visit, according to Carl, so we plan that as our destination for tomorrow.
Providing the weather holds, that is. The wind has brought in a front of clouds which threaten to blight the rest of the afternoon. The gentle fall quality of the air this morning has rapidly deteriorated; the pines drone with a warn ing that the season is late, the coming days bleak. Our confidence in a clear tomorrow weakens.
Spooks, ranging far ahead of us, has flushed another herd of mule deer. This time, however, the dog is called in and the animals hold their stand, giving us good opportunity to glass them with Carl's binoculars. They had bedded on a timbered knoll below our ridge and separated from it by a sharp saddle. Obviously they feel secure in the gulf of open space which divides us. Slow ly, as if bored by the show, they walk off, two fine bucks among them.
After a mile of this excellent trail, of fering as it does far views across both valleys, we drop back south toward our campsite, rapidly recrossing the habitat zones until we are again in creek bottom. The temperature is bearable once more, the cloudy sky not so forbidding. Hunger takes us swiftly back to camp.
The preparation of supper is made an ordeal by a high wind. Whirlwinds of leaves speed past and the cottonwoods groan. This will be no evening to sit around the campfire.
By seven we are in our tents, listen ing to the fury of the wind against tree and tent, cold again despite protection, vaguely uneasy at the possibility of snow. Morning is a long way off.
What I thought at first was snow, up on sticking my head out of the tent, proved only a heavy blanket of frost. During the night the wind had subsided and the sky had briefly cleared, allow ing a bright moon to stare through the nylon cloth. But there was no sun at dawn, the sky filled again with gray, ominous clouds.
The weather made us a little more proficient at organizing breakfast and NEBRASKAland preparing our lunch, eager to begin the hike and stoke some heat in our bones. Both Carl and Larry mentioned hearing a bobcat scream during the night. I must not have been awake as much as I thought.
As we head west up the valley, we pass a succession of wide pools in the stream. Large rainbows are abundant, and we plan to attend to this matter on our return.
A steady, cold wind pummels us as we break out of the creek bottom, heading northwest. Spooks has become more businesslike, his attention not so far-flung and indiscriminate. Perhaps the drab, inhospitable weather has made him, like us, more aware of the goal of the day's hike; unlike yesterday, there is not much pleasure in loitering along.
We pick up another wagon trail which takes us up the long, steep slope to high ground. It's difficult to imagine anything shy of a four-wheel drive negotiating this sheer, broken, twisted road. A half-hour of steady climb puts some color in our cheeks.
Finally we achieve high ground, the pines thinning out, the dry grassland leaning under the wind. This land is pleasingly eroded, an arrangement of swales, gentle gullies, meandering crests, all grass covered. Here is a taste of the old magnificence of the Great Plains. We must all be thinking of the suitability of a high camp-to watch the sun go down and come up from such a place-for Larry mentions that campsites on high ground are being planned in the development of the area.
Leaving the old road, we cross a fenceline and strike out across the open land, heading toward a windmill which stands on the highest point. Everywhere are mounds of earth, the diggings of pocket gophers. We discover coyote scat on a cattle trail, pass a large excavation on a hillside —probably a badger hole. Spooks is a little too interested. Close inspection reveals a rim of frost around the hole, probably breath condensation. Jeff takes Spooks by the collar and we continue on.
At the windmill we call a rest. The machine had been shut off and the stock tank was half empty. Scores of waterboatmen oared through the green water. In trying to reach a drink, Spooks perched himself precariously on the tank edge; naturally this proved too much for Jeff to resist. But the dog real ized what was coming in time and bounded backward before Jeff could push him in.
Carl released the windmill's brake and the mahine groaned at being awakened, caught the brisk wind, and squealed to life. The first rusted gushes we let go by before taking mouthfuls of the jaw-numbing water.
Jeff's incessant urging of the dog to get into the \vater —bodily lifting its forelegs over the rim of the tank —continued until Carl called a halt.
That boy will do anything to get you to take pictures of his dog."
"Well," I said, "maybe we can get a shot of them swimming yet."
Just then it began to spit snow.
Larry tugged at the hood of his blast jacket. "Let's get down to the valley."
"How far yet?" I asked Carl.
"A quick mile —let's go." He pulled hard on the windmill brake wire, dangled for a moment like a bell-ringer in his contest with the wind, and the blades began to spin slower, the brake screeching the machine's momentum to a halt.
We picked up another old road and were soon down among the pines.
The ruins of the caretaker's cabin are located beside the stream below a tremendous cut in a bluff. All that remains is the fireplace, a part of the north wall and a woodburning cookstove dated 1923. The log cabin had been quite large.
Having just sat down to lunch, Spooks came whimpering back from some cottonwoods upstream; from his mouth dangled several quills. Wearily, Carl put down his sandwich. "That," he said, "had to be inevitable."
Finding the porcupine, finishing our lunch, and exploring the area consumed the better part of two hours. Under the thick canopy of trees, we had not noticed how completely the clouds were breaking up. As we packed to head back out of the valley, the sun came out. Since the wind had also died, the temperature soared. Soon we were sweating. By the time we reached the windmill, all agreed that snow in the air makes for better hiking.
The sudden return of warm weather brought out a rash of grasshoppers in the long grass. We all had the same idea at once. Scrambling to capture a film-can full, our minds were on the pools of trout that awaited us near camp.
Even Spooks made a try at this game, snapping his jaws at the flying bugs.
We decided to break camp before trying out luck with the trout. Since the sun was getting low, we would have no more than an hour's fishing if we were to reach the cars by sundown.
Larry and Carl readied their lines and soon the water was broken by snapping trout. Unfortunately, we soon discovered the big ones weren't doing the snapping. Uninterested, they lay in the water like spent torpedoes while swarms of six-inch offspring raced after the bait.
Carl decided it was too close to fall spawn for the big trout to be interested in food. It looked like a lost cause, frustrating because the enterprise had appeared so easy.
Spooks was intently interested in this procedure, lying on an outcrop and watching the fish below. Jeff took great care in stalking him this time. When he got close enough, I called out to push him in and I'd get a picture.
The dog instantly rose to a crouch as Jeff's hands touched his back. For a second the two were locked in balance. Then, predictably, Jeff leaned too hard against the dog and Spooks laid down, causing Jeff's hands to slide up and over the dog's head. One precious second of horror crossed the boy's face as he grabbed for air. Beneath his feet the bank crumbled and with a shout he slid into thigh-deep water.
"Serves you right," said Carl, making one last cast.
The face of a black Labrador is most expressive. Sometimes —many people will swear— it can even manage a grin. The rest of us managed one without trying.
Paddlefish... what about tomorrow?
THROUGHOUT HISTORY, in our dealings with wild animals we have taken while the supply was plentiful, and in turn bemoaned the inevitable scarcity that followed. Nebraska Game and Parks Commission biologists hope to reverse that regretable tradition in the case of the Missouri River paddlefish.
Cooperative studies with the South Dakota Department of Game, Fish and Parks over the last two years should insure that the abundant supply of paddlefish we now enjoy will still be available in future years. On-the spot creel censuses, tagging operations and a snagging mortality study were designed to determine the degree of the current harvest, the status of the paddlefish population in the Missouri River and ultimately, the fishing pressure that the species can withstand.
Paddlefish feed on microscopic floating or swimming animal and plant life called plankton. Because this is their only fare, traditional hook-and-line rigs are useless in catching them. The only way for fishermen to catch a paddlefish is by snagging-the jerking of large treble hooks through the water until they imbed somewhere in the fish's anatomy. From that point on, fighting the snagged fish is much the same as other types of angling.
While this may not be fishing in the sense that Izaak Walton had in mind, and may not require the skill and patience of more conventional methods, it is the only means of harvesting paddlefish. Without this form of regulated harvest, paddlefish would be an unutilized resource at a time of burgeoning recreational demands.
Information resulting from the paddlefish study will help determine management policy, aimed at maintain ing the fishery at a constant, harvestable level.
Creel censuses at the Gavins Point tailwaters have yielded information, not only valuable to the fisheries manager, but to the snagger as well. For example, the census showed that approximately 4,500 paddlefish were taken in the tailwaters during the 1972-73 season. Roughly 1,500 of these were caught during December, the most productive month. January and February were the next best months producing 988 and 832 fish respectively. The study showed that the first two months and the last two months of the legal snagging season are by 12 far the least productive times to fish. Though snaggers are present in good numbers, the paddlefish harvest averages less than 50 for either the first or the last month.
Not only did December produce the most paddlefish, but it also produced the largest fish. Paddlefish taken by snaggers from boats in the tailwaters averaged 26 pounds, while those fishing from shore caught fish aver aging just over 18 pounds.
Creel census information not only aids biologists in estimating the annual harvest, but also yields other more valuable data that when compiled and analyzed, gives them a good indication of the population's status.
Whenever possible, biologists collect the lower jawbone from the catches of cooperating anglers. By slicing a thin section from the jawbone and examining it under a microscope, biologists can read the growth rings, much the same as foresters do with trees, and calculate their ages and rates of growth.
Information derived from jawbone cross-sections have shown that paddlefish are relatively fast growers. Two-year-old fish averaged about 5.2 pounds each, 3 year-olds averaged 9.8 pounds, 4-year-olds weighed 12.4 pounds and at five years, paddlefish averaged 16 pounds. The 40 to 50-pound paddlefish occasionally caught are likely to be from 13 to 15 years old.
In addition to information gained from creel cen suses, much valuable data is being compiled from paddle fish previously marked with bands through the lower jaw and then released. When these fish are later caught and the bands returned, biologists are better able to calculate fish movements, harvest, and in some cases, growth rates.
Tag returns have revealed some long-range paddle fish movements. One large fish snagged below Gavins Point dam last year had been tagged 200 miles upstream in the Big Bend tailwaters near Chamberlain, South Dakota in 1969. Another fish, tagged below Yankton, was caught near Sibley, Missouri a year later. All indications are, though, that these long-range movements are exceptions rather than the rule for paddlefish. Most fish are recovered within a few miles of their tagging site.
From information gathered by creel census and band returns, biologists have gained a fair idea of the paddle NEBRASKAland fish's status in the Missouri River below Gavins Point dam. In general, it could be described as very good. The fish show rapid growth and good numbers seem to be present. The balance between the numbers of young and old indicates that production is good.
Unfortunately, the outlook for paddlefish is not so optimistic in other areas of the Missouri River. Downstream, below Ponca, the paddlefish's spawning areas have been seriously altered, perhaps irretrievably lost because of channelization. No reproduction has occurred upstream from Fort Randall dam since the filling of the last reservoir.
Paddlefish taken in the Gavins Point tailwaters may seem to be coming from an endless supply, but fisheries biologists caution that most are spawned in a relatively short stretch of river between Lewis and Clark Lake and Fort Randall Dam in South Dakota. The area from Gavins Point Dam to Ponca may provide some limited spawning habitat. Together, these two stretches of river provide less than 100 miles of water suitable for paddlefish reproduction. Any drastic changes in this last remnant of natural river will likely spell the immediate end for paddlefish snagging as we know it today.
Another study conducted last winter by the South Dakota and Nebraska biologists was initiated at the encouragement of both states' law enforcement officers. According to officers' observations, the practice of "high grading", which is the returning of injured fish to the water when larger ones were caught, had reached epidemic proportions.
Most snaggers guilty of this offense probably do not intend to return injured fish to the water when they first arrive. If they have driven hundreds of miles, though, and happen to hit one of the good days, they may find the temptation to toss back small ones in hopes of hooking larger ones, irrepressible. Unlike most fish, paddlefish do not have swim bladders to keep them afloat, so once kicked overboard they simply sink to the bottom and be come food for scavengers.
During a recent test, twenty-two paddlefish of various sizes were snagged in the tailwaters of Gavins Point using standard tackle. These injured fish were then transferred FEBRUARY 1974 to a pond at the Gavins Point Fish Hatchery for two and one-half months. When the pond was drained, it was found that the wounds often fish had healed cleanly and they were found to be in normal health. Nine fish had badly infected wounds, covered with heavy fungal growths. The remains of three fish were found on the bottom of the pond, presumably victims of the snagging injuries.
These results indicate that the number of fish removed from the tail water population as a result of snagging, far exceeded the actual 4,500 that went home with fishermen last year. Some snaggers have been observed returning as many as 40 paddlefish per day when fishing was good. Many of these never lived long enough to spawn or to be caught by other fishermen. They may just as well have been dumped on the shoreline as be thrown back into the water.
Based on information derived from these studies, the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission initiated new regulations the first of this year designed to insure the continued viability of the Missouri River paddlefish populations.
The most significant regulation change requires that "any paddlefish caught must be counted in the bag." Hopefully this requirement will stop the practice of high grading and insure the efficient use of a limited resource.
A second regulation reduces the possession limit from four to two fish. The daily bag will remain at two paddlefish. This will make Nebraska's limits the same as South Dakota, whose anglers fish the same waters.
While these regulations may seem restrictive, they are designed with the snaggers' long-range benefit in mind. Through careful management, paddlefish populations can be maintained at a level where sport harvesting will always be possible. Snaggers have everything to gain by observing them, and, everything to lose by not. The choice is entirely theirs. A few violators in the limited areas involved can have a tremendous impact on future populations and regulations. Legitimate sportsmen, there for, should be especially watchful for persons ignoring the new regulations, and report violations immediately to authorities.
the Snake River
A RIVER CALLED SNAKE. It is a powerful, rushing water that cuts at the very earth, etching out a valley as wild and beautiful as the waters that are its creator.
Sheer canyon walls are witness to the years of the Snake. The Valley of the Snake between Merritt Reservoir and the river's joining with the Niobrara is an open wound, revealing the centuries-old struggle between water and soil.
More a canyon than a valley, layers of bleached gravel and stripes of varying densities on the vertical walls chronicle the river's time-machine workings.
Cutting back into unwritten history, the River is a scholarly archaeologist, revealing the remains of a prehistoric bird or animal. Calcified with an ivory beauty, the bones shine in the sun after their long entombment by layer upon layer of soil and rock.
Yesterday's river witnessed the life-death struggle daily, as the large and the small, the strong and the weak, came to their final rest by the river bank. Wood, turned to stone, and opalized ivory litter the gravel under the swift flowing water.
Here a glint of sunlight shows a finely chipped flint point, proclaiming the artistry of early man. A delicate object with pepper-like black markings on a field of orange, its esthetic appearance belies the utility and deadliness of purpose. What stories of human endeavors has it witnessed?
The River's rushing course slows here and there to accommodate the widening influence of deep pools. The clear water reveals even more of the past. Still intact, the skull of a long-dead bison stares up through the passing water with empty sockets, the only visible clue to the great herds of such animals that once watered at the banks of the Snake.
The River was then as it is today —a Valley of Life running through a vast stretch of semi-arid sandhills. Today's animals drink its waters, treading in the footprints of now extinct relatives.
Man, too, has changed from the days when the Indian found a safe haven along the Snake, but the River remains a Vein of Life, and wild grape and rose tangle the stream's banks.
As timeless as the rocks and bones, the first warming rays of morning sunlight outline frost-ringed leaves. The silver-thin needles of pine begin to redden as the sun hurries its climb. A well-orchestrated dance is unfolding. The stage is set before a red curtain of light bouncing from white rock and frost-laden grass.
Shadows move to nothingness in step, and the undulations of water over rock lend a musical cadence.
Here and there is the morning cry of wildlife and birds that populate the River's canyon country. A startled magpie chatters off into silence, leaving only a lingering impression that something is beginning to move with the morning's first light.
Layers of mist entwine in the limbs of an overhanging pine. Its arms, gloved in white, wave slowly with the freshening breeze.
It's been thus since the dawn of time.
The Snake is a River of Life, and to hear the song it sings is to reach out and touch Nature. Hold close those impressions, for the untrampled realm of Nature is the everlasting salvation of lesser spirits.
Your Wildlife Lands The Platte Valley
A fine, sand bottom makes the Platte River an always changing braid of sand-bars and water. Today, sun glints on sand that may be gone tomorrow. But sometimes an island stays long enough for wind-blown willow seeds to sprout; and their roots will stabilize the shifting sand. Grasses and cottonwoods follow. The sandbar becomes island. The river continues to wind between, always a threat to the serenity of wooded bars. Meanwhile, wildlife rests; a few ducks here, some cranes there, an eagle, a beaver, a deer... Photograph by Greg Beaumont
Your Wildlife Lands Growth and Change in the Platte Valley
A mile wide, an inch deep; the Platte has never been first choice for navigation. It has offered a broad, flat valley that's rich in plant and animal life. A path to the never-never land of the West, the river is now a westward trail studded with many little lakes and myriad wildlife species. From fur trappers in bull boats to vacationers on the bustling interstate, its cool waters have supported generations of seekers after the many wonders nature offers them.
THE PLATTE would be quite a river if you could stand it on edge." - Washington Irving once remarked.
A see-through ripple, stretching a mile across, an inch deep; that's the Platte of the past as well as the present. Sun glints on moving water as shouting, perspiring men finally admit it —their journey has come to a grinding halt. "If we'd only started a week earlier," they mutter darkly, surveying the load of hides in the grounded bullboats. With only 200 or 300 miles remaining to traverse before reaching the Missouri, the trappers curse their bullboats, the shallowest craft in existence, a contrivance of buffalo hides stretched over willow frames.
Stomping sand and less-than-ankle-deep water, they expand their bad humor to include the Platte River and the entire West and the hulking buffalo that look on. "Why, this God forsaken river won't even float an Indian canoe at full flood," they growl coarsely.
Throughout its history, the Platte River has wandered and meandered as it pleased across the Nebraska landscape, never caring that man might want to ford it or float it. Its fine-sand bottom has offered little resistance to constant and erratic changes in its course. It is even today ever changing.
Yet, while trappers in bullboats cursed it, some settlers who came later, hungry for land, home and future, compared its environs to the Nile Valley. "A fertile oasis," they enthused. Others condemned it. "A desert," they said. But rich prairie sod presented an existing model of natural balance and the infinite variety of plant life that could grow there.There were few wooded areas, though, partially because prairie fires came frequently to gobble up all green things, and stopped only at the cool waters of the river —only inches deep, but wide enough to provide a fire break. The prairie grasses and wildflowers, how ever, survived to sprout and bloom again from the roots. It was as though the land had an urge to live, and the prairie vegetation was its manifestation.
Cutting west as it did, the Platte Valley was a flat, relatively easy corridor to the gold fields and the never-never land of farms and orchards in California and the Pacific Northwest. The river it self provided water and the timber of its always changing islands.
Early day travelers added their curses to those of the trappers as they crossed buffalo trails. Running perpendicularly to the river's course, and to the wagon trail going west, the eroded ruts resulted in broken axles and mired wagons. Herds numbered not in the hundreds nor even in the thousands, but tens of thousands, and a wagon train might travel through a congregation of the beasts for an entire day before getting out the other side. It was a spectacular sight, but a grueling experience not much appreciated by road-weary immigrants trying to find home.
Wolves, too, took the travelers' imagination and attention. Their early morning howling and their habit of downing livestock made them none too popular with those who crossed their domain.
Prairie dogs offered comic relief to saddle weary migrants. Their villages stretched for miles across prairie grasslands. The 49ers were some times amazed at the strange bedfellows that the prairie made. They discovered rattlesnakes and owls were not only comfortable, but also permanent residents in prairie dog burrows and communities.
Today the wildlife of the river has changed, but is is no less spectacular than in the past. The buffalo are gone, but the spring migrations of Sandhill cranes remain, demonstrating the primitive urges of wildlife to follow ancient patterns. The migration has probably existed since the glacial age when cold drove them south for winter.
Bald and golden eagles roost quietly high in the cottonwoods, surveying the territory they claim as home. Thousands of migrating ducks and geese stop over in the Platte Valley to rest. Songbirds, deer and many small mammals use the valley now as in the past.
Today, a modern interstate highway replaces wagon ruts, and that highway is responsible for wildlife and recreation areas along its expanse. Lands purchased to provide fill material for the highway have been turned over to the Game and Parks Commission as public-use areas.
And today, the Game Commission controls these small wildlife areas, dedicated to preserving, as much as possible, the wildlife that now use the river and its surrounding land. There are 36 parcels of land between Grand Island and Big Springs. In cluded in these areas are 3,526 land and 661 water acres for a total of 4,187 acres.
Along these tracts are also 1 7.5 miles of Platte riverfront. Here a man can build a temporary blind, either facing the river or looking onto one of some 49 lakes set into the Platte Valley wildlife areas, and from that blind he can count on some of the finest waterfowl hunting in Nebraska.
All sorts of outdoor enthusiasts are drawn to the Platte areas. There are no sophisticated developments, no playground equipment, no modern restrooms, no camping pads, and no electrical hookups for camper-trailers. There are birds and beavers, deer and ducks, trees and prairie grasses and wildflowers. There are sandy beaches and grassy shorelines, there are clear, sand-bottomed lakes and a flowing, ever-changing river.
A guide to the Platte Valley wildlife areas follows. You will find a description of recreation possibilities, management philosophies, and the wildlife and plants that you will encounter as you explore the valley of the Platte.
Platte Valley Recreation
SHIVERING leaves drift into a quiet pool and float on cold waters. Heavy skies rest in the tops of cottonwoods, turned shimmering gold when touched by dawn light. A man sits alone, lulled into a sense of peace by the breaking dawn when his senses explode with the faraway sound of quacking mallards....
All along the Platte, on wildlife areas dedicated to "primitive" outdoor experiences, this scene and many others are repeated throughout the year. Each season brings a wide variety of solitary and family outdoor experiences to be savored.
Unlike the state park and recreation areas, wildlife lands offer few developed facilities. They do, on the other hand, provide visitors with an assortment of contacts with a natural world that cannot exist alongside extensive development and heavy use. The charm and beauty, and sometimes the harsh reality, of nature on its own are the basis for keeping these areas as nearly as possible in their natural state.
The quiet flow of a broad Platte River sweep ing across Nebraska touches these wildlife lands, scattered in rustic parcels along Interstate 80. River fishing is good, with catfish as the major objective. Carp and an occasional bass are also part of the river fishing fare.
The many sandpit lakes that garnish Platte Valley areas also offer the angler many hours of sunshine and glittering water, and fishes to satisfy his appetite for sport as well as nourishment. Smallmouth, largemouth and rock bass, bluegill and catfish offer a variety of sporting opportunities.
Camping on the areas is primitive; a bedroll beneath whispering willows and cottonwoods, a tent on a grassy lakeshore, a campfire under the canopy of stars and glowing moon. For those prepared to meet the elements on their own terms, such camping is a year-round means of unwinding and testing their understanding of nature.
The silent thrust of paddles brings canoeists gliding down the Platte or around lakes that stud the lands. There are dozens of willow-covered islands for camping or just landing for a break or a picnic lunch. Majestic trees and thick shrubby growth line the banks of the lakes and river on these special wildlife lands. Man becomes just a part of the variety of plant and animal species that live in the midst of these natural plots. Here he can be himself, alone with his thoughts and aspirations and imaginings.
Or a family might choose to strap on back packs and hike throughout the wooded flatlands bordering the waters. There are game trails to be located and insects to observe. Silence and alert ness might be rewarded with a glimpse of a white tailed deer returning to its daytime resting place. There are all sorts of signs left by the animals that have been through the sand and grass of undisturbed lands.
Songbirds by the dozens build nests and raise young in the trees, shrubs and grassy depressions of the Platte Valley. Birdwatchers can observe the courtship rituals of Sandhill cranes. In spring and fall, thousands of ducks and geese stop briefly on the river, which is along a major flyway. Eagles, both bald and golden, overwinter along the river, and heronries provide a glimpse of another large bird species.
Some of the finest waterfowl hunting in Nebraska belongs to the Platte River Valley. Upland hunters will find squirrels and rabbits, along with quail and pheasants utilizing the heavy, wooded cover of these wildlife areas. White-tailed deer, too, and an occasional mulie, wander through the wooded river areas.
For the nature buff, the entire system offers a contrasting progression of plant and animal communities throughout the length of the 1-80 complex. Starting at the eastern end, near Grand Island, observers will find mature riparian forests. One can discover the cycle of life nature provides through the death of old vegetation and the renewal of species through natural genetic selection and crossing. As one moves up the Platte, a change can be observed from dense woody cover to the more primitive shrub and willow growths which gradually give way to even more sparse vegetatation. The developing ecology of a river forest is there to be seen.
Animal life abounds, to be noted and studied. From insects to birds to reptiles to mammals, and the plants that support them, the interrelationships among the various species of plant and animal life can be traced throughout the wildlife areas along the Platte. Tiny communities demonstrate in a micro-view, the beauty of interdependence, with brilliant red and orange bittersweet and twining grape vines growing together with white-berried dogwood, all providing their fruits for birds and mammals.
Photographers will find brilliant color and fantastic vistas of rippling water and stately trees intermixed with tiny flowers. There are mirror pools and tangles of vines and shrubs growing over the fallen and decaying trunks of dead trees.
Throughout the Platte Valley complex of wild life areas, visitors can find a view of life in its most simple, but most complex forms. It is primitive life, the wonder of ecological change and growth, the dynamic world of nature. It is there for the asking and the looking. There are opportunities to participate in these natural communities with shotgun and rifle, with fishing rod and binoculars, with camera and backpacks and tents, or only with eyes to see and ears to hear, and the senses to taste, touch and smell.
Platte Valley Management
AND WHEN the hills are flat; when the corn stands in present 'waste' areas and people crowd by the thousands into overdeveloped park areas to stand on tiny patches of grass, where are my children going to see the hawks and the gulls and the free-roaming deer, and the muted colors of fall trees?"
Perhaps the wildlife areas provide a corner for eagles, a small island in the inundation of burgeoning civilization. These small plots along I-80, on the great, historic Platte River Road, are managed to protect their primitive integrity as much as possible.
Here nature is retained as landscape architect, but with a little help from concerned men. Here a tree dies and is left to rot, and to provide nourish ment for coming generations of trees and flowers and grasses. Here the harsh/smooth texture of wildlife —animals and plants —is left to develop its own shades and hues.
Trees and shrubs, mammals and birds are free to find their own "friends", to establish their own communities, to discover their own comforts. And the rich tapestry of the areas lies in the infinite variety of mixtures and dependencies with which the wilderness protects her own.
Man comes face to face with natural realities in the Platte Valley. A serene riparian woods or a river sandbar is in drastic contrast with the busy, noisy thoroughfare only several yards distant. Area managers are not concerned with providing the conveniences of life that too often overcrowd and spoil beautiful landscapes. Rather, they try to make available for enjoyment the basic resources of nature. For those who need facilities for modern camping, for power boating, for picnicking, other public recreation areas can be found not far from these wildlife areas.
An unspoiled wildlife area must remain relatively untouched by the machines of man. Vege tation must remain uncut to provide for wildlife needs. Trees and shrubs are allowed to "go their way". This is not to say that plants may not be added to areas, or that mowers are never used.
Vehicle access is usually limited to a perimeter parking lot, and the wonders of most areas will be discovered only on foot. In most cases, primitive campers must carry in their water and carry out their garbage. Bassway Strip will be the site of a formal primitive camping system, where sites will be designated along a system of foot trails. On certain other areas, hikers will be free to select sites.
Wildlife management efforts are directed chiefly at allowing vegetation to remain in its natural state. Squirrel trees will be preserved, shrubs will be encouraged as habitat for rabbits and deer. In addition, however, the Game and Parks Commission uses selective planting to add value to the areas.
The planting program, which involves thousands of trees, shrubs and wildflowers, is not an attempt to replace native vegetation. It only supplements existing species. Clumps of cottonwood, boxelder and ash are enhanced, for example, by the addition of hardwoods such as walnut, oak and pecan.
A few of the Platte Valley wildlife areas appear on the north side of I-80, with the highway between them and the river. In most cases, these areas are just small lakes surrounded by narrow bands of land with little or no natural vegetation. Here Game Commission plantings are aimed at providing "fisherman shade", protection from glaring sun along the shoreline, and herbaceous cover to stop erosion of the sandy soil.
Flowing through a broad, flat valley, the Platte River has been known to change its bed with little provocation. In flood stage, the river can wreak havoc on the tiny sandpit lakes adjacent. Over the years, Game Commission personnel have sand bagged and diked to protect these lakes from flooding, but some have been irretrievably lost and others damaged. New and repaired dikes are expected to help preserve those remaining.
And in those remaining, stocking efforts have provided a fine fishery. Dozens of lakes have been stocked with largemouth, smallmouth and rock bass, catfish and bluegill, in various combinations, and a few have received walleye and Kentucky spotted bass. Some have been renovated and restocked—replacing rough fish with game species. Each time a lake floods, rough fish are washed in and game fish disappear from its waters. Often, repair of even minor flood damage includes overhauling the lake's fish population balance as well.
Vegetation, wildlife and fish management are only the initial problems on the Platte Valley wild life areas, or any areas designed for public use. People-use creates the most difficult problems to be solved. Only people take truckloads of house hold trash to the wildlife areas and dump it; only people drag crumpled car bodies to graves on quiet sands; only people become vandals and maliciously destroy facilities provided for their use. It is people who tear out guard rails and drive through grassy lowlands. Through carelessness, humans take their fires into silent wilderness and destroy trees that have decades of life behind them. Be sure you are not the destroyer who defaces these small wildlife areas and deprives your children.
"Where are my children going to see the hawks and the gulls and the free-roaming deer, and the muted colors of fall trees?" Wildlife man agers of the Game and Parks Commission hope that some of those things will survive this generation, and those to come on these Platte Valley areas —and others like them —managed with the same philosophy and care throughout the state. A philosophy of man in harmony with nature.
A Guide to the Platte Valley Wildlife Areas
Area Name Location Big Springs Big Springs Interchange, 0.5 north, 0.75 east. N&S 8 Ogallala Strip Ogallala Interchange, 1.5 miles south, 4 west, 0.5 north over overpass, 1 east-foot access across irrigation drainage ditch. N 293 R East Sutherland Hershey Interchange, 0.2 mile south, 3 miles west, north 0.5 mile, south 0.1 mile N 27 8 F L WestHershey 1-80 milepost 164, Hershey Interchange, 0.5 west N 6 16 G Hershey Hershey Interchange, 0.2 miie south, 0.2 mile east S 53 70 G L East Hershey North Platte Interchange, 0.4 miles south, 7.8 miles west, 1.6 miles north across 1-80 overpass, right turn, 0.2 mile south, 0.2 mile east N 20 20 G L Birdwood Lake North Platte Interchange, 0.4 mile south, 3.6 miles west, 0.9 mile north across 1-80 overpass left turn 0.1 mile south N 20 13 G L Fremont Slough North Platte Interchange, 1.5 miles south, 4.8 miles east, 0.3 mile north, 0.1 mile east across canal, 0.2 mile north under 1-80 overpass, 0.3 mile east, 0.1 mile north N 30 11 G L West Maxwell Maxwell Interchange, 0.7 mile north, 0.8 mile west, 0.3 mile south N 7 6 G L West Brady Brady Interchange, 0.8 mile north, 0.4 mile west. 0.1 mile north, 1.6 west across 1-80 overpass S 5 10 G L Brady Brady Interchange, 0.3 mile south S 25 16 G L West Gothenburg Brady Interchange, 1.5 miles to Brady, 3.5 east, on Highway 30, 0.2 south across R.R. tracks N&S 15 36 0.3 G L East Gothenburg Gothenburg Interchange, 0.4 mile south, 0.4 east, 0.1 mile northeast, 3.4 east, 0.1 mile north S 13 24 F a L Willow Island Cozad Interchange, 1 mile north to Cozad, 5.2 miles west on Highway 30 to Willow Island, 0.8 mile south across R.R. tracks left turn, 0.1 mile north s 30 45 F L East Willow Island Cozad Interchange, 1 mile north, 1.7 west on Hwy 30, 0.8 south over 1-80, 0.5 west s 16 21 0.5 F L&R West Cozad Cozad Interchange, 1 mile north to Cozad, 1.7 miles west on Highway 30, 0.8 mile south across R.R. tracks and over 1-80 overpass, 0.1 mile east, 0.1 mile north, 0.1 mile east s 18 29 G L Hunting Other Activities Fishing Area Name Location Cozad Cozad Interchange, southeast quadrant S 1 16 182 0.5 G L&R EastCozad Cozad Interchange, 0.1 mile south, 1.5 miles east s 4.5 Small Wildlife Production Area Darr Strip Cozad Interchange, 0.3 mile south, 2.5 east s 767 2.5 Darr Darr Interchange, 0.5 mile north, 0.3 mile west N 1 10 21 G L East Darr Darr Interchange, 0.1 mile south, 0.5 mile east S 14 0.1 G Lexington NE quadrant Lexington Interchange, 0.2 mile north, right turn at Dept. of Roads office, 0.2 mile south N 1 13 26 G L Dogwood Overton Interchange, 1.5 miles north, 5 miles west, 1 mile south over 1-80 overpass, turn left, 0.1 mile north S 1 5 264 1.5 G R&L Overton Overton Interchange, northwest quadrant N 1 5 14 West Elm Creek 1-80 milepost 252 N 1 8 24 Sandy Channel Elm Creek Interchange, 1.3 miles south S 11 47 133 F&G L Blue Hole (2 locations) Elm Creek Interchange, 0.3 mile south, left turn, 0.1 mile north, right turn. SW quadrant, Elm Creek Interchange S 2 37 538 2 F&G R&L Blue Hole East 2.5 miles east Platte River Bridge S R 86 0.25 Coot Shallows Odessa Interchange, 0.7 mile north, 1.7 mile west, 0.1 mile south N 1 13 30 G L East Odessa SE quadrant, Odessa Interchange, 4.5 miles east S 1 10 121 0.5 G R&L Kea West Kearney Interchange, 1.1 miles north to 11th Street, 1.3 miles west, 0.9 mile south to overpass approach, left turn, 0.1 mile south N 1 7 4 G L Kea Lake SW quadrant, Kearney Interchange, 0.1 mile south, 0.1 mile west S 1 15 12 G L Bufflehead Kearney Interchange, 1.1 miles north to 11th street, 3 miles past, 1 mile south, 0.6 mile east N 1 13 27 G L Bassway Strip Minden Interchange, 0.4 mile south, left turn, 0.4 mile across Platte River bridge. S 8 90 635 7.0 G R&L Wood River West Wood River Interchange, 0.4 mile south, 1 mile west, 0.1 mile north across overpass, 0.2 west N 1 15 13 G L Loch Linda Alda Interchange, 1 mile north, 2 miles east, 0.5 mile south, 1.5 miles east S 1 20 50 0.5 F R&L G- Managed, good game-fish population F=Floods periodically, mostly rough fish L=Lake R-River
Platte Valley Wildlife
WIND RUSTLES willow leaves; wind rip ples tall bluestem; wind touches the tender petals of rose mallow, ruffles the feathers of a golden eagle, skims the fur of a cottontail, and carries scent to a wary deer. It's dawn and life awakens to a Platte Valley breeze.
A fleeting ray of morning sun glints on dew drops, reflecting the outline of a spider web. That same sunlight touches another, far more intricate web as it warms the valley. The web of life along the river is a prism, a delicate piece of glass or drop of dew. Turned to the sun, the white light which is a whole community breaks down into the many colors of wildlife, vegetation, land contours, soil types and water that together make up the valley.
Looking deep into the crystal of land and life, the naturalist becomes a soothsayer. "Here, my children, here is the past, the present and the future" Here in the decaying trunk of a cotton wood tree, here are insects and worms feeding on the death that gives life. But, hush. There's a wood pecker, a flicker pounding out a veritable rhythm of living. He's looking for food —insects —and he's creating a home. A nest in the decaying carcass of a once-majestic cottonwood. There's life in the old giant yet.
And in the topmost branches is an eagle, roosting on a still-sturdy branch where his view of his kingdom is unobstructed by bothersome leaves. Occasionally he reaches back to preen shining feathers, feathers that reflect the sun and refract its rays into rainbow colors, as a prism.
Lazily, he lifts off and glides toward the river, settles on the sand and gives the "eagle eye" to the glistening currents. Yes, there's dinner. He thrusts his beak into the clear water, drawing out ...only a minnow? This requires more study.
But his quarry is in a hurry. There are tiny, life-giving organisms to be consumed. A second thrust and for a moment sunlight flashes on wet scales, separating light....
Sun glints on fine sand. The river has created a sandbar. It's just a pile of sand with water drifting on all sides, but life longs for life, and wind carries winged seeds to the dead sand. If the bar can last but a season, the willows can begin to grow. If time only allows, the sprouts can send down roots, roots to bind the island, roots to make a future for lifeless sand. Willows and cottonwoods are themselves pioneers, facing a harsh and uncertain future so that others may follow.
If they are successful ...but they won't all succeed. The weaker ones will die, thinning the stand and making room for followers that will en rich the island with their own quirks. Ground ivies and shrubs such as dogwood will come, along with sedges and maybe bluestem to provide berries and seeds. Songbirds come to feed on the island; deer come to browse on the tender shoots of young trees and to escape predators that shy away from water; beaver come to chew the succulent young trees.
Growing roots bind sand ever tighter, slow ing high waters and holding even more sand, providing ever more security. Yet, one day, the river grows stronger, washing sand, undercutting the floor of vegetation —or the water level rises and roots, gasping, drown and release their grip. The river has inherited more logs, more carcasses of d^ad trees. And water washes over the sandbar that was, sun glinting on its ripples, separating light....
Just upstream, wind is dropping seeds on barren sand.
But, though the breeze drops its seed indiscriminately, Sandhill cranes cast a discerning eye to the river and alight on a bare sandbar, sheltered from cold March winds. On the sandbar, cranes find safety from predators, a roosting place where they can rest for the night from their hundreds-of-miles-long flight from the south. As dawn touches them, they will fly to surrounding grain fields to feed and to court. The courtship rituals are confined to the Platte Valley, where the birds choose mates before flying north to breed and nest. It is a spectacle repeated nowhere else in the world. For those few weeks in spring, the cry of the cranes tantalizes their land-bound viewers who wheel and mill only in their imaginations.
And sun flashes on outstretched grey wings,
giving them an ethereal white cast, separating light....
Wheeling and milling, cranes drop ever lower, skimming the tops of cottonwoods, casting shadows on tangled underbrush where mice and rabbits hide from hawks and owls. Muskrats dig for fleshy roots along the riverbank, and mink feed on muskrats, mice, and fish. Raccoons calmly wash their clams, catch their fish and pick their berries in full view of the muskrat's tragedy.
Under the open canopy of cotton wood, ash and boxelder, dogwood and sumac tangle with bittersweet, Virginia creeper, poison ivy and wild grape. Squirrels race up and down sprawling trees, gathering buds and twigs to line their tree-top nests. Here a hollow tree may house an oppossum, there a songbird nest. Kingfishers fly back and forth between river and trees, catching their break fast en route.
Sunlight streams through the treetops onto thick grasses and shrubs. Here are the berries, buds, twigs and bugs to feed hungry birds and squirrels and rabbits.
A dragonfly skims the water standing outside the trees, away from the river —a puddle left high, though not dry, by the changing course of the river. Sun glints off his body, reflecting blue and a touch of green, separating light....
Rushes, sedges, cattails and mosses soak their feet in standing water. And somehow, the vegetation is followed by animals. Fish, snails, crawdads and clams discover food essential for their survival.
Beyond the marsh and beyond the trees and shrubs are the grasslands —the prairie with its intermixture of wildflowers. The contour of the land is higher here, the water table lower. Hot winds and sun dry the plants and sap their strength, but again the race for life brings adaptability. Throughout the growing season, prairie flowers, each in their own turn, rapidly thrust up stalk, bloom, develop seed and disappear. Their presence or absence is hardly noticed. Killdeer and doves nest among their tiny blossoms, feeding on the seeds and insects that creep and crawl and buzz between tender stems of grass and weeds.
But look at it from a gopher's eye view. Under ground is a magnificent balance of root systems, intertwined in their reaching for life-sustaining moisture. Some have sturdy tap roots like the compassplant, some spread close to the surface as a blazing star. Others, like Missouri goldenrod, grow and spread on rhizomes and surface roots. Each is in harmony with the other, and with the gophers, badgers and moles that feed on their roots.
Cottontail cautiously peer from brushy cover, then carefully hop onto the grassland, nibbling on dandelions, wild beans, vetch, and white clover along the way. Mice scurry through tall grasses, hidden from predators, chewing grass and wild flowers. Birds and mice are attracted to foxtail, ragweed, sunflower, and hemp seeds, while coyotes and foxes are attracted to the mice and rabbits.
In dawn light, a doe and fawn slip silently through the shrubbery at the edge of the trees. Russian olive, red cedar and mulberry mix with wild strawberry, dogwood and ground ivy. Quail and pheasant, concealed at woods-edge, awaken to the deer's near passage. Gracefully moving through the trees, the fawn breaks a spider web glistening with dew....
Revised Check-list of Nebraska Birds, available from University of Nebraska State Museum Handbook of Nebraska Trees, available from Conservation and Survey Division, University of Nebraska Nebraska Wild Flowers, Robert C. Lommasson, available from University of Nebraska Press Nebraska Range and Pasture Grasses, available from the University of Nebraska, College of Agriculture and Home Economics Extension Service
A SUMMER REMEMBERED
Our family had good times and bad, but the disappearing chickens and cows was a matter of special crisis in all our lives THE OLD HOUSE stands west of the windmill. A number of sheds and cribs are scattered about the yard. Lightning had burned the barn many years ago. The screened porch is hang ing by a thread on the decaying house. Weeds and wild flowers are growing everywhere.
Now, I sit here by the old windmill. So many times I drank the crystal clear water. I can still feel its coolness on a hot summer day after I had come in from the fields. The old mares would be as tired as me from pulling that walking plow all day. I remember the summers the most. The hard work, the love, and the heartaches we shared, the folks and us four kids.
Than I'd hear Ma's voice calling me from the porch...
"Lee! Get Pa in here and let's eat. Supper's on. And find Frank. That fool youngin' is suppose to be doing the chores, and he's off on that darn pony of his again."
Frank's my younger brother. He'd of been about six then. I was ten years older than him. And if there was trouble afoot, he'd sure step on it. More'n likely he'd be down by Stoner's Creek catching frogs.
Ma would be standing by the old cook stove. Sweat pouring down her fat cheeks. For the life of me, I don't know how she stood the heat. She never complained. If she wasn't fixing meals, she was washing for the six of us on an old scrub board, mending, and cleaning. In the summer, she'd be canning all day, and storing the glass jars of fruit and vegetables in the fruit cellar for winter eating.
Ma would pause from her cooking and wipe her wet face with her apron, and tuck the loose gray hairs back in the big bun she wore on the top of her head.
"You kids get washed. Just look at you Frank, you're a sight. Mud from head to toe."
"But Ma, I can't sit around the house all day do ing nothin' like ole' sissy Maybelle."
"Oh, shut your mouth Frank! You're just jealous cause you're not a girl."
"You kids quit your fussin' or I'll whip you both." Pa'd say. "May, stop pesterin' Frank and set the table for your Ma."
I liked sitting around the big round wooden table. Ma always had a red and white checkered tablecloth on it. We'd talk about how the day's work had gone, and what needed to be done the next day. But mostly our talk was about the war in Europe, and the United States getting into it. Ma used to worry about my older brother Jess going off to war. He'd have been about twenty then. Most of the time Ma or Pa didn't know where he was. He didn't like farm work. He and Pa had a big fight early in the spring, and he left to work in town. Pa never talked much about him, but we all knew Ma had a terrible ache in her heart worrying about him. My cousin Willy Krause told me he had seen Jess and Herman Kline at the Cedar River when he was fishing one day. They were carrying on with the O'Ryan sisters. There was a lot of talk about those girls. How wild they were and how their poor Ma couldn't do anything with them since their pa died the year before. The girls had long, flaming red hair and blue eyes. Thinking about how beautiful Georgia was, I almost envied Jess.
Ma asked if any of us kids had heard any noise outside last night. We hadn't, but something was bothering her.
"I think somethin' or someone is gettin' my chickens."
Ma and her chickens. Big ole' Plymouth Rocks. She took great pride in those chickens. The eggs she sold were our source of grocery money in the summer. And she had noticed quite a few of her hens were missing.
"I'll tell you Pa, if you hear anybody out there messin' around my chicken coops tonight, you get your gun out, 'cause no damn thief is gettin' my hens."
Pa'd listen to her and nod his head. Everyone around here knew Pa was a crack shot.
Pushing his chair away from the table, Pa said, "Come on boys, gotta get the chores done before it gets dark. Looks like it might rain."
The night was hot and sultry. Just like Nebraska weather when a storm was coming. You could smell it in the air.
"Let the cows out of the barn Frank, and take the harness off those horses," I said. "They've cooled off enough now so you can give them a drink from the water tank."
I can still see Frank waddling toward the water tank. His short legs moving at a snail's pace. The legs of his bib overalls dragging on the pure black earth. The wind was coming up now, and the dust was hitting me in the face as I walked out of the barn. Ma was rushing around shutting up the chicken coops, and Maybelle was taking the clothes off the rusty wire clotheslines. (Continued on page 47)
Because of new environmental education programs, children are
Learning to Care
I am a plant and I have a headache. The way I feel about living here is awful. Today a kid tried to kick me out of the ground. Last night after school about a hundred kids ran over me. A week ago I got cut in half by the lawn mower. About two minutes ago a speeder went up the curb and ran right over me. Two seconds later the police ran over me too. I'm having a hard time with all these humans around. Billy Cleland Hartley Public School, LincolnTHROUGHOUT history, mankind has had problems to face and conflicts to wage, yet they all pale in comparison to a situation that man has brought upon himself and all other creatures of the earth. That is his degradation of the environment to the point where life is threatened for many creatures, including man.
Only a changed attitude can correct this cataclysmic trend, and perhaps only enlightened youngsters can turn the tide. To accomplish this end, environmental education must become an integral part of our lives. But just what is environmental education? To under stand or define its meaning, it may be necessary to find what it is not.
Environmental education is not teaching students to name every plant and animal on the North American continent. It is not strict nature study. It is notthe making of a scientific memory bank out of a student; remember our scientific knowledge doubles every 4 years. We program computers as memory banks, not our young people! Environmental education is not science, art, music, math, social studies or language. It is not a one-day trip to a natural area or a week at an outdoor camp.
Puzzled? Well, let us try to discover what environmental education is. It is a study of man with nature (the "Natural" system), man with man (the "Human" system), and man with himself (the "Ego" system). It is the study of the interdependence of all these systems and how the quality of each of our lives is affected. Remember, nature can live without man, but man cannot live with out nature. Environmental education is the development of thinking skills and processes. It is art, science, math, social studies, music and language —it is multi-disciplinary and must be in all classes. Environmental education is concern with action. Environmental education allows for enlightened deci sion making and problem solving as to the quality of life in the future.
To discover a need for environmental education is to recognize the problem. Are the problems we face today air pollution, water pollution, declining wildlife numbers, smog, pesticides, decreasing habitat, etc., etc? Or, are these just symptoms of the real problem, just as a cough or sneeze is a symptom of a cold? Well then, is the real problem a socio-economic system? It is a fact that we live in the most wasteful nation on earth. We are 6% of the world population but use 30+% of the world's energy. Our standards of living are high! Could they be too high? Our limited natural resources are running low. Our wants seem to be infinite but our needs are finite. When should we separate needs from wants?
But what is a system but a group of people. What guides our behavior? What makes us the most wasteful nation on earth? Do most people care? Now we are beginning to understand the real problem. Most people don't care; if they did our very existence on this planet wouldn't be threatened as it is today. Why are most people apathetic, only a few concerned, and fewer yet follow up with appropriate action. It seems that we are all in this together. We base our decisions on ethics and attitudes that we have developed over time. In simple terms, some people feel it is alright to pollute a river and some don't. Most times the green dollar signs cloud the mind; the "right" thing is not done.
"Now it seems that we have met the enemy, and the enemy is us." We must develop an environmental ethic that will give us that quality of life in the future.
The Game and Parks Commission
recognized many of these problems
and saw the need for environmental education in our public schools and thus
developed a program for middle elementary students (grades 4-6). The program is designed to do many things, the
least of which being the exposure of
the student to stimuli about and from
his environment. This program is not
science limited in scope but is developed to expose the student to integrated and interdisciplinary facets of
the environment he or she lives in. It is
this exposure that will hopefully manifest itself in the conscious development
of an environmental ethic. This program does not stop at the end of packets
and physical curriculum material, but
is designed to instill an awareness and
appreciation of the environment, thus
creating endless possibilities for future
learning activities. The program's purpose is both informational and attitu
dinal in nature in that it does not limit
the student to the stagnation of only
scientifically oriented measuring, observation
38
NEBRASKAland
FEBRUARY 1974
39
and memorization. Instead,
this program attempts to open up new
areas of environmental consciousness
that includes ethics, relationships of
social nature and concepts of self. It is
therefore logical that the scope of the
program be something more than
strictly information.
The design of this program encourages the student to look at the study topic in the light of his or her possible contribution or hand in exploitation, or cultivation of the environment. The study of the basic areas of nature can be extrapolated to expose the student's role in this natural drama, thus making it necessary for the student and teacher to judge, choose and adapt an ethic reflecting good environmental sense. It is this act, the creation of an environmental ethic, that is the most important product of an environmental education program. And, perhaps the most important factor in the student's life.
The success of this program is dependent upon the teacher being excited about nature and the environment. The measure of positive attitudinal change that occurs on the student level
The topics of study will be divided into four units: 1) plant study 2) bird study 3) mammal study and 4) ecology and the environment. Each unit has a motivational introduction that will hopefully encourage the student to want to learn. This motivational "set" will then be followed by the exposure to and instruction of some important concepts concerning the area of study. Each concept is handled and instructed in the following form: 1) An informational session to introduce the concept. 2) An activity or class experience to follow and reinforce the informational session. 3) An activity or class experience that is of an attitudinal nature and generally "applies" the concept to the student and his or her role and purpose. This "application activity" will not only reinforce the concept but will cause the student to make attitudinal changes that collectively will form an environmental ethic. This third aspect of the section or "application activity" couples the concept with self. Conflict is experienced and attitudinal change will hopefully germinate and grow.
This new environmental education program of the Game and Parks Commission is being piloted in the Lincoln Public Schools with 15 teachers. When these teachers have completed the pilot program, revisions will be made and the curriculum will be workshopped statewide for interested teachers. These workshops will be conducted jointly by the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission and the State Department of Education. Teachers in grades 4, 5 or 6 who are interested in becoming in volved in this program should contact Science Curriculum Coordinator, State Department of Education, or the Education Section, Nebraska Game and Parks Commission.
Prairie Life / Migration
MIGRATION. To most people, the word conjures up pictures of dramatic mass movements of animals: of skies darkened with water fowl or swarms of locust, or the African savanna flowing with spring bok and wildebeests. Simply stated, migration is the periodic movement of an animal from the place where it has been living to a new area, and its subsequent return journey to its original home. Prairie rattlesnakes that leave the open sandhills and travel to winter quarters along the Snake River canyon are migrants. So, too, are the rainbow trout that each fall and spring leave Lake McConaughy to return to spawning streams that feed the North Platte River.
Migration, and man's fascination with it, are nothing new. Indeed, the migration of birds was probably among the first natural phenomena to attract man's attention.
The flight of quail that saved the Israelites from starvation during their wandering in the wilderness of the Sinai is now believed to have been a vast migration of birds between their breeding and wintering grounds. The passage, as recorded in the 11th chapter of Numbers, is one of the first written accounts of migration.
"Then a wind from the Lord sprang up; it drove quails in from the west, and they were flying all around the camp for the distance of a day's journey, three feet above the ground. The people were busy gathering quails all that day, all night, and all the next day, and even the man who got the least gathered ten homers." (100 bushel, ED.)
Aristotle, philosopher and natural ist of ancient Greece, noted that cranes traveled from the steppes of Scythia to the marshes at the head waters of the Nile, and that pelicans, geese, swans, rails, doves and many other birds likewise passed to warmer regions to spend the winter.
While historical observations of the comings and goings of animals were largely accurate, early day theories of migration could hardly be described as scientific. A common belief in the Middle Ages held that swallows, storks and doves passed into a torpid state during the fall and spent the winter buried in the mud of marshes. There are even reports of fishermen returning with mixed catches of fish and swallows in their nets.
One early attempt to explain the mystery of migration was published in 1703 under the title: "An Essay Toward the Probable Solution of this Question: Whence come the Stork and the Turtle, the Crane and the Swallow, When they Know and Observe the Appointed Time of their Coming." It was authored "By a Person of Learning and Piety" and suggested that migrating birds spent the winter months on the moon.
Our understanding of this phe nomenon called migration has advanced significantly, largely in the last 30 years. Through studies utilizing the sophisticated tracking techniques of radar and tiny radio transmitters, ornithologists have unlocked many of the mysteries. Others remain unexplained, subjects for scientific conjecture. What, then, is migration? How did it come to be? What advantages does migration of fer animals? And, how do migrating animals perform some of the unexplained feats involved in their journeys?
Migration, especially of birds, makes possible the inhabiting of two different areas during the seasons when each presents the most favor able conditions. Birds can trade the bitter northern winters for the gentle warmth of southern climates, and conversely, in the summer they can escape the humid heat of southern latitudes for the long, cool days of the northland.
By migrating, birds ease the competition for food and cover during nesting seasons. If migratory species remained in their wintering areas with nonmigratory species, there simply wouldn't be enough of these two necessities to go around. Thus, migration spreads bird numbers over a maximum range during the critical reproductive period. Birds that migrate north have the additional ad vantage of long summer days in which to gather food for their young.
Predation is less of a factor for birds nesting in the far north. The brief, once-a-year appearance of young birds denies predators the year-around supply of food that would be necessary to maintain their numbers at a level that could severe ly affect nesting bird populations.
While the advantages of migration are generally accepted, the origins of the migratory habit can only bespeculated upon.
Most zoologists agree that migration probably arose in different ways and at different times in different groups of animals. They also agree that there are environmental forces at work today that may result in the development of migratory habits in new species, or loss of the migration instinct in others.
The Northern Home Theory holds that birds evolved in the world's northern hemisphere. As glaciers swept in from the north, birds were forced to seek warmer climates to the south. Generations later, as the climate warmed, these same species returned north to breed each spring, only to be pushed south every year by autumn's lower temperatures. The result was that many species of birds became accustomed to semi-annual journeys —north in the spring and south in the autumn.
Conversely, the Southern Home Theory suggests that bird life origin ated in tropical regions of the world and that expanding populations there forced some birds to move into areas where competition for food and cover during the nesting season was less keen. According to this theory, birds moved north during the spring, nested, and then were forced south again as temperatures cooled in the fall. After many generations, this instinct to breed in the north and winter in the south became established in the genetic behavior of the species, and the migratory habit became a way of life.
Few doubt that climatic change and the resulting effect on food supply provided the original impetus to migrate. This helps to explain why most migration routes are north-south oriented, the same directions that seasonal weather changes move. It also accounts for a higher percentage of migratory birds in Canada than in the United States, and a higher percentage in the United States than in Mexico. It is immediately obvious that the number of
While the phenomenon of migration is best developed and most common in birds, it is by no means restricted to that class. Some mammals, fish, reptiles, amphibians and insects have developed the migratory habit.
Fish, next to birds, are the greatest
migrants in the animal kingdom. Almost everyone is familiar with the
migration of salmon in the Pacific
42
NEBRASKAland
FEBRUARY 1974
43
northwest and Alaska. In fact,
a number of river and stream species
could be considered migratory. Unlike bird migrations that take place
annually, fish migration is generally
a once-in-a-lifetime affair. Young fry
hatch in the headwaters of river
drainages, migrate downstream
where they mature, and then return
to their hatching site to spawn.
In contrast to the number of birds that migrate, the number of mammals that make seasonal movements are few. Most mammals are well adapted to temperature extremes and are capable of subsisting on a food that is available the year around. Some have even solved the problem of winter feeding by going into a deep sleep during the cold months.
Even if mammals were predisposed to migrate, geographical features like mountain ranges and rivers would be major obstacles. It is in teresting that in marine mammals, such as the whale or dolphin, or fly ing mammals, like the bat, migration is the rule. Perhaps if mammals were more mobile, more migrants would have evolved.
Before the turn of the century, many land mammals, primarily the hooved clan, did migrate, often in vast herds. The antelope of Africa, the caribou of the Arctic, and the bison of the North American plains all made lengthy annual treks in response to food or water supplies.
Records of the early 1800s tell of bison herds following the greening grass north in the spring and moving ahead of the browning grass in the fall. An 1871 account mentioned the sighting of a single column of bison, 20 to 50 miles wide, moving north in the spring.
The journeys of reptiles and amphibians are more modest than those of other animal groups, but are true migrations just the same. Most are of only a few hundred yards, some a mile or more. For amphibians, migration generally means moving to water to breed; for reptiles, to winter denning sites.
Some dragonflies, lady beetles and butterflies are known to make mass movements on a regular basis, but generally an individual insect never returns to its home area, even though its offspring may. As such, most can not be considered migrations in the traditional sense.
In North America, the monarch butterfly is the only insect known to truly migrate. Though an individual monarch never returns to the place of its hatching, it does make part of the trip. As autumn approaches in the temperate zones, the monarchs wing southward toward Mexico and Central America, averaging about 11 miles per hour while on the wing. By October, most have reached their wintering grounds. Come spring, the survivors of winter begin their trip back north. Along the route they mate, lay eggs and finally die. Young monarchs hatching from these eggs continue north with the advancing season and may reach their parents', or in some cases grandparents', hatching sites. The cycle of migration is thus completed.
Birds, though, are the unchallenged vagabonds of the animal kingdom. Nearly half of the world's 8,580 known species of birds are migratory. Because the instinct for seasonal movement is common to so many bird species, most of our knowledge on migration has come from studying their habits.
For many years it was believed that most species of birds migrated during daylight hours when they could keep oriented by natural features of the terrain. This idea was proven untrue in a rather unusual manner.
During the early days of radar, just before and during World War II, strange, unexplained points of light would often appear on radar screens in areas where there were no known aircraft movements. Unable to explain these early day UFO's, radar operators nicknamed the blips "angels." When the war ended and radar became less secret, these angels were found to be migrating flocks of birds.
In this strange way it was discovered that a majority of small birds, including most passerines, migrate by night. Night-time travel affords birds the advantages of more stable air currents, decreased predation and leaves the daylight hours for feeding.
Larger birds, such as hawks and herons, generally migrate by day and rest at night, as do birds that sight-feed on the wing like swifts and swallows. Waterfowl and shore birds may migrate either by day or night.
The rate at which birds travel during migration can be difficult to ascertain. By noting departure and arrival times of large concentrations of birds, or in instances where a newly banded bird is recovered a short time later, biologists have gained a fair idea of the rates of travel for some species.
For example, a flock of snow geese traveled from James Bay, Canada, to Louisiana in about 60 hours, a distance of 1,700 miles for an average speed of 28 miles per hour. A blue winged teal is known to have traveled 3,800 miles from Alberta, Canada to Venezuela in exactly one month, an average of 125 miles per day.
Despite these long, speedy flights, it seems likely that migrations nor mally are performed at a more leisurely pace, and that after a flight of a few hours, most birds pause to feed and rest if they find themselves in congenial surroundings.
The distance that birds migrate depends largely on the species, and to a lesser degree on individual populations or even individual birds with in that species. Arctic terns, for example, make a journey from one pole to the other and back again every year, a trip of over 22,000 miles. On the other hand, some Canada geese hatched in western Nebraska may travel to the North Platte River to winter, a distance of less than 50 miles.
A most difficult question to answer about migration, though, is how birds find their\vay. Each year, thousands of birds unerringly find their way to wintering or breeding grounds. To accomplish this remarkable feat, a bird must know where it is, the direction of its goal, and then must be able to navigate a course in that direction. Once in the general area of its home, it must be able to recognize it.
Many biologists maintain that birds memorize certain topographic features along their route, such as mountains or rivers. While this may be a factor, it fails to explain how birds migrate on overcast nights or even in severe storms. It also does not explain how young birds that have never migrated before can travel to their ancestral wintering or breeding grounds when separated from adults.
Some have suggested that migratory animals possess a special sense unknown to man —a sense of direction. This is not entirely unplausible considering some of the unusual sensory abilities of other animals, such as the acute sense of taste in butterflies or the ability of bees to see ultraviolet light.
Some experiments have indicated that birds navigate by the sun. Birds placed in outdoor cages during the migration season orient themselves in the same direction they would be traveling if free. When ornithologists artificially shifted the sun's direction by means of a system of mirrors, the birds reoriented in the seemingly appropriate direction. On cloudy days, species that normally migrate in daylight became disoriented and showed no preference for the direction they faced. From experiments such as these, biologists have the orized that some species of birds possess a "sun compass sense," that is, they determine their directions from the position of the sun.
If birds can determine their latitude and longitude by the sun's position, it is but a short logical step to as sume that night-time migrants navigate by the stars. In the late 1950s a German ornithologist employed a unique technique to prove just that.
First, he placed a native species of warbler in a cage under a starry sky. The warblers unfailingly positioned themselves in the direction that other members of the species were migrating. Even when the zoologist rotated a bird's perch, it subbornly turned in the direction it would be migrating. On cloudy nights, the birds faced in random directions.
Next, he placed the birds in a planetarium under an artificial sky that duplicated a migration season. Again, the warblers faced the direction they normally would have been traveling. As the sky rotated, the songbirds turned to face the appropriate direction. When the plane tarium's sky was altered to match that of a location in a different latitude or longitude, the birds compensated for their apparent geographical change so that they would reach their appropriate destination.
Slowly we are solving some of the mysteries of migration. But with each question we answer, new questions arise.
It was only 200 years ago that some Indian tribes believed that small, weak-flying birds gathered on lake or ocean shores to hitch rides south on the backs of larger birds.
We've come a long way since then, but still our knowledge is large ly descriptive—what species migrate, where do they migrate, how high do they fly, how fast do they travel? Though we have made calculated guesses about the more basic questions of why and how animals migrate, they are no more than that — educated guesses based on piece meal knowledge. In years to come, through such sophisticated techniques as satellite tracking and photography, we will undoubtedly answer even these questions. But, although we may some day under stand the mechanism of migration, the trill of the sandhill crane or the flock calls of migrating geese will always remain a mystery.
A SUMMER REMEMBERED
(Continued from page 37)"Better go to the cellar, Pa, 'til it passes. Don't want to take any chances of gettin' these youngins' hurt or killed," Ma would say.
I grabbed the kerosene lantern and a handful of wood matches. Maybelle hurried upstairs to get some quilts. Frank rushed around trying to find his mongrel pup, cursin' the whole time that the damn cyclone was going to take his spotted pinto pony away.
The old cellar smelled musty. The coolness was a welcome relief after being out in the hot field all day. The cellar shelves were filled with canned fruits, vegetables, and meat. A crock jar full of Ma's dill pickles setting in brine, and of course plenty of Pa's home brew. I remember once when I was about five or six drinking some of Pa's beer. I got so sick I felt green.
"Well, one thing sure, we won't go hungry if we have to stay down here very long."
"Boy, that's all you think about is food for that over-sized gut of yours," Maybelle would tell Frank.
"Well, I can't help it if I was born hungry. And besides, you only stay skinny for that boyfriend of yours. Dear ole' Charles. You're just afraid he won't take you out dancin' if you get so fat he can't get his arms around you." Frank teased her so much.
"You just wait Frank jr. until we get out of this here cellar. I'm going to bend your muley ears back and wrap them around your fat neck!"
Frank would just look at her and grin.
"You make me so sick to look at you, I feel like throwing up. UGH!"
Maybelle had just turned 18 in May. She had been stepping out with Charles for about a year now. She could of had just about any eligible boy around. She was very petite with long brown hair and snapping black eyes. She more or less set her sights on Charles because his folks owned the hardware store in town. Charles would come calling on her and they would ride back to town in the buggy for the community dances, or an occasional Sunday picnic down by the river. There was a place up above the river called Lovers' Leap, named for two Indian sweethearts who leaped to their deaths because the two rival tribe chiefs wouldn't allow their marriage. I knew Maybelle used to go there with Charles, as most young couples in love.
"That sounds like hail hittin' the cellar door, Pa. I sure hope it don't take our corn." I thought of all the work we'd done plant ing that corn and go-deviling it, and the many miles I'd walked behind that team of mares.
But as soon as it started, the hail stopped.
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"I guess it's over," Pa said. "Sounds like it's rainin' now. That we can use. Come on, let's all go up to the house, get some sleep. With all this rain, won't be any work in the fields tomorrow. We can get that fence fixed down by the creek. Those ole breachy cows are findin' a place to get out."
The rain had smelled good. Cool and sweet. Like fresh washed sheets. It had stopped now. I laid in my bed listening to the frogs down by the creek and thinking what a field day Frank would have tomorrow.
Sun was streaming through my window the next morning. The birds were singing, and Frank's pup was barking at a rabbit. The smell of breakfast was coming up the stairs. I got up quickly, put on my clothes, grabbed my boots and hurried downstairs.
Ma was by the stove dishing up the last of the potatoes, scrambled eggs and fried salt bacon. The grinder was still on the table where she had left it after grinding the beans for the morning coffee. The big blue and white speckled pot was perking away on top of the stove.
Frank and Pa were already seated at the table. Maybelle was standing by the basin combing her hair and smiling her approval of the reflection in the cracked mirror that hung on the wall above the wash basin. I put on my boots and sat up to the table.
"Ye gads! Ole' sissy Maybelle's going to go bald if she don't quit combing that hair of her's. I hope she goes bald!" Frank teased.
Maybelle turned and glared at him.
"Then ole' Charlie won't be able to run his fingers through her hair. Ha! Ha!
"Pa! If you don't tell him to shut up, I'm going to kill him! Maybelle screamed.
Pa'd look at Frank and warn him if he didn't quit teasing his sister, he'd tan his fat rump.
Maybelle was finally over her mad spell and sat down next to Ma. They started to talk about the big Fourth of July picnic next month. The dances, the games for the young
people and the picnic. Mostly about the dress Ma was going to make for her. It was to be made out of light blue dotted Swiss. Ma had sent all the way to a mail order house in Kansas City for the material. May belle was getting excited about the upcoming event. You could tell by the sparkle in her eyes she was thinking about Charles. She hoped he would finally get around to asking her to marry him. She wanted to look her very best in hopes of enticing him into doing so.
When breakfast was over, I went outside to get the things together to repair the pasture fence. I loaded the wagon with the necessary tools —post hole digger, nails, staples and a couple of rolls of barbed wire. I filled the water jug from the well barrel, harnessed the mares and hitched them to the wagon.
After Pa and Frank finished the morning chores, Frank saddled up his pinto pony Beans. And along with his mongrel pup Jabbers, they went to the creek to catch frogs and do whatever little fat boys like Frank, a pony, and a dog would do on a summer day.
As Pa and I were riding down to the pasture in the wagon, we would talk. I liked to talk to Pa, especially when we were by ourselves. We got along good. Pa and I were alike in many ways. He was a quiet man. His hair was gray despite the short forty-odd years he had lived. The large gray mustache hung down over his top lip. His clothes were always too large for him. He wore wide rubber arm bands to hold up his shirt sleeves while he was working. His eyes were as blue as deep pools. You could see the world in those eyes, and the love he felt for Ma when he looked at her. All us kids knew he loved us, except maybe for Jess. Jess was always wild, hot tempered. He'd get mad at the drop of a hat. Pa would try to talk to him, but no matter what Pa said or did, it was always the opposite for Jess. He could see no sense in working the farm. He hated the idea of Pa telling him what work needed to be done, when to go to bed, when to get up, and that was the reason he left.
"Well Lee, that looks like the spot where the cows are getting out." Pa pointed to ward a big opening in the pasture fence. I pulled in the horses, jumped off the wagon and walked toward the fence.
"Hey Pa, come here. These marks on the wire looks like someone has used wire cutters on it."
He climbed down off the wagon and hurried to the spot where I was standing.
"Hmm, I think you're right Lee, it does look as though someone has cut it." I wondered who could have done a damn fool thing like that.
We finished the fence repair and put the tools back in the wagon.
"I think you'd better saddle the bronc, Lee, and ride out to the back pasture and take a count on those stock cows and calves. I'm kind of worried about what we found here."
NEBRASKAlandAs Pa headed the team back to the yard, Frank was coming across the field on his pony at a full gallop, yelling his fool head off.
"Lee! Lee! Pa! One of our cows is dead over there," pointing toward the back pasture.
As soon as Pa pulled the wagon in the yard I jumped down and ran toward the barn to saddle Pal. When I finished, Frank and I went to where he had found the dead cow.
She had died giving birth to her calf. The calf was barely alive and was mooing over the dead carcass of his mother. I put him across my saddle and Frank and I did a count on the rest of the herd. A considerable number of cows and spring calves were unaccounted for. We rode back to the house to tell Pa.
"I just don't understand it, Lee. Someone must be takin' that beef. But who?"
"God Pa, I don't know. Looks to me like Frank's dog would raise hell if he heard anybody. You know he roams this whole place at night."
"Don't forget my hens Pa. I know some one has been takin' them," Ma said.
It was now Sunday, my usual day for visit ing my cousins Willy and Otto Krause. Their dad was Pa's younger brother. Willy and I would go to the river to fish. If I was lucky enough to catch one, Ma would fry the big catfish for Sunday supper.
"Lee, did you hear about Otto? He might have to go off to fight in the war. They've been recruiting volunteers in town, and he's thinking about signing up."
"I wonder what Jess is planning on doing? He and Otto are the same age. Ma will sure ly have a fit if he goes too."
"I don't know Lee. I heard Otto talking to Dad about Jess. Seems like he's been running around with some pretty rough guys. Herman Kline for one. Did you know Herman was in jail for about six months for stealing old man Helt's harness and a bunch of other things when he worked for him?"
I knew about^he theft. Lot of folks thought Herman's dad had put him up to taking those things.
The Fourth of July weekend had finally arrived. Everyone was so excited. Maybelle and Ma had prepared an enormous picnic lunch. And of course, everyone was dressed in their Sunday best.
"Ah Ma! Do I have to wear these sissy ole' clothes?" Frank hated the short trousers and starched white shirt.
"I don't see why you bother to dress him up Ma," Maybelle said. "When he finishes eating he'll look like a pig that just wallowed in the mud."
"You dumb ole' girl! You think you're so smart in that dumb ole' dress. I bet Charlie won't even look at you. I heard Willy tell ing Lee the other day he saw him with Bonnie O'Ryan down by the river."
I hadn't known Frank had overhead Willy and I talking.
"Lee? Is it true that Willy told you he saw Charles and Bonnie together?" Maybelle asked me while I was putting the picnic basket in the back of the buggy.
"That's what he said alright. But I wouldn't pay too much attention to it. It probably means nothing." She was quiet as we drove into town.
The picnic area was as busy as a bee hive. Little kids running around squealing with pleasure. The women setting the tables and the men either drinking beer or pitching horseshoes.
Maybelle was busy talking to her girl friends about the evening dance. She was to meet Charles here. I could tell she was concerned because he hadn't arrived yet. They were to have lunch together, participate in the afternoon festivities and attend the dance that evening.
Frank went off with his little friends to enter the three legged sack race, the egg carrying contest and a number of other events, including the pee-wee pie eating contest. First prize was a silver dollar.
The women had a rolling pin throwing contest and Ma won. Frank had skipped lunch. Said he wanted an empty belly for the pie eating contest.
The judge had all of the little ones seated at a long wooden picnic table. It was about to begin. Will and I walked over to the table just in time to see Frank with his face buried in a gooseberry pie. It was in his nose and
20,000-W.,115/230-V. Tractor Drive Generator 23-Channel, 5-Watt CB Mobile Transceiver $129.95 Most Features hits Price Class ( ION-024-MCB ) - - HY GAIN Mod. 671 with transmit and receive crystals furnished for all 23 channels. Full, legal 5-watts power. Continuous delta tune, RF/S meter, squelch control, ANL, external speaker jack, mounting bracket, microphone with coil cord. Operates on 12-VDC, pos. or neg. ground. Overall size IVi" x 6V2" x 2'/2". Shpg. wt. 6 lbs. Hy-Gain HELLCAT 5 Mobile CB Antenna ( ION-024-MRA ) - - One of the best performing mobile antennas around. For those who want optimum performance. Pretuned, factory assembled. 47" high, 22 ft. coax cable, 52-ohm feedpoint. Shpg. wt. 2 lbs. ) $14.50 MAIL ORDER CUSTOMERS PLEASE READ THIS NOTE When ordering by mail, be sure to include enough money for postage and insurance if you wish to avoid the heavy C.O.D. charges. If you do wish C.O.D. shipment, a deposit of 25% of the total amount of your order is required. We refund any excess remittance on prepaid orders immediately. NEBRASKA CUSTOMERS must include the NEBRASKA SALES TAX! CHAIN SAW SPECIALS Two famous makes. The STIHL gas operated and the VILLAGE BLACKSMITH electric chain saw. Both models ideal for tree felling, cutting firewood, tree trimming, etc. GASOLINE CHAIN SAW $129.95 ( ION-024SCS ) - - STIHL Mod. 015A. All position carburetor, automatic oiler, 12" cutting bar and chain, quiet tone muffler. ( 14 lbs. ) ( ION-024VBS ) - - VILLAGE BLACKSMITH Mod. 1010 has 10" bar and chain. Powerful 10-amp. motor. Operates on 115-VAC. Automatic oiler. ( Shpg. wt. 13 lbs. ) Chain Saw Sales — Service SURPLUS CENTER offers complete SALES and SERVICE on McCULLOCK, STIHL, VILLAGE BLACKSMITH chain saws. Chains, lubricants, etc. at lowest prices. PORTABLE POWER PLANT $517.50 List Price $699.00 ( #ON-024-PPP ) - - Famous brand plant has 5300-watt capacity. 115/230-VAC, 60-cycles. Use as emergency power source, use to supply power for lights, power tools, etc. for farmers, contractors, camping, etc. Powered by 10 HP BRIGGS 4-cycle gas engine. Ball bearing equipped. 28" x 25" x 23". Shpg. wt. 278 lbs. ( ION-024-EPP ) - - Same plant as above but has electric start feature. ( 292 lbs. ) List Price $733.00 $539.50 Lure Arranger Tackle Box $6.88 ( ION-024-LAT ) - - New concept in tackle boxes. Arranges lures neatly where you can see all of them for easy selection. Ideal for spinner baits. Shpg. wt. 4 lbs. Reg. $9.95 $699.50 ( #ON-024-TDG ) - - Farmers, ranchers, es- tates, tourist camps, etc. need a reliable source of emergency in the event of power outages during storms, etc. This ball bearing unit can be driven from tractor PTO with tumbling bar shown below, to furnish 20,000-watts ( int. ) or 15,000-watts ( cont. ) of 115/230-VAC, 60-cycle, 1-phase, 3-wire power. You could, presumably, save the original cost of the unit by having it ready for operation at the time of your first power failure. Famous make. 23"x 23"x 16". Shipping weight 345 lbs. PTO Tumbling Bar Heavy Duty Model $59.50 ( #ON-024-TTB ) - Telescopes from 48" to 72". 1-3/8" female spline on one end, 1-1 IS" coupling to fit generator shaft on the other end. Equipped with safety shields. NOTE: Not sold separately. Price shown is for unit when purchased at the same time as the above generator. ( Most tractor owners already own tumbling bars ). Shipping weight 25 lbs. SURPLUS CENTER stocks other sizes in power plants at LOWEST PRICES for campers, ranchers, farmers, contractors, utilities, etc. SURPLUS CENTER Dept. ON-024 Lincoln, Nebr. 68501 FEBRUARY 1974 49
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eyes. All the yelling and cheering going on you could hardly hear. I heard myself rooting for Frank. He kept gobbling down that pie. Finally the whistle blew. There was no doubt about it, Frank had won. We all applauded as he stepped down off the plat form. Ma washed his face and he promptly announced that he was hungry and went off to eat lunch.
The day had grown hot and sticky. Willy and I decided to take a swim in the river. We were heading that way when one of Maybelle's friends came running up the path shrieking her fool head off about something.
"Lee! It's Maybelle! She's going to jump off the Leap. She is, I know she is! Hurry! Stop her before she jumps!" Maryanne screamed.
She was scared to death. Her face was as white as a ghost. I stopped her from crying long enough for her to tell me what was go ing on. She and Maybelle had taken a walk and found Charles with Bonnie. Maybelle had become furious. There was a big scene and Maybelle threatened to jump off Lovers' Leap.
Willy and I went running as fast as our legs would take us. Charles had beaten us there and pulled her back away from the edge of the cliff. She said she wished he had let her jump and that she never wanted to see him again as long as she lived. I doubted very much if she really would have jumped. I think she did it to put a good scare into Charles.
The hot days passed slowly. For a while, Maybelle never spoke of Charles. Nor would she see him when he came to call. I could tell the poor guy was about to go crazy worrying about whether she would ever see him again. I sort of felt sorry for him. After all, a young feller has to sew a few wild oats before he finally settles down to marriage and raising kids.
The farm work was just about finished for the season. My cousin Otto had volunteered for the Army and was in Europe fight ing under the command of John J. Pershing.
Ma still worried about Jess and if he'd have to go too. We heard that he and Georgia had gotten married and were living with Herman and his Pa. Maybelle felt better knowing that Bonnie hadn't been seen with Charles since the Fourth of July picnic. She finally consented to go to the dances with him.
One night Pa came in the house mad as a wet hen. He grabbed his gun, a box of shells and told me to come with him to the back pasture. He had found some more of our cattle missing, and he was out to catch whoever was taking them.
We crouched down in the tall weeds. There was a full moon that night and you could see all over the field. Frank's mongrel pup had followed us. We tried to chase him back home but he wouldn't go, so Pa let him stay with us. Besides, he'd bark if he heard anyone coming. About midnight, Jabber sat up and began to wag his tail.
"Pa, look at Jabber. Do you think he hears something?" I whispered.
About that time we saw the outline of two men on horseback coming across the pasture. Pa loaded his shotgun. The riders were so close now we could hear them talking in hushed voices.
All at once Pa stood up and let loose at them with his shotgun. One of the riders fell off his horse and the other turned tail and ran, screaming and hooting and holler ing his head off.
Jabber went over to where the man was lying on the ground and began to lick him in the face. Pa cursing that that damn fool dog was good for nothing. We were close enough now to see who the man was.
"Oh, my God Lee! It's Jess!" No wonder Jabber didn't bark. He knew it was Jess. Hurry and get Doc Bartlett from town and bring him back as fast as you can Lee."
All the way into town and back, I won dered if Pa had killed Jess. God knows he had enough buckshot in him.
Pa had managed to get Jess to the house and on the bed in the downstairs bedroom. We all waited in the parlor until Doc finished tending him.
"Is he going to live?" Ma asked, choking back the tears.
"Yes, Phoebie, he'll live. He was just mighty full of buckshot." Doc produced a handful of pellets.
"He'll take a lot of tendin' to. Have to keep his wounds clean and change the bandages every day. I'll tell you right now he won't be sitting up to the table to eat for a spell, either, Doc laughed.
Georgia came to stay with us to help Ma take care of Jess.
He and Herman had been the ones taking the cattle all along. Herman's Pa put them up to doing it. He would change our brand into his, sell the cattle and give Jess and Herman a small percentage.
Ma told me one day she couldn't help wonder if Jess had been the one taking her hens. But Pa caught a big raccoon in the chicken coop one night and that answered any doubt in her mind.
Pa forgave Jess. He was so thankful he hadn't killed him. Herman was so scared he left for good. Maybelle was thankful that Bonnie had left with him. She and Charles would be married next spring. We were all together and happy once again.
I watched the green fields turn to brown and the leaves fall from the elm trees. The ground was white with early morning frost and I wondered what next summer would bring....
NEBRASKAland proudly presents the stories of its readers. Here is the opportunity so many have requested —a chance to tell their own out door tales. Hunting trips, the "big fish that got away", unforgettable characters, outdoor im pressions—all have a place here.
If you have a story to tell, jot it down and send it to Editor, NEBRASKAland, Box 30370, Lincoln, Nebr. 68503. Send photographs, black and white or color, too, if any are available.
Trading Post
Acceptance of advertising implies no endorsement of products or services. Classified Ads: 20 cents a word, minimum order $4.00. March 1974 closing date, January 9. Send classified ads to: Trading Post, NEBRASKA- Iand. 2200 N. 33rd St., Lincoln. Nebraska 68503. P.O. Box 30370. DOGS DRAATHAARS: (German Wirehaired Pointers) Easily trained, versatile gun dogs on water and land. Sagamore Kennels. Offioe—501 Jeffery Drive, Lincoln, Nebraska 68505. Phone (402) 466-7986. ENGLISH pointers. Excellent gun dogs. Pups, dogs, and stud service. M. D. Mathews, M.D., St. Paul, Nebraska 68873. EXCELLENT hunting dogs. AKC Brittany Spaniel puppies, 18-weeks old. Phone (303) 237-0221. Dianna Sage, 5645 West 5th, Lakewood, Colorado 80226. HUNTING DOGS: German shorthairs, English pointers, springer spaniels, Weimaraners, English, Irish, and Gordon setters, Chesapeakes, Labradors, and golden retrievers. Registered pups, all ages, $75 each. Robert Stevenson, Orleans, Nebraska 68966. TRAINING: Gun dogs, retrievers and all pointing breeds. Individual concrete runs, best of feed and care. Year-round boarding. Labrador or Pointer. Pups available. Platte Valley Kennels, 925 E. Capitol Ave., Grand Island, Nebraska 68801. Phone (308) 382-9126. MISCELLANEOUS 50 NEBRASKAland "A" FRAME cabin. 1184 square feet: $1950. ma- terial. Purchase locally. Complete plans, instruc tion manual and material list: $5.00. Moneyback guarantee. Specify plan #1501. "Dependable Products," Box #113, Vista, California 92083. BRASS nameplates for dog collars and 1,000's of identifications. Free catalog. Write Bill Boatman & Co., 241JJ Maple St., Bainbridge, Ohio 45612. CENTRAL Ontario—Choice 640 acre sportsmen's paradise still available—$20.00 plus $6.50 taxes yearly. Maps, pictures, $2.00 (refundable). Infor mation Bureau, Norval 70, Ontario, Canada. "CHUCK Wagon Gang" records. Giant package. Five new collector's longplay stereo albums. 50 freat old gospel songs sung by the original group. 9.95 postpaid. Keepsakes, 202NL, Carlsbad, Texas 76934. FISHER knives hand-made to your specifications. Send sketch and description for quote. Firearms repaired, reblued, and restocked. Mike Fisher, RR 3, Beatrice, Nebraska 68310. GOVERNMENT Lands Digest. A Monthly review of government Real Estate offerings throughout the U.S.A. . . . Free subscription information! Digest, Box 25561-PT, Seattle, Washington 98125. IDEAL 5-acre ranch. Lake Conchas, New Mexico. $3,475. No down. No interest. $29 monthly. Vaca tion paradise. Hunt, camp, fish. Money maker. Free brochure. Ranchos: Box 2003RW, Alameda, California 94501. OLD fur coats, restyled into capes, stoles, etc. $25.00. We're also tanners and manufacture fur garments, buckskin jackets, and gloves. Free style folder—Haeker's Furriers, Alma, Nebraska 68920. "PREPARE for driver's test." 100 questions and answers based on the newest Nebraska Driver's Manual. $1.25. E. Glebe, Box 295, Fairbury, Ne braska 68352. FEBRUARY 1974 SOLID plastic decoys. Original Do-It-Yourself Decoy-Making Kit. All species available. Catalog 25 cents. "Dept. ON," Decoys Unlimited, Box 69E, Clinton, Iowa 52732. WAX worms—500 - $5.50; 1,000 - $10.00; Postpaid; Add 2V2% sales tax. No C.O.D.'s. Malicky Bros., Burwell, Nebraska 68823. WINCHESTER Model 12s, 21s, 42s, 61s, 62s, Brownings, Trap, Skeet, Modern, Antique. Buy, sell, trade, Bedlan's Sports, Hiway 136, Fairbury, Nebraska 68352. Phone (402) 729-2888. TAXIDERMY BIG Bear Taxidermy, Rt. 2, Mitchell, Nebraska 69357. We specialize in all big game from Alaska to Nebraska, also birds and fish. Hair on and hair off tanning. 4*4 miles west of Scottsbluff on High- way 26. Phone (308) 635-3013. CREATIVE Taxidermy. Modern methods and life- like workmanship on all fish and game since 1935, also tanning, rues, and deerskin products. Joe Voges, Naturecrafts, 925 4th Corso, Nebraska City, Nebraska 68410. Phone (402) 873-5491. KARL Schwarz Master Taxidermists. Mounting of game heads - birds - fish - animals - fur rugs robes - tanning buckskin. Since 1910. 424 South 13th Street, Dept. A., Omaha, Nebraska 68102. PROFESSIONAL taxidermy. Quality material used. Specialize in life-like appearance. House of Birds, 1323 North Tenth, Beatrice, Nebraska 68310. Phone (402) 228-3596. TAXIDERMY work—big-game heads, fish-and-bird mounting; rug making, hide tanning, 36 years experience. Visitors welcome. Floyd Houser, Sutherland, Nebraska 69165. Phone (308) 386-4780 Ecology for tomorrow's sake Free Fishing Sponsored by Lincoln and Omaha Recreation Departments in cooperation with Surplus Center Guest speakers will be, in order of appearance, Jim Rogers, Fishing the Salt Valley Lakes Dan Gapen, Family Fishing Roland Martin, Electronic Fishing Dick Kotis, Using Artificial Baits Rod Towsley, How-To's of Fly Fishing L Under, "Flutter Fishing" In Lincoln Feb. 11, 19, 26, March 5, 12 and 19 In Omaha Feb. 12, 20 and 27, March 6, 13 and 20 Lincoln sessions at Lincoln High School Omaha classes at Benson High SchoolOUTDOOR NEBRASKAland of the Air
SUNDAY KHAS Hastings (1230) 6:45 cm. KMMJ Grand Island (7S0) 7:00 a.m. KB1IL McCook (1300) 8:15 a.m. KRFS Superior (1600) 9j45 a.m. KXXX Colby, Kan. (790) 10:15 a.m. KLMS Lincoln (1480) 10:15 a.m. KRGI Grand Island (14?0) 10:33 a.m. KODY North Platte (1240) 10:45 a.m. KOTD Plattsmouth (100) 12 Noon KCOW Alliance (1400) 12:15 p.m. KFOR Lincoln (1240) 12:45 p.m. KCNI Broken Bow (1280) 1:15 p.m. KAMI Cozad (1580) 2:45 p.m. KUVR Holdrege (1380) 4:45 p.m. KGFW Kearney (1340) 5:45 p.m. KMA Shenandoah, la. (9e0) 7:15 p.m. KNEB Scottsbluff (960) 9:05 p.m. FRIDAY KTCM Wayne (1590) 3:45 p.m. KVSH Valentine (940) 5:10 p.m. KHUB Fremont (1340) 5:15 p.m. WJAG Norfolk (780) 5:30 p.m. KBRB Ainsworth (1400) 6:00 p.m. SATURDAY KICS Hastings (1550) 6:15 a.m. KJSK Columbus (900) 6:30 a.m. KEYR Scottsbluff (690) 7:45 a.m. KICX McCook (1360) 8:30 a.m. KRNY Kearney (1460) 8:30 a.m. KTNC Falls City (1230) 8:45 a.m. KROA- FM Aurora (103.1) 8:45 a.m. KSIO Sidney (1340) 9:15 a.m. KCSR Chadron (610) 11:45 a.m. KYNT Yankton (1450) 11:55 a.m. KGMT Fairbury (1310) 12:45 p.m. K8RX O'Neill (1350) 4:30 p.m. KNLV Ord (1060) 4:45 p.m. KKAN PhWipsburg, Kan. (1490) 5:15 p.m. KOLT Scottsbluff (1320) 5:40 p.m. KMNS Sioux City, la. (620) 6:10 p.m. KRVN Lexington (880) 9.15 p.m. KJSK-FM Columbus (101.1) 9:45 p.m. DIVISION CHIEFS Dale R. Bree, Parks Harold K. Edwards, Resource Services Glen R. foster, Fish Production Carl E. Gettmann, Law Enforcement Jack Hanna, Budget and Fiscal Ken Johnson, Game Earl R. Kendle, Research Winston Lindsay, Operations and Construction Lloyd-Steen, Personnel Sob Thomas, Fish Management Delvin Whiteiey, Federal Aid Jim Wofford, Information and Education CONSERVATION OFFICERS Ainsworth—Max Showaiter, 387-1960 Albion—Robert Kelly, 395-2538 Alliance—Richard Furley, 762-2024 Alliance—Richard Seward, 762-4317 Arapahoe—Don Schaepler, 962-7818 Auburn—James Newcome, 274-3644 Basset*—Leonard Spoersng, 684-3645 Bassett—Bruce Wiebe, 684-3867 Bellevue Mick Bresley, 291-9315 Benkelman— H. Lee Bowers, 423-2893 Bridgeport—Joe UI rich, 262-054! Broken Bow—Gene Jeffries, 872-5953 Columbus—Lyman Wilkinson, 564-4375 Crawford—Cecil Avey, 665-2517 Creighton—Gary R. Ralston, 358-3411 Crofton—John Schuckman, 388-4421 David City—Lester H. Johnson, 367-4037 Fairbury—Larry Bauman, 729-3734 Fremont—Andy Nielsen, 721-2482 Geneva—Kenneth L. Adkisson, 759-424! Gering—Jim McCole, 436-2686 Grand Island—Fred Salak, 384-0582 Hastings— Norbert Kampsnider, 462-8953 Hay Springs—Marvin E. Kampbell, 638-5262 Lexington—toren A. Noecker, 324-3466 Lincoln—Ted Blume, 475-8226 Lincoln—Dayton Shu If is, 488-8164 Lincoln—Ross Oestmann, 489-8363 Lincoln—Leroy Orvis, 488-1663 Lincoln—Gene TJustos, 466-2959 Miiford— Date B™ha 761-3134 Norfolk—Marion Shafer, 371-2031 Norfolk—Robert Downing, 371-2675 North Platte—Dwight Allbery, 532-2753 North Platte—Gail Woodside, 532-0279 North Platte—Richard Lopez, 532 6225 North Platte—Jack Robinson, 532-6225 Ogallala— Parker Erickson, 284-2992 Omaha—Dick Wilson, 334-1234 Omaha—Roger A. Guenther, 333-3368 O'Neill—Roger W. Hurdle, 336-3988 Ord—Gerald Woodgafe, 728-5060 Oshkosh—Donald D. Hunt, 772-3697 Plattsmouth—Larry D. Alston, 296-3562 Riverdale—Bill Earnest, 893-2571 Sidney—Raymond Frandsen, 254-4438 South Sioux City—Virgil Gosch, 494-4384 Stapleton—John D. Henderson, 636-2430 Syracuse—Mick Gray, 269-3351 Tekamah—Richard Elston, 374-1698 Valentine—Eivin Zimmerman, 376-3674
