NEBRASKAland

November 1975

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NEBRASKAland

VOL. 53/NO. 11 /NOVEMBER 1975 Published monthly by the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission. Fifty cents per copy. Subscription rates $5 for one year, $9 for two years. Send subscription orders to NEBRASKAland, Box 30370, Lincoln, Nebraska 68503. Single Copy Price: 50 cents commission Chairman: jack D. Obbink, Lincoln Southeast District (402) 488-3862 Vice Chairman: Arthur D. Brown, Omaha Douglas-Sarpy District, (402) 553-9625 2nd Vice Chairman: Kenneth W. Zimmerman, Loup City North-Central District, (308) 745-1694 Don O. Bridge, Norfolk Northeast District, (402) 371-1473 William G. Lindeken, Chadron Northwest District, (308) 432-3755 Gerald R. (Bud) Campbell, Ravenna South-central District, (308) 452-3800 H. B. "Tod" Kuntzelman, North Platte Southwest District, (308) 532-2982 Director: Willard R. Barbee Assistant Director: William J. Bailey, Jr. Assistant Director: Dale R. Bree Staff Editor: Lowell Johnson Editorial Assistants: Jon Farrar Greg Beaumont, Ken Bouc Contributing Editors: Bob Grier Faye Musil, Tim Hergenrader, Roland Hoffmann, Bill Janssen, Ben Schole Art Director: Michele Angle Farrar Illustration: Duane Westerholt Advertising: Cliff Griffin Circulation: Juanita Stefkovich Copyright Nebraska Game and Parks Commission 1975. All rights reserved. Postmaster: if undeliverable, send notice by form 3579 to Nebraska Game and Parks Commission, Box 30370, Lincoln, Nebraska 68503. Second class postage paid at Lincoln, Nebraska Contents FEATURES RIVER-BOTTOM BUCKS FISHY HAPPENINGS HERITAGE COMES ALIVE MALLARDS AT A DISTANCE FISHING PADDLEFISH SNAGGING THE PERSISTENT COYOTE THE TRIANGLE DRESSING BIG GAME 8 12 14 18 26 28 36 38 DEPARTMENTS SPEAK UP. TRADING POST 49 COVER: Time puts its mark on the sands, and also removes them in the eternal flux that is measured by man only briefly. This is one of thousands of dunes in the Sand Hills. Photo by Lou Ell.

Speak up

Camping Changes

Sir / The 4th of July weekend is now his tory at Lake Colorado, formerly known as Lake McConaughy, and I would like to suggest some things to the Game and Parks Commission that may help the area around the lake.

First, I believe that everyone who uses the public camping areas, such as Omaha Beach, Otter Creek, etc., should be as sessed an annual fee, say $5 per recrea tion vehicle. This money then stays at Lake McConaughy and can be used for the following purposes: (1) to buy lime for the outdoor toilets; (2) to construct out door toilets at the public areas; (3) to construct additional boat ramps at the public-use areas; (4) to hire part-time or weekend help at the public boat ramps to direct traffic; and (5) add additional wardens to the lake.

The lake area is a small city on week ends and a large city during summer holi days. I've seen people with over-limits of fish, fast moving boats passing over and cutting fishing lines, skiers buzzing fish ing boats, beer cans in the lake and on shore, garbage on the ground at the publ ic use areas, fist fights at the boat ramps, and at times, too many people. Motorcycles should be outlawed, and here, a few bad ones, the hill climbers, are destroying the vegetation and creating a bad image for all cyclists.

Lake McConaughy is a beautiful lake, but the users of the area will destroy it un less use is controlled.

Corwin Arndt Maxwell, Nebraska

In response to the suggestions offered, I wish to point out that a Legislative Bill establishing a permit to enter State Park areas for a fee was reviewed by the Legis lature in 1973. The bill was defeated. In addition, Section 81-812.02 R.S.N, es tablished a recreation ground sticker fee in 1957 as an income producing tool. There was considerable negative public reaction to this sticker fee of $1 and it proved of little value.

I do not believe that a park entrance fee system is the best way to obtain the sorely needed funds at this time. Some factors to be considered include that costs of collec tion and enforcement of user fees amount to perhaps 40 percent or more of the amount collected, thus as a fund-raising device, they are inefficient.

Also, since colonial times, entrance into various public parks have been free, with charges being made only for special service, and any such fees violate the long-standing concept that entrance should be free.

As most units of the park system are without resident personnel, an entrance fee would likely be directed toward im proved operations and maintenance, and no significant capital improvement.

Most public fishing and much hunting is done on state recreation areas. An en trance fee would thus result in hunters and fishermen paying twice.

Nebraska is operating a good park sys tem. There are some serious deficiencies, including a steadily decreasing capability to manage some areas at the level the public desires. I seriously doubt if in creased funding for future operations can come from the general fund source alone. It may be that such funds will have to come from some type of "earmarked" public tax.

Dale Bree Assistant Director Organic Fences

Sir / Long ago, I wondered if conventional wire fences could be replaced with wind rows of wood brush to serve the many fold purpose of livestock control, wildlife promotion, soil improvement, etc., in cluding landscape beautification (to me, a brush heap is less obstrusive than a wire fence).

True, such a fence would take more land surface than does a wire fence. A mile of one-rod-wide windrow takes up a couple of acres whereas the same length of wire fence on cultivated land leaves only V2-acre unused. However, the wind row provides such additional benefits it might well justify itself.

The foundation of a brush windrow is tree branches inserted butt end first, leav ing the twig ends bristling outward. Farm animals dislike entering the windrow head-on. Wherever convenient, the wind row should incorporate trees and other live plants in its structure. Without such growth, they need addition of new brush as old brush deteriorates. I expect our windrows to turn livestock by virtue of their "barrier" effect, they shelter wild creatures, accumulate humus, surely en hance the sport of hunting, reduce the force of wind and rain.

I wish other farmers who have an abun dance of brush would try windrowing instead of burning. I even hope that in novators carry the idea to the point of ad mixing domestic and industrial trash with the brush.

Charles Novak Crete, Nebraska Dumb Numbers

Sir / What on earth does my Social Secu rity number have to do with a subscription to your magazine, or with any magazine, paper or other publication?

Renewal notices began coming with that very casual little notice at the bottom regarding my SS number —and without even a "please" to soften the impact. This smacks of some of the peremptory arro gance we're being treated to at the hands of the government, and I for one strongly resent it.

You certainly don't need my SS number in order to send me your magazine; all you need is my name and full address, so this whole thing mystifies me and all I can conclude is that you simply want to gather every possible bit of personal information you can and keep it on file for sale at some future time. Perhaps soon now you'll be asking for the name of my bank and the size of my present balance, so you can keep that on file.

E. S. Haddas Chula Vista, Cal.

My, aren't we touchy! No, we don't sell subscription lists, but I must admit the Social Security number is only important on very rare occasions; certainly not enough to bug people about. We have since removed the request, and will only ask the number when it is necessary. There was a trend nationally to use the number on all records, thereby reducing the chance to confuse people. Many people, as you may have noticed, have the same or similar names, but there is only sup posed to be one number assigned each human. Now, the use of the number is be coming of less importance, for some rea son, and we certainly are happy to drop our request. (Editor)

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

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RIVER-BOTTOM BUCKS

by Jon Farrar

IT WAS ONLY 30 minutes into the 1973 Nebraska deer season. I had just finished field dressing my five-point whitetail and was toasting a cold sandwich over a fire of Cottonwood twigs. I heard a noise and glanced up just as a three-point buck walked out from behind a cedar, 20 yards beyond the fire. The sight of an orange-clad hunter and curling smoke seemed to confuse the buck more than frighten him. Instead of bounding off in the opposite direction, he took two steps closer and tested the air. At 15 paces we eyed each other with far more calm than most bucks and hunters do on the opening morning of deer season. Satisfied that I didn't belong, but still unsure of what I was, he trotted off 40 yards and then paused to look again. During the next 20 minutes he left a maze of fox-and goose trails in the new snow, never once going farther than 75 yards away from me, but never once letting a tree come between us.

One of my hunting companions was in a tree stand only a quarter of a mile south. I was hoping that he would leave his post early to see if I had filled my permit with my two earlier shots. I heard a stick snap and slowly pivoted so that I could

8 NEBRASKAland NOVEMBER 1975 9  

point out the buck to him. As I turned I expected to see him coming over the ridge about 40 yards behind me. Instead, I saw a second buck, a twin to the one in front of me, trying to belly crawl between me and the ridge. He chose not to run, but instead continued to creep along as if I weren't looking at him.

Twenty minutes before I had heard two shots*from the direction the buck was creeping. Maybe he was hit. I decided to check for blood. I barely had my legs stretched out when he did the same and started putting distance between us. He didn't look crippled as he bounded away, but I started over to check his trail anyway. I'd gone about two steps when a third buck, this one a nice 4 pointer, exploded out of a clump of cedars only 80 yards east of me. He wasn't at all interested in belly crawling or investigating a crackling fire.

As I think back on that moment, I can hardly believe it. There I stood, on opening morning of deer season with a respectable 5 pointer at my feet, and within 150 yards another 3 bucks hightailing it out of the country.

That was my tenth year of hunting Nebraska deer and I can't honestly say that that was a typical opener, but for half of those seasons I have filled my buck only tags on the opening day. For the last five years I've worked for the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission and have travelled over most of the state's best deer ranges, but come opening day I still head for the same area I first hunted at 16. With the exception of one year, I've hunted with a brother, an uncle and assorted cousins on the Loup River in east central Nebraska, less than a mile from my hometown of Monroe. Deer hunting there is sort of a family affair with all the tradition of a Maine hunting camp. Instead of hardwood forests we hunt cornfield riverfront, and chili takes the place of the usual oyster stew.

Deer hunting the Loup River Valley is pretty much like deer hunting any farm land laced with creek and river bottoms. The bulk of the land is planted to corn or milo, but strips of brush and timber between the streams and the fields have provided the versatile whitetail some prime habitat, and he has taken full advantage of it.

The habits of farmland whitetails are influenced by many variables during the fall-the weather, crop harvest and hunter activity —but in general they follow a predictable pattern that the hunter can capitalize on. As soon as it is light, and often slightly before, deer browse their way out of the timber to feed in the cornfields for half an hour to an hour before returning to their day beds in the timber. Most of the time you won't see much of whitetails during the day, unless the weather is starting to turn for the worse and they're busy feeding. With storm fronts moving in, I've found the cornfields loaded with deer. During typical fall NOVEMBER 1975 weather, though, the deer seem to stay holed up in the heaviest brush the river bottoms have to offer. Shortly before sundown they start moving into the grain fields again. It's anybody's guess where they spend the nights —in the fields or back in the woods. Probably they do a little of both depending on the weather.

A lot of farmers tell me that before the corn is picked in the fall, whitetails spend most of their time in the cornfields —bedding there during the day and feeding at leisure. I know one farmer who takes a nice buck almost every year while picking his corn. One of the largest bucks I've ever seen shot in the Monroe area kept moving over a few rows as he picked back and forth across the field. He returned after lunch with his deer rifle and shot the buck bedded in one of the rows.

Because deer use the fields so heavily in the fall, the progress of corn harvest can make a vast difference in hunting success. If the corn is still in during the season, the deer kill can nosedive. Cornfields are nearly impossible to hunt successfully too dense to post a stand, too noisy to still hunt and too large to drive.

During the 1973 season, though, only about 20 percent of the corn was still standing on opening day and it had all the makings of a good year.

I was hunting with my brother Tom, a body-shop foreman in Norfolk; cousin Gary Ziegler, a propane dealer in Monroe; and my 16-year-old cousin Kathy Schmidt. It was Kathy's first year of deer hunting, so her father Ralph was tagging along to teach her the ropes. Ralph usually hunts with us, but his number hadn't been pulled in the drawing that year. Tom, Gary and I had all drawn permits for the Elkhorn Management Unit around Monroe. Kathy hadn't been so lucky and was hunting her second choice, Loup East, a unit that started just eight miles west of Monroe.

So, come opening morning, Ralph and Kathy headed west of town to her unit, Tom staked out a cornfield about a mile north of the river, and Gary and I made the mile walk along the river to the area we always hunt. It seemed kind of unusual to have our party spread out this much, but Kathy didn't have any other choice, and Tom thought he had a good chance to ambush a buck in the corn.

A quarter-moon cast enough light on the snow so that Gary and I could pick out the silhouettes of a half-dozen deer on the picked corn as we walked in. Most years I open the season from a stand that overlooks that cornfield and some river-bottom land, but when we spooked those deer I decided to hunt farther back in the timber where the deer would be moving later in the morning. As a rule, I've found that they don't stay out in the open much after the sun makes it over the tops of the (Continued on page 42)

fishy happenings

By Murray Gibas

In this class, grades were earned as students stood in sub-zero cold with homemade tackle standing in frigid water

CRAZY! EVERY ONE of them! There they were, freezing their mitts off, fishing with flies — in January —for trout. A handful of college students was scattered along the banks of Verdigre Creek, each-one whipping flies into the icy-stream and hoping for some poor fool fish to chomp down on his (or her) lure. They could easily have been laughed away ex cept the trout did not think it was very funny. They were not laughing —they were biting.

This seemingly mad adventure was all part of a college course. At Mount Marty College in Yankton, South Da- kota, as in many other colleges, there is a month between semesters called the Interim. During the Interim, stu dents have an opportunity to study areas, academic and otherwise, which are not generally included in the col lege curriculum. The course offerings include everything from dramatic lit- erature to fly fishing.

A dozen students signed up for the course on fly fishing. They were a lively and eager bunch, ready to go fishing every time the mercury bounced up to 10 below zero. But most of them had never been fly fish ing before, and if a field trip was to be successful, they first had to learn the fundamentals of the sport.

They began by learning what a fly line is and how to use a well-bal anced rod to cast that line. To avoid the bad casting habits which plague many beginners and some experts, they learned to cast in the gym under the critical eye of the instructor. As their form and timing developed, they were forced to move to more spacious surroundings —the parking lot.

But there is more to fly fishing than graceful casting. A fly of some type is required, so the students learned how to make flies of all types. Starting with size 4 streamers, they worked down to size 24 midges, and included all kinds of wet flies, dry flies and nymphs in between. The flies they made themselves were the only lures they would have to use on the field trip.

Even casting skill and a tackle box full of flies are not sufficient to make a successful fisherman. Indeed, the intellectual hardware is probably even more important than the physical hardware. The students had to learn to "think like a trout/' So they studied slides of streams in order to spot the places where the fish might be. They listened to countless lectures on the selection of flies, reading rises, stalk ing fish, and what to do if one finally strikes.

After several weeks of work, the students were physically, mentally and emotionally prepared for a fish ing trip. The weather was ready, too, with daytime temperatures in the 40's. The little band of intrepid fishermen gathered in the foggy darkness of a January morning, crossed the river into Nebraska, and headed for Ver digre Creek near Royal.

The stream is spring-fed and flows fast enough that the water is open even on the coldest winter days. The stream is usually well stocked with trout from the nearby hatchery. While most hatchery trout do not know what a fly is and prefer to be caught on cheese, a few survive the bait fisher men and become more wary and more fussy in their eating habits. The main goal of the trip was to learn how to catch thesefew relatively wild trout. It would not be easy. The stream flows through abundant beds of watercress which harbor an ample supply of in sects and Crustacea and provide good cover for the trout.

Casting on the stream was not like casting in the gym. Willow shrubs, trees, and even grasses reached out to snatch at flies and lines. A cruel wind, which always blew from the wrong di rection, dropped otherwise perfect casts in tangled piles on the bank. Each inviting pool concealed immov able snags which cost the novice fish ermen a few flies and a lot of pa tience. But the students adapted to the obstacles, realizing that they gave the fish an even break and were an impor tant parti of the sport. They then turned their attention to catching fish.

The most popular fly with both the fishermen and the fish was the Mud dler Minnow. When it was fished very slowly along cut banks or near brush piles, it looked like a bait fish holding in the current. It was too big, too deli cious and too vulnerable looking for even the most satisfied fish to resist. In the cold water, the rainbows left their cover slowly and struck deliber ately so it was necessary to set the hook with a very firm motion.

It was not easy fishing, for the fish gave no clues about their presence or position. There were no rises to cast to. The few fish that were in the open spooked while still out of casting range. It was difficult, but not impos sible. The greater challenge of winter fishing led to greater satisfaction with success.

As the early darkness of evening began to fall, a cold, hungry and thor oughly fatigued band of fishermen returned home. They had not stuffed their creels with legendary lunkers, but they had learned that a good an gler could give the fish a better-than even break and still catch them. And that's what fly fishing is all about.

NEBRASKAland proudly presents stories of its readers, and welcomes tales of out door recreation, hunting, fishing, or his torical s. If you have a story to submit, mail it to Editor, NEBRASKAland, Box 30370, Lincoln, Nebr. 68503. Send photos, too, if available.

HERITAGE COMES ALIVE

Retracing the route of the Oregon Trail becomes an exciting experience for these school children. An attempt is made to simulate the wagon trains of yore

by Richard Eisenhauer, Principal Norris Elementary School photos by Lowell Johnson

IN THE SPRING of 1974, a social studies class was set up at Norris Elementary School, aconsolidated school located in southern Lancaster County, with Bob Manley Jr. as its teacher. The class was formed with the premise in mind that: To under stand what and who we are, we shou Id know from where we come, and, that we learn best through experience.

The semester's study began with research of the children's ancestors. Family trees were developed and our mostly European roots were explored. Emigration as a concept was developed; first the emigration to the New World and later, emigration across the new land. We were most interested, of course, in the Oregon Trail; the Great Platte River Road across Nebraska, sinceourstateplayed such a significant historical part in the emigration to the west during the mid 1800s.

The culmination of the semester's study was a trip along this Old West highway across Nebraska, and thus a modern version of a wagon train was formed.

Our purpose was to make heritage come alive for the children; to do something to help people to be able to look at and appreciate all that we have around us; to live the life of the pioneer with responsibilities and work for all, and to better appreciate all which has been done, but constraints of time, finances, and such made this impractical. We finally formed a caravan of two vans, two cars and a trailer.

Loren Wilson, owner and operator of Wilson Outfitters of Lincoln, was called in early for advice since we didn't want to litter the trailside all the way across the state with unwanted items as our forefathers did. Loren worked with the children, helping them plan and learn, and he accompanied us on the trip supplying most of the needed camping equipment and "know how". In his role as sutler of the excursion, Loren added much to the trip for the children. His lead ing of songs, empathy for the home sick, and general good naturedness were felt by all. And, an unexpected bonus, he surprised us all with his historical knowledge.

The trip was financed through a grant from the State Department of Education's ESEA Title III division and by money raised locally by the children. A highlight of this effort for the kids was a program of pioneer singing and dramatizations they did with the help of Dr. Robert Manley, noted Nebraska historian, the father of our staff member.

Just, (well almost) as it must have been in the mid 1800s, spring finally arrived for these latter day emigrants after anxious anticipation and preparation. Our assemblage in the early morning hours of May 27, 1974 surely did in some ways resemble scenes in early Independence, St. Joe or Omaha. The travellers were there, eager but a little scared, and wondering if they'd see the "elephants of the Platte."

Elephants once roamed the Platte River Valley —mammoths and mastodons, that is, which flourished during the Ice Age as recently as 20,000 years ago. To read the diaries of the Gold Rush, one might suppose that elephants flourished also in 1849, but the emigrants weren't talking about woolly mammoths or genuine circus type elephants. They were talking about one particular elephant, the Elephant, an imaginary beast of fear some dimensions which, according to Niles Searls, was "but another name for going to California." But it was more than that. It was the popular symbol of the Great Adventure, all the wonder and the glory and the shivering thrill of the plunge into the ocean of prairie and plains, and the brave assault upon mountains and deserts that were gigantic barriers to California gold. It was the poetic imagery of all the deadly perils that threatened a westering emigrant. Thus, on his first day out of St. Joe in 1852, John Clark wrote: "All hands early up anxious to see the path that leads to the Elephant." In 1849 James D. Lyon, 10 miles east of Fort Lara mie, was defiant: "We are told that the Elephant is in waiting, ready to receive us...if he shows fight or at tempts to stop us on our progress to the golden land, we shall attack him with sword and spear."

No one has quite nailed down the origin of this mythical figure, often more vivid in imagination than the real three-dimensional rattler or buffalo. This creature seldom appeared except on the fringes of danger, and then it was only a fleeting glimpse. During a cattle stampede, says Martha Morgan, "I think I saw the tracks of the big elephant." Excited about his first buffalo chase, David Staples "went out to get a nearer view of the elephant." This phantom appeared most often during violent storms. James Abbey felt "a brush of the elephant's tail," while Niles Searls "had a peep at his proboscis."

"The joys and sorrows, the hazards and heartaches of the covered wagon emigrants were enough to populate a whole continent full of elephants."

And there were those staying be hind there, too, to say goodbye and trying to hide their own apprehensions about the trials of trail life await ing their loved ones. We knew it wasn't really the same, but it did, I think, help the people involved in imagining the thoughts the real pioneers must have felt knowing that everything in the world that they owned was with them as they struck off for several months' travel into the unknown.

May 27: Our first stop was Alcove Springs near Marysville, Kansas. Here, as was to follow at each historic stop, a group of two or three students reviewed with the others the significance of the spot. Others were responsible at each spot to observe and record land formations, plant and animal life, and infer differences now from what it must have been like 125 years ago. In addition, all the children kept diaries of the trip.

Alcove Springs was one of the first big rest stops about three weeks out of Independence for the pioneers, and even though the water no longer spills over the famed rock alcove, the grave of "Grandma Keyes" is there and it is a significant spot.

The first night was spent camping along the banks of the Big Blue River on the Keith Williams ranch, and early the next morning we were off on the second day's journey.

14 NEBRASKAland NOVEMBER 1975 15   photos by Richard Eisenhauer

May 28: The second day, our hardy band moved into Nebraska, stopping over at the Hollenberg, Kansas Pony Express Station, and Jefferson County's Rock Creek Station, Qui vera Park, Steele City, and the site of George Winslow's grave. Much credit is due to the Jefferson County Historical Society for the efforts of several members who gave so much of themselves to our kids during our day-long stay in their county.

The day ended as we moved across the county following the Trail, and into Thayer County to Alexandria where we pitched camp for the second night.

May 29: The third day we journeyed on through the back roads down the Little Blue Valley. And I do mean back roads! This was no Interstate trip! Never were we more than a mile or so from the actual Oregon Trail.

Stops were made this day at the sites of Big Sandy Station, Thompson's Station, Kiowa Station, and a favorite area of the kids, Oak Grove Station and the Narrows near present day Oak and Nora, sites of battles in the famous Indian Wars of 1864. As we sat on a warm spring day on a hilltop overlooking the Narrows and reading aloud an eyewitness account of the Eubanks massacre, more than one imagination saw the Indian raiders coming up along the river, and more than one imagined themselves as Laura Roper being carried off.

Later that day we visited Spring Ranch and then moved on to Fort Kearny for the night, as did most early travellers since it was a fact that all roads led to Kearny.

May 30: Day four began with a stop at the site of infamous Dobytown, the R. & R center for Old Fort Kearny, then into Phelps County to the site of the Plum Creek massacre, another sig nificant Indian encounter site. Then up the Interstate (those guys really knew where to put a road) to Fort McPherson and the site of Old Fort Cottonwood.

Camp that night was at the Maloney Reservoir.

May 31: Day five brought a hike up to Sioux Lookout in Lincoln County and stops at several Oregon Trail markers in the area south of Hershey and Sutherland. Ogallala and Front Street provided good diversions for

the kids during lunch, then Boot Hill and back on the trail to Ash Hollow where we spent the night at this notable milestone for early day visitors. We all agreed after walking it, that going down Windlass Hill in a wagon must have beat any state fair midway ride for excitement.

June 1: The morning of the sixth day we went on toward the west pausing at the gravesite of Rachael Pattison, one of many of our predecessors who didn't make it. We struck out across Garden and Morrill counties heading for Mud Springs, a Pony Express and trail station. We looked for artifacts from the station and heard about Indian battles there and then proceeded to get stuck in the sand, an event which only increased our appreciation of the time when there were no roads.

Shortly after, into our sight came the panorama of the great landmark rocks. The next stop was Courthouse and Jail Rock. Here we owe another debt of thanks to Paul Henderson and Rev. Spencer of Bridgeport who shared with the children their vast knowledge of the Oregon Trail and their vicinity.

Chimney Rock stirred our group's imagination, and I would guess that the variance in our kids' estimates of its magnitude were just about as great as those referred to in past trail diaries.

The long day ended with our camp at Wildcat Hills south of Scottsbluff.

June 2: Our seventh day out was highlighted by visits to Fort Laramie and Gurnsey, Wyoming where we saw the trail ruts cut into rock, and the famous Register Cliff, where numerous early autographs were left by passersby. Fort Laramie was quite an experience for the kids as the personnel of the Fort dressed, acted and spoke as if it were 100 years earlier.

The seventh night was also spent at Wildcat Hills, making it the only day of the trip when the entire camp and all our belongings weren't packed and moved and reassembled by the 10 and 11 -year-olds.

June 3: Day eight began our way back —the long way. We journeyed from Scottsbluff up to Fort Robinson, leaving the Oregon Trail portion of the trip but feeling that having the children this far west, a visit to Fort Rob was essential since it has been so significant in Nebraska history. Also, I must confess that this particular visit represented a highlight of the trip for the adults —our first showers after seven days of camping and being out doors were more than appreciated. Loren Wilson was counted going for a shower three times. He can supply nearly every convenience for the camper including steam tables and freshly baked birthday cake, but so far, not showers.

Fort Rob was toured completely and the kids enjoyed the jeep and trail rides and especially the chuckwagon dinner.

June 4: On the ninth day we began our trek back across the state, skirting the northern edge of the Sand Hills, and upon reaching Valentine, we made use of Wilson Outfitter Canoes for a trip down the Niobrara River to Smith Falls, scenery matching any vacation area for beauty.

June 5: Travelling through the Sand Hills took a good portion of this day, and arriving at Halsey National Forest in mid afternoon, our kids made good use of the swimming pool. It cooled them off, was of course fun, and what an excellent way to clean them up for their arrival back to their parents!

June 6: Home again! A day's rest, and then back to school for a day of evaluation with the kids. We had to, you see, do more than just assume they'd learned as well as having had a good time, and the results were quite pleasing.

Now then, the usual question: "You actually went out with how many kids?" Thirty nine of us in all — six were adults. "And you're still sane?" Of course! Kids can assume respon sibility and work hard if it's necessary and if it is expected of them. Personally, I can think of few ways of helping children learn self-reliance and responsibility better than camp ing. I recommend it to families for the same purpose. The kids were great. They were organized just as wagon trains were, in companies with their own captains, and so were involved in some decision making, and fully understood the definite jobs that were shared by all on a rotating basis. And they learned! Not only about Nebraska and all in which we need to develop pride, but about themselves. Finally, "Would I do it again?" You bet! And you can, too. It's all right here in Nebraska if we only look.

MALLARDS AT DISTANCE

A long drive west was necessary to get in a duck hunt, and the weather dictated that I go alone. Ducks in droves milled nearby, just out of reach

by Bill McClurg Photo by Bill McClurg 18 NEBRASKAland

DUCK HUNTERS ARE CRAZY, I thought out loud as I drove in the darkness through the blowing and drifting snow. (Talking to myself even helps substantiate the statement). The interstate was already snow-packed and I had at least a hundred more miles to go to reach Sutherland.

A last minute duck hunt was on my mind, and I had to go to the western half of the state since the season had been closed in the east for nearly a month. Tomorrow was the last day of the season and I had picked the Sutherland area feeling I had a better chance to score because I knew the country from previous hunts.

Curled up on the seat beside me was Whiskers, a black Lab borrowed from my brother-in-law. The dog would be my hunting companion as I couldn't find an other hunter foolhardy enough to make the trip. As they say, "we may be crazy, but we're not stupid."

Passing through North Platte, I stopped at a phone booth and called Joe Hyland, a friend and fellow employee of the Game and Parks Commission stationed at North Platte. He didn't sound encouraging.

"The birds are there," he told me, "but we need a high wind to drive them off the lakes. I went out this morning when it started snowing, but they weren't moving. Most hunters have already given up —the weather has just been too nice."

He suggested that I try either the North or South Platte, as they both had stretches of open water. I decided to try the latter, and a few phone calls to land owners along the river put me in business for the following morning.

The radio said five degrees above zero as my Volkswagen bucked the snowdrifts nearly choking the road to the river. The wind had stopped during the night and the sky was clear. Steam was rising from the water as I set out a half-dozen decoys in the narrow channel.

More decoys might have helped to pull in a large flock, but I knew from experience that a few in the narrow channel would be enough to lure in a small flock, and they certainly were a lot less work than the large decoy spreads some hunters use. Arranging the willows in my makeshift blind, I checked my watch and found it was time to shoot. Now all I needed was a live duck.

The chatter and whistling wings of a flock of mallards attracted my attention skyward. Searching the skies for the source, I finally saw them high above. "Come back, come back," I pleaded with my call, but they weren't interested, and wave after wave of ducks NOVEMBER 1975 continued south toward the safety of the lake. Occasionally a few would break from the formations, but they would always recover and turn back toward the lake before coming into range.

Beside me, the dog was shivering with excitement as I serenaded the passing mallards. All of a sudden he leaped out of the blind when he spotted one of my decoys drifting by. Doing what comes naturally for a retriever, he dutifully brought the decoy in and dropped it at my feet.

Scanning the skies for ducks, I decided against better judgment and waded out in the channel to place the errant decoy. As I set the imitation in the water, I looked upstream and spotted a flock closing in from the east. Freezing motionless, I watched as a dozen or so birds headed my way.

Hoping the dog wouldn't move and spook them, all I could do was wait as they came closer. Low enough, they would be in range if they came over. "Shoot!" said my nerves. "Too far!" said another voice, as I knew they were still out of range. (But, I was still talking to myself).

Now they were over me and I swung on a green head as they flared. My first shot knocked feathers loose from the bird, and the second dropped him in the channel. My last shot missed another rapidly climbing drake and then they were gone. Reloading quickly, I headed for the blind as Whiskers retrieved the bird.

From close behind I heard the whistle of wings. Rising to shoot, I swung on a pair of hen mallards as they frantically beat their wings to gain altitude. Hold ing back, I let them fly away unmolested. If I had shot one, my hunt would have been over. In the point system, they were 70-point birds, and with my 35-point drake, I would have been over the allotted 100 points.

The purpose of the point system is to allow a greater harvest of surplus birds, yet reduce pressure on those species of ducks in short supply. Most of the late-season birds were mallards; perhaps the most important duck species to Nebraska hunters.

Traditionally there is a surplus of drake mallards in the spring, so the drake is assigned a lower point value than the hen. This allows the late-season hunter to shoot an additional bird if he is able to distinguish the sexes. Often this is easily done, as most of the later birds are drakes.

I was glad I had waited. The sun was barely up and my hunt would have been (Continued on page 47)

Game Bird Gallery

HERE ARE PRESENTED some original game-bird paintings by Ed Wards (Charlotte Edwards), a Nebraska born artist whose love of nature is readily revealed in her work. She is self taught, but is blessed with natural ability and thus evolved here own style. To conjur up images to put onto canvas, she calls upon past experiences and pleasant memories of campfires, hikes, hunts and other outings she and her husband have enjoyed. She prefers to paint birds, and finds doing backgrounds and landscapes "a bore". As a hunter, she feels frustration when trying to put on canvas the beauty of a rising bird or glint of sun on frosty decoys. A companion to her brush as a tool to produce such realistic paint ings is her camera. Her studio is in her home at 9622 Meredith Avenue in Omaha. She welcomes viewers interested in her work. She does paint on commission, but prefers to paint what she feels, and hope that buyers will be happy with them 20 NEBRASKAland NOVEMBER 1975 21   22 NEBRASKAland NOVEMBER 1975 23   24 NEBRASKAland NOVEMBER 1975 25

FISHING... PADDLEFISH SNAGGING

by Ken Bouc

FOR MOST NEBRASKA fishermen, November is a big, fat nothing. October might have brought some tolerable fall fishing, and December occasionally produces ice fishing. But for most, November lies in an angling limbo —too cold for open water fishing, but not near cold enough for ice fishing.

For a small and unusual breed of Nebraska anglers, however, November is just the beginning of their own special brand of good times. These are the snaggers who ply the Missouri River of northeast Nebraska in pursuit of the paddlefish.

Snagging is an indelicate process, and it is also illegal in Nebraska except for a part of the year and in the Missouri River only. Its straightforward method of get ting hook and fish together, and the legal sanctions against it elsewhere, undoubtedly contribute to the low esteem snagging carries among other fishermen.

However, Lee Rupp, biologist in charge of fisheries management for northeast Nebraska, justifies snagging, saying "paddlefish snaggers are, by and large, going after a species by the only available means. They need not be ashamed of the method, for without a regulated catch, surplus paddlefish would only go to waste."

Perhaps Rupp's statement about "the only available means" is better understood in light of a little background on the paddlefish, or "spoonbill" as he is also called. The paddlefish is of an archaic design, being very similar to species present millions of years ago, in the Age of Reptiles. Its body has no bones; only a gristle like tube that serves as a spine.

Though frightening in appearance, with a long, flatbill, small beady eyes and large mouth, the paddlefish is absolutely harmless. It feeds entirely on microscopic plankton that it gathers as it swims along with mouth wide open. Despite such an unexciting diet, the paddle fish grows fast and large, weighing from 15 to 20 pounds at 5 years of age, and with some of the old-timers tipping the scales at up to 80 pounds.

Thus it's obvious that snagging is called for. How else would you make use of a relatively abundant, large and tasty fish that ignores all manner of bait, lure or fly?

The paddlefish was once found throughout most of the Mississippi and Missouri drainages, but it is now most abundant in the areas below the Missouri's main stem dams. At Gavins Point Dam, the spoonbills spend a good part of winter in the stilling basin immediately below the dam, or in the deeper holes of the river down stream.

Here is where the snagger puts his tackle to work. The rod is usually a short affair, with all the flexibility of a 20-ounce pool cue with line guides. This is fitted with a salt-water casting reel, loaded with heavy monofilament line in the 40-pound-test range. The business end of the line is equipped with a large treble hook, perhaps 6/0, embedded in a 3-ounce chunk of lead.

Shore-bound fishermen generally work from the high concrete wall on the north shore of the tailwaters with good success, but snaggers in boats generally fare better. The hook is worked with sharp upward jerks of the rod, a crank or two on the reel to retrieve slack line, then another jerk.

Though some action is available in November, best snagging comes in late December and into January. At that time, snagging produces bigger fish and more of them. It should be apparent by now that there's little room for weaklings among the ranks of snaggers. The weather is usually miserable, the tackle is heavy and hard to handle, and hours of pumping the big rods is nothing short of gruelling.

There's usually little question about whether the fishing will be good or poor. Attimes, there doesn't seem to be a single spoonbill in the tailwaters, then suddenly everyone has a fish on. Paddlefish feed little in the win ter, so the search for food is apparently not the cause for their movements. But, no one is sure just what motivates their activity.

Fisheries biologists say that the paddlefish population from Gavins Point Dam to Ponca is in good shape. There are lots of fish of all ages, and they grow rapidly. Unfortunately, this is not true in other stretches of the river.

Channelization below Ponca seems to have wiped out paddlefish spawning areas. And upstream, no spoon bill reproduction has been documented above Fort Randall since the last of the Missouri River dams was built. The fish now being taken appear to come from a relatively short stretch of river that still offers suitable spawning areas.

Most of this spawning habitat lies between Lewis and Clark Lake and Fort Randall Dam, though the area from Gavins Point to Ponca may be producing some spoonbills. At any rate, this area spans less than 100 miles, yet it must support considerable snagging pressure.

Obviously, an excessive harvest by snaggers could hurt the population, although this does not yet appear a threat. However, any alteration of the stretch of river with spawning habitat, either through channelization or construction of new dams, would undoubtedly wipe

out the fishery and send the paddlefish into a decline. The same would likely be true of the walleye, saugerand catfish in that part of the river.

Snaggers have been cooperative with Game and Parks Commission biologists running a tagging study and creel census the past few years. These studies are yielding important data that will come in handy should the paddlefish be threatened someday.

Snaggers have also done well in observing new, more restrictive regulations. These include the lowering of the possession limit from four fish to two, and ending the practice of "high-grading" or releasing a small fish in hopes of catching a bigger one. In past years, the released fish often died of their snagging wounds and went to waste. Now, however, snaggers must keep each fish they take and count it in their daily limit, which is two.

According to Rupp, a few snaggers in the past have used bad manners and unsporting tactics in the tail waters area, that have branded all who use the method as bullies and heavy-handed game hogs, interested more in meat than sport. However, the majority of the snag gers have made a good start in bettering their image through their cooperation with biologists and observance of new regulations. Hopefully, an understanding of the fish they seek will create a collective conscience that will allow snaggers to police their own ranks and improve their own image, while also cooperating in the conservation and management of the paddlefish.

The Persistent Coyote

Photographs and Text by Jon Farrar

IN THE DAYS of the pioneer, no animal epitomized the vast*mid-continental grasslands more than the bison. They seemed as inexhaustible as the grass itself. But, in two short decades, the hide hunters and bone pickers gleaned the land of all but the far northern herds. By the early 1900's the land of the bison was fenced and farmed.

Wheat fields spread over the short-grass plains and corn over the tall-grass prairie, livestock grazed the land too dry or rugged to cultivate. Man subdivided the grasslands with roads, farmsteads dotted each section and cities grew to buy and sell the land's bounty. We tamed the prairie and made our mark everywhere.

Though the bison was swept from the prairie forever, a symbol of its wildness endured: an animal as adaptive and clever as man himself. The coyote accepted its new environment and thrived. From the beginning, they were marked as the enemies of man. Trapped, poisoned and dragged from their dens on twisted barbed wire, they were subjected to the darkest of man's nature. But they survived. Where once they hunted in large bands, they began to hunt alone or in pairs. With each generation they became more nocturnal, emerging only after dark to hunt, mate and roam the prairie.

Other predators were not so adaptive and disappeared from much of North America. With these  

natural competitors eliminated, the coyote expanded its range, moving north and east into New England, southward into Central America and north ward 7,000 miles into Alaska. They became more urban, raiding gardens, feasting from garbage cans and carrying away unguarded pets.

Today, coyotes are probably the only significant predators in the United States large enough to successfully attack and kill an animal larger than a rabbit. They are the only animals left that send a primitive chill of excitement through us if unexpectedly we meet. The coyote seems to call up all that is wild and predatory in our ancestry. In them we recognize something of ourselves.

Even though the coyote is the largest grass land predator, their size falls short of the estimates given by many of their captors. An average male weighs 25 pounds and stands 21 inches high at the shoulders. Females are slightly smaller. But their bodies are supple and their movements agile. Few animals have their stamina and endurance. In appearance they truly are "little wolves", but in temperament they are far more docile.

A study made 25 years ago of feeding habits of Nebraska coyotes dispelled some of the commonly held beliefs that the coyote is a villainous marauder that lives by hamstringing deer, pulling down cattle and ravaging turkey farms. The report was based on the contents of 2,500 coyote scats and 747 stomachs. All of the state's major land types, from intensive farmland to sandhills ranch land, were represented in the study.

As might have been expected, analysis of what the coyotes had been eating revealed that they are primarily carnivores, feeding on the flesh of vertebrate animals. Substantial quantities of insects and plants were found to be a part of the coyotes' diet, too, but the largest portion of their food was made up of birds and mammals. Statewide, the remains of mammals were found in the stomachs of 89 per cent of the coyotes; birds in 43 percent, insects in 9 percent and fruit in 4 percent. Examination of the scats collected revealed similar percentages. In volume, the flesh of mammals was found to make up 78 percent of the coyote's diet, birds 18 per cent, and fruit and insects the remaining 4 percent.

It became obvious that the coyote is an opportunist, taking those foods that are most abun dant. Examination of stomachs and scats showed that they rely more on mammals for food in the winter and early spring when birds, fruits and in sects are unavailable or difficult to locate.

Detailed examination of the stomach contents revealed more precisely what Nebraska coyotes eat. Rabbits made up 54 percent of their diet and wild mice another 7 percent. The remains of deer were 30 NEBRASKAland NOVEMBER 1975 31   found in only 0.1 percent of the coyote stomachs. In all, 31 different mammals were found to be on the coyote's menu.

On occasions, coyotes have developed a penchant for domestic livestock; a trait that does not endear them to ranchers. The Nebraska study showed that domestic stock, including cow, horse, sheep and pig, made up 12 percent of the coyote's diet. The authors noted, though, that no attempt was made to distinguish between carrion and fresh meat.

"Many of the remains almost certainly represent carrion. Many farmers do not bury or burn dead young pigs, for example, but make them available to scavenging coyotes by carrying them into fields or by simply tossing them a short distance from the breeding pens.

"It is believed that coyotes rarely if ever kill mature cattle, or even try. Calves are sometimes vulnerable to attack and coyotes occasionally kill them."

Birds were found to be an important item in the coyotes' diet. Wild birds made up about 9 percent of the food material found in their stomachs, as did domestic fowl, primarily chickens. Pheasants were the single most important wild bird taken by coyotes, but still only accounted for 7 percent of their food. The occurrence of both pheasant and grouse in the stomachs of coyotes was highest during the winter months, suggesting that some may have been winter-killed birds scavenged, rather than live birds captured.

Even though insects and fruit were found to be of only minor importance in the coyote diet, it is enlightening to find such a "beastly villain" preoccupied with catching crickets or grasshoppers and picking ripe chokecherries or grapes. One coyote shot on the National Forest near Halsey was found to have 345 grasshoppers and 20 crickets in its stomach. A sparrow hawk with such an appetite for injurious insects would surely be lauded.

The coyote's "impulse" diet is one of the reasons that the species has been so successful in co existing with man. Their tastes are wide-ranging, and unlike the prairie wolf, that had no alternate prey once the bison and elk were shot off, the coyote could thrive on a farmer's dead livestock and field mice just as well as winter-killed deer and wild rabbits. But the coyotes' diet is only one of many traits that marked the species for survival. Coyotes are prolific breeders, capable of rebuilding their numbers rapidly following natural die-offs or intensive predator-control programs.

Unlike wolves that do not mate until their second year, the coyote is sexually mature by its first fall and females may have their first litter when only a year old. More significant is the fact that litter size is the inverse of population density.

Coyotes are territorial, and thus each animal stakes out and defends an area large enough to meet his food demands. If prey is abundant, the territory will be smaller than if prey is scarce. In a stable situation, young are produced at a rate that will fill all the available territory. Excess young must spill over into surrounding, new territories, if there are any. If more coyotes are whelped than there are available hunting territories, reproduction success drops to bring the population back in line with what the land will support.

Exactly the opposite happens if large numbers of coyotes are eliminated from an area. When intensive poisoning or trapping programs reduce coyote numbers, more breed at a younger age and the litter size increases dramatically. In an area of Texas where predator control measures were introduced, the average litter size jumped from 4.3 to 6.9. The irony of the control programs is that the more coyotes that are killed, the more pups the remaining adults produce. Some biologists have actually suggested that predator control programs result in an increased number of coyotes over the long run. They reason that coyote populations normally are cyclic, and if left alone would build to numbers exceeding what the land could support. Die-offs would follow and several years would be required for the population to recover. Predator control programs artificially keep coyote populations from peaking and hence from dying off. Over a 20-year period, the average number of coyotes on a "controlled" area could actually be higher than if the population was allowed to cycle naturally.

Another reason for the coyotes' success is the high survival rate of their young. In areas where they are not disturbed, coyotes are believed to be monogamous and maintain close family ties. Coyotes mate in mid winter, and Nebraska pups are generally born during April. During the first few days follow ing birth, the mother remains in the den with the pups. During this time the male brings food for the female. After the female leaves the den, both parents provide for the pups. Between 9 and 14 days, the pups' eyes open, and by about 3 weeks they totter to the den entrance. For several weeks they will wrestle and practice hunting insects near the den. After five weeks the parents begin bringing meat for the pups to tug at and eventually eat. The adults hunt primarily during the morning and evening, lay ing up in heavy cover within sight of the den during the day. They will aggressively defend their pups, and if distrubed by man, they will move them to a safer den site. Should one adult be killed, the other assumes all parental duties.

As the pups grow, they stray farther and farther from the den, occupying their days with the serious business of stalking and pouncing on insects and

32 NEBRASKAland NOVEMBER 1975 33   perhaps an occasional mouse. By June they will start taking short hunting forays with the adults, which continue until the family breaks up in the fall. For nearly six months the adult coyotes have protected and provided for the pups. Because of this doting care, most young coyotes reach maturity wise in the ways of survival.

Though coyotes possess all the vocal, facial and posturnal expressions typical of animals with frequent social interactions, they are most commonly seen as singles or pairs. Before man disrupted their way of life, the coyote probably formed social groups throughout the year and cooperated at capturing prey. Today, adults may or may not remain together when the fall break-up occurs. A Minnesota study showed that 60 percent of winter coyotes travel singly and 40 percent with one other coyote.

Probably solitary coyotes are more successful at avoiding man's attention and thus have survived to breed and raise pups that likewise are less social. Through the evolutionary mechanism of natural selection, man has eliminated those individuals most vulnerable and left in their place worthy competitors to breed. By crowding and hunting these predators we have created a "super coyote."

In Nebraska, as in most livestock-producing states, the coyote has been the target for hundreds of thousands of dollars in predator control. And, as

in most states, they do not enjoy the protection of sound wildlife management afforded game animals and furbearers. They may be legally shot, trapped or poisoned the year around. There are no restrictions on the number that may be killed. And yet, the coyote has persisted.

Stanley P. Young, former biologist of the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service and author of the now classic text The Clever Coyote, assigned himself to this predator's place on the civilized prairie.

"From civilized man's selfish point of view, predators are commonly looked upon as pests or outlaws with almost every hand raised against them. In fairness to these animals, it should always be kept in mind that their destructive habits cannot be due to criminal intent, but are due wholly to their efforts to gain a livelihood by the only means that nature has provided through untold ages of evolution.

"...the coyote, when not an economic liability ... requiring local control, has its place among North America's fauna. Even the coyotes' bitterest enemies amongst men...admit this, if for no other than an aesthetic desire to hear its yap with the setting of the western sun. Because of its versatile attributes, it is extremely doubtful that it ever will entirely disappear from the landscape, in spite of so many hands...constantly turned against it."

DRESSING BIG GAME

Field care is as important as downing game, and speed is often critical. Here is system recommended as most efficient, yet simplest to perform with minimum of equipment

DURING THE stalk or search or wait for that deer or antelope, little thought is given to how to handle it after, or if, one is brought down. How ever, even more important than the techniques used in bringing down the animal is the care given it in the field. And, depending upon the weather, it can mean the difference between excellent meat and a tainted, distasteful carcass.

Probably any system of getting the insides removed is better than leaving them in any longer than is abso lutely necessary, but the neater the job is done, the better. Here is a recommended procedure for field dressing that is fast, simple, and relatively tidy.

Opinions vary somewhat on some procedures, such as removing glands from the "knees" of bucks, and also of cutting the throat to allow good bleeding, but these are actually of minor importance. Many experts agree that removing the glands is unnecessary, but it certainly doesn't hurt. And, field dressing or a high-power bullet makes cutting the throat unnecessary, but this is also a matter of preference.

If the glands are removed from the inside of the hind legs, the knife should be very thoroughly wiped or washed before continuing, as the musk is potent and will contaminate the meat. A large knife is not necessary, and could well be dangerous, but it should have a sharp and rigid blade. Removal of the windpipe is one of the most important steps of dressing, as it is here that spoilage first is noted. After splitting the hide, sever the windpipe just under the chin

Normally, within minutes of downing a deer or antelope, the hunter is able to be gin field dressing. If bleeding is believed to be adequate without cutting the artery in the throat, gutting becomes the first task. Often, the animal will have to be moved a short distance to find a suitable location for this operation, as it is best to have a fairly flat spot with the head slightly uphill. It can be done in virtually any position, but an ideal location is a help. Begin by cutting around the anus, making an incision completely around and tying it off with string. If the aitch bone, which connects the legs, is to be cut, tying the anus is not absolutely necessary. Rather, after cutting, it can be left and merely pulled out through the crevice between the bones. The next step is to open up the hide nearly the full length of the animal, being careful to cut only through the hide and not into the paunch. This is best done by guiding the blade with two fingers, 2 one on either side of the blade under the hide but slightly ahead to avoid knicks. Some blades are equipped with guards or special hooks that prevent the knife from cutting deeper than necessary. Cut from the center in each direction, continuing to the anus and up to nearly the chin. A hatchet or saw helps in severing the aitch bone, but a heavy bladed knife o can be forced through by tapping it. A saw, however, takes only seconds and does a much neater job. For cutting up through the ribs, a hatchet or saw is also advisable, but a knife can do the task if wielded with sufficient enthusiasm. When cutting down through the hams, try to stay on center, which is conveniently marked with connecting tissue. This keeps waste to a minimum, as exposed meat dries and hardens, and must be trimmed away later. Through this opening, the lower intestine can be pulled without contaminating the meat, but it must be done carefully. A companion is of great assistance at various steps in the field dressing, but it can be done alone. After the aitch bone is cut, move back to the upper portion of the animal to begin trimming the interior. m Connected to both sides of the body cavity are strips of tissue which separate and support the organs. These must be cut from the top down to near the spine in order to remove the intestines, but they are easily seen by pushing the paunch to one side and then the other. After cutting, pull and roll entire bulk of intestines out to one side. Cut along either side of the windpipe and remove. A few cuts here and there, along with considerable pulling, removes the entire contents, leaving only blood to be wiped out or drained. 38 NEBRASKAland NOVEMBER 1975 39  

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There is disagreement about how next to proceed, as some hunters believe the cavity should be thoroughly washed while others claim such treatment is bad. The theory is that washing removes the natural coating which protects the meat by glazing, and that water will introduce foreign enzymes which can damage the meat. Perhaps both sides have valid arguments under certain circumstances, so we will leave this step up to the individual. At any rate, it is suggested the interior be wiped out with a cloth, although thorough washing is necessary if the paunch has been broken by cutting or by a bullet. The material in the stomach and intestines is highly active, and any contact with the meat must be avoided or rectified as quickly as possible. Spoilage occurs very quickly at times, so cleanliness is a must. If washed throughly, there is little danger as the interior of the animal is normally not utilized as food, and the tissue between the ribs protects the meat. Wherever there has been damage from the bullet should now be trimmed away, as these areas will be the first to spoil. A sharp knife should be used to cut away both the meat and any tissue which has absorbed blood. The animal can be hung before this trimming, and here again, help is usually needed unless a hoist is available. The small, portable q block-and-tackles come in mighty handy allowing the animal to be raised to any height desired merely by taking one or two "reaches". At this stage the animal can be skinned, although again, some disagreement arises. The hide is the natural protector of the meat, serving as insulation and as a guard against dirt and insects. If skinned, a protective cloth bag must be used. Prop the cavity open to aid cooling, and try to store in as cool a place as possible, and at least in the shade. If the weather is cool, near 40 degrees, the hide can be left on and the carcass aged for a week to 10 days, which improves it. Boning is also suggested for best flavor.

RIVER-BOTTOM BUCKS

(Continued from page 71)

trees, but they may be moving for another half-hour to 45 minutes in the thicker timber before bedding down. Maybe they round out their corn breakfast with a little green browse.

Since Ralph wasn't hunting, Gary decided to take over his regular stand. With Gary's usual post on a ridge open, I moved in. We've all hunted the Monroe area long enough that everyone has their regular stands and wouldn't think of moving in on another hunter's area.

"Go down the ridge until you think you shouldn't go any farther," Gary advised me when we split, "and then go another 100 yards. You 11 have the bestview there."

I did what Gary said and after going what at first looked like 100 yards too far, I leaned up against a Cottonwood that offered the widest field of view and best backrest. Every once in a while along the Loup River you find high ridges that have managed to hold their soil while the river washed away the land around them. They're naturals for deer hunting, giving hunters the same advantage in height that most tree stands do.

I'd carried in a small pack with coffee and sandwiches. I dumped the contents out and used the canvas as insulation be tween me and the snow-covered ground. I'd also carried a pair of insulated cover alls. I usually sit until I get about as cold as I can stand, then pull the extra layer on.

It was about 15 minutes into the season when I decided that I was as cold as I was going to get. I reached for my coveralls and pealed off my orange vest. I was all stretched out with one arm in and one arm out when that five-point buck walked into an opening only 20 yards below me. He had come from the east; the direction of the cornfield. My reasoning had paid off. The buck was on his way back from the corn, but it didn't seem like I was going to cash in on him, all tangled up in clothes, three feet from my rifle and with the buck looking me right in the eye. The winds seem to corkscrew around the ridge, and it was only seconds before the buck caught my scent. He trotted off about 30 yards before turning for another look to confirm his suspicions. By then I had my rifle up and the crosshairs just behind the front leg. I've shot a .264 magnum since I was 17. I like the rifle but it has the bad habit of kicking enough to block vision at that critical moment of impact. Consequently, I've seldom seen the deer at the time of the shot, and I don't get much of an idea if he is hit or not. That morning was no different. After the recoil of the first shot I saw the buck throw it into high gear toward the densest clump of cedars around. I chambered another round and touched off without much hope 42 of hitting that white flag bobbing away into the trees. It didn't feel good. But while I was jacking a third round into the cham ber, the buck crumpled in the snow.

When I field dressed him, I found where my first 140-grain slug had entered just behind the front leg and exited on the opposite side of the rib cage. The second shot was probably embedded in some cedar tree, but the buck had been running dead after the first shot.

I'd just field dressed the buck when the other three showed up, as I described earlier. By the time I'd settled down from that experience, my sandwich was cold again, so I went to work retoasting it. I nearly had the job done when I heard a lone shot from the direction of Gary's stand. I'd hunted with Gary long enough to know that it was a meat-pole shot.

I stuck the sandwich back into my pack and headed over the ridge to help him dress out his buck. I was barely to the bottom of the other side when two bucks came roaring across the corn stubble about 150 yards east of me. They were coming directly from Gary's tree stand, and from their speed it was obvious that all parties had met. One was a small one, three on a side, and the other one looked like he had five. His rack was wide and heavy at the base.

Gary was still trying to get his breath when he started to tell me what had happened.

"I had been in the stand for about a half hour without seeing a thing," he said. "The sun had just cleared the trees when a string of does filed out of the timber into that grassy opening east of my stand. I watched through the scope, looking for horns. The first four were all does. A fifth one was hanging back in the brush. I was sure it was a buck by the way it was act ing. I practically had him hung in a tree and field dressed. Finally it followed the others into the open and it was a doe, too.

"I must have sat their another 10 min utes before I heard you shoot twice," Gary continued as we walked toward his deer. "I figured you had your deer. That's when it started to get really cold sitting in that tree. I knew you'd start a fire and that you'd probably toast a sandwich and wash it down with a couple cups of hot coffee. The wind started pushing through that opening after the sun was up. I thought I could even smell that hamburger warming over the fire.

"After about 45 minutes I figured that your shooting had put an end to the deer

movement for the morning, so I headed in your direction for coffee and a sandwich. After that I planned to still hunt back where the cedars are thick.

"I'd walked about 30 yards north," he continued as we traced his trail through the snow, "when this buck came running straight at me. Looked like it had three on a side; nothing to brag about but good salami material. I froze in place and let him go by, no more than 20 yards in front of me. When he got about 50 yards I dropped him."

I held Gary's three-pointer spread-eagle while he started field dressing. He continued with his story.

"Well, I'd no sooner shot than here came these other two bucks, a big five pointer and a smaller one, tearing by me heading for the ridge. They must have seen you walking over the top because they turned and headed straight into the corn field. I could have dropped that big one like a pheasant from a plum thicket."

We dressed Gary's deer and dragged it up to mine. His was too far back in the timber to get a car to. We poked some wood into the fire, poured a round of coffee and I drew a pair of cold sandwiches out of the pack. This time nothing interrupted my warming ceremony.

Gary and I sat there for the better part of an hour rehashing our new and old deer hunts —the 400-yard shot Gary had made on a whitetail from the ridge, the first buck I ever shot, and two years ago when we both shot the same deer. I remember Indian wrestling in the grass to see who was going to tag it since it was a small buck and only opening day.

We were both feeling pretty good about having our permits filled, yet a little sad that our deer season had ended so soon. We walked back to the road, herded my old station wagon through the timber and picked up the deer. We were anxious to see how Tom and Kathy had fared.

For a small town, population 260, Monroe has more than its share of hunters, and opening day of the deer season has taken on a special flavor over the years. Hunters and nonhunters alike gather at the coffee shop and gas station to compare their deer with everyone else's and to lie about how long a shot they made. Judging from the number of hunters that had bagged their deer on opening morning, it looked as if it was a bumper year. At least 8 of the 25 or so permit holders had filled. But, Tom and Kathy weren't among them.

Strange as it sounds, Tom had spent the morning perched behind a bale of straw on top of a chicken coop. The chicken coop belonged to Ralph, but since Kathy's permit wasn't for that unit, Tom took up a stand there, overlooking a cornfield. For two weeks before, a pair of bucks and as sorted does had been using the field. As often happens, though, when the season opener rolls around, the bucks had not put in an appearance.

Kathy hadn't fared any better. She had

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spent the morning posted over a network of canyons filled with bur oak and coral berry that extends out from the Beaver River. Some of the biggest bucks to come out of that part of the state have been taken in this rugged habitat. They had two does come close enough to hand feed apples, but nothing sporting horns had showed. They spent the rest of the morning looking up an old farmer friend of Ralph's who owns some river-bottom land on the Loup River about 15 miles west of where Gary and I hunted. They had made the connection and Kathy was set up with another place to hunt that evening.

In years past, we used to organize deer drives during the middle of the day, after the morning movement was over and before the evening's started.

The only successful drive, as far as bucks are concerned, that I've been on was about five years ago. On the second day of the season, about 15 hunters, in cluding Ralph, Tom and me, decided to walk an island in the Missouri River. It was a good sized island, about a mile long and half that wide. What made it good deer habitat was that fact that the land owner planted about 20 acres of corn in a clearing. It was loaded with deer. On the second day of the season we posted four hunters on one end and the rest of us spread out and walked in from the opposite end. It took about two hours to cover the island. We shot a small four pointer that doubled back through our line.

The next weekend we went back to the island but with a different approach. This time we strung half our party out across the middle of the island as posts. The rest of us went to the east and pushed to the center. Four of the seven post hunters took bucks and they said they saw others go through. The first weekend we had tried to force deer into the open. Most had either worked back between the drivers or let us slip by them. We learned then that deer will drive as long as it's not into the open, and we had capitalized on that facet of their behavior the second weekend.

But those days are the exception rather than the rule. Most drives just turn up a lot of does. In the Loup flood plains, we have decided that you're better off watch ing the ball game or doing some bird shooting during the middle of the day. Year in and year out, as boring as it may seem, the best success on whitetail bucks in the farmland of eastern Nebraska is by hunters posting stands on river bottom trails or on the border between grain fields and woodland.

Gary and I told Tom and Kathy about the bucks we had seen, but neither of them hunted there that night; Tom be cause he wanted to check another area and Kathy because it was out of her unit. Neither of them saw deer that night.

The second morning of the season broke clear and cold.

It's funny how you always see deer 46 NEBRASKAland when you don't have a permit. That was the way the second day of the season worked out. Ralph and Kathy overslept and didn't have enough time to walk into the river bottom, so they returned to the canyon country they had hunted opening morning. Tom hadn't given up on the two bucks coming back into the cornfield, so he took up the same post he'd occupied on the opener. Again, neither hunter saw deer.

Gary and I traded our rifles in for shot guns the second day of deer season and checked some of the farm ponds and sand pits for ducks. We were rounding a sharp corner on one of the backroads when a doe, highballing it from the opposite direction, nearly ran right up the hood of our car. Twenty yards behind, a little three-point buck with love in his eyes nearly did the same thing. Deer season had hit smack dab in the middle of the rut.

Later, the five of us organized several small drives and pushed out some of the smaller pockets of brush bordering the river. Kathy and Tom were anxious to take up their stands again, so by 3 p.m. Kathy and Ralph were on the Loup River and Tom stubbornly took up his stand over the cornfield.

For Kathy, things started happening early. On their scouting trip the day be fore, they'd located an old tree stand used by a bow hunter earlier in the season. It was a platform of 2 x 4's across a crotch of a huge Cottonwood, commanding a view of 20 acres of picked corn that bordered on the river. Kathy climbed up into the stand and Ralph curled up on the ground below. If things worked as they planned, they might ambush a whitetail leaving the timber in the evening to feed in the corn.

They were only in the stand for 30 minutes before they saw deer. A band of timber to the north narrowed to a point right below the tree stand. Kathy heard a noise from that direction and leaned around one of the branches to look. About 50 yards away stood a 3-point buck. Kathy was using Tom's .30-30 Winchester, and cocked the hammer just as the buck caught scent of them. Leaning around the branch wasn't exactly like shooting from a bench, and her first shot went wide of its mark. The second shot was a "hope" shot at a white flag waving through the timber.

Once you shoot from a stand you might as well call it a day or be prepared for a long wait until deer start moving again. But, whitetails in rut are not as wary and make a lot of mistakes. It was only an other 20 minutes before a second buck, a 4 pointer, stepped out into a grassy open ing only 25 yards from Kathy. Kathy had just turned 16 and it was her first try at hunting big game so I guess she should be allowed a couple of mistakes. She took both of them in the same afternoon. After her shot at the first buck she neglected to jack another round into the chamber. Lever actions aren't exactly quiet, and 16 year-olds are not known for their patience. Hurriedly she chambered another round and the four pointer bolted. By the time Kathy was ready to shoot, the buck was out 75 yards, and she said later, "really picking 'em up and laying 'em down." She got one shot off as he disappeared in to the timber.

Two does browsed their way along the edge of the cornfield, passing within five yards of Ralph leaning up against the old cottonwood.

About 30 minutes before the end of shooting tirqe, Ralph decided that 2 bucks were about all that small area would support during rut, and since they were both spooked, Kathy and he might as well walk back to the road while it was still light.

Kathy later told me what happened next.

"We were following the trail back to the road. We were about 100 yards down from the tree stand when I looked back into the timber. It was real thick with young cottonwoods and buckbrush. All of a sudden I made out the shape of a deer; a monstrous buck. Without even thinking, I pulled up the rifle and shot. I guess Dad about jumped out of his boots. We walked back into the trees and found the deer; the biggest buck I'd ever seen."

It was dark by the time Ralph and Kathy dressed her buck. Tom and I waited on the road to pick them up, and when they didn't show up on time we knew they had scored, and we walked in to help. The deer was 416 years old and sported antlers with 5 on one side and 6 on the other. The tines were fairly long and the base unusually heavy. The deer was too heavy (it later weighed in at 240 pounds field dressed) and it was too late to think about dragging it out, so we threw a rope over a tree branch and hung him up for the night.

Everyone but Tom slept an extra hour on Monday. We agreed to meet him at 8 a.m. and then pick up Kathy's deer. Tom left extra early to reach the stand that over looks the cornfield where Gary and I had spooked the does opening morning. That was the same field that the two bucks crossed after Gary shot his deer. As far as we knew, no other hunters had worked the area, so Tom had a chance at the big buck.

"There is this grassy opening that cuts through the timber to the south of the tree stand," Tom told us later when we met at the road. "I was watching it closer than

the other areas because I had found a well used trail cutting across it the day before. It must have been about 20 minutes after sunrise when a buck crossed it heading north. Before I had a chance to get my rifle on him he was in the timber. About 10 minutes later he came out and crossed the cornfield, eventually working around to the north of me. He'd made a big half circle around my stand, and the way he was traveling it looked like he wouldn't get any closer. The buck was about 400 yards out when I shot. He must not have known where the shot came from, because he kept running east. I shot three more times but he never showed signs of a hit. When he was straight north of me he cut into a clump of willows that fingered out into the corn. I was tempted to climb down and search the willows but I knew I had the best vantage point from the tree. I forced myself to sit in the tree for 10 min utes, but he never came back out. I found him dead just a few feet into the willows."

Tom's buck was a yearling with three points on a side. Of the four bucks we'd taken, Kathy's was the biggest and she didn't waste any time razzing the rest of us. For a neophyte hunter, she was brag ging like a veteran. Gary and I were lucky; our bucks were at the locker and unavailable for comparison, so Tom bore the brunt of the attack. It would be a long year before we had a chance to silence the guns of the family's new women's libber.

MALLARDS AT A DISTANCE

(Continued from page 19)

over. After waiting several hours and not seeing any more birds, however, I began to wonder if I had made the right decision.

Whiskers was stretched out asleep in the warmth of the mid-morning sun, while in the blind, the cold was beginning to seep through my several layers of insulated clothing and waders. There weren't any birds flying, so I thought it would be a good time to get some exercise.

Heavy cover on the large island up stream looked like good quail habitat. I had permission to hunt nearly a half mile of the bottom, so I awakened the dog and we headed toward the cover.

We hadn't gone more than 50 yards when a pair of mallards flushed from a pocket of water next to the bank. Too far. All I could do was watch them fly away. They must have slipped in unseen when I hunkered in the blind.

A little more cautious now, I walked the river bank while the dog worked back and forth through the cover. Fresh deer tracks ran everywhere in the newly fallen snow. Ahead, the dog flushed a snowy owl from the heavy ground cover. Interested, I walked over to the place it had flushed. Tracks in the snow told the story of a life-and-death struggle between the NOVEMBER 1975 47   predator and prey species. This time, the prey, a field mouse, lost.

An uncommon visitor to the state, the snowy owl nests in the arctic and migrates southward as far as it needs to go to find food in the winter. Normally they do not come as far south as Nebraska, but bad weather coupled with a shortage of food in the north had changed their normal migration pattern this year.

Shortly, I reached the end of the far mer's land so I turned and walked over to the north channel of the river. It was com pletely covered with ice so I decided to hunt back through the middle of the is land. The dog was acting strangely as he worked back and forth through the cover. Then he stopped and pointed a clump of willows. We were both startled as two mule deer does bounded out from the thicket. Then farther away, six others casually trotted through the trees.

We hunted the rest of the cover without seeing any more game. It was close to noon so we left the decoys and headed into town for lunch. The ducks would probably fly again today, I thought, but not before late afternoon. Remembering a warm-water drainage ditch close by, I thought it might have a few ducks, so after lunch I stopped at the owner's house.

The landowner said it was OK to hunt but his cattle were spooky, so I decided to leave Whiskers in the car.

I was hoping to find a few stragglers, but as the river was open, I had doubts that I would do any good. Walking the bank, I could see that there weren't any ducks ahead for at least a quarter-mile. The cattails and marsh grasses beside the canal were good cover, though, so I de cided to hunt them for pheasants.

The air was quiet as I crunched through the cattails. An unconcerned muskrat swam across the canal and ducked into a hole in the bank as I passed. A set of fresh pheasant tracks in the snow alerted me.

Winding through the cattails, the bird wasn't in a hurry. Engrossed in the trail, I almost didn't hear the low raspy quack as a duck flushed behind me. Swinging around, I recognized the iridescent head of the drake mallard almost immediately. My first shot rocked the bird at 40 yards and my second dropped him in the cattails almost 60 yards out. Wishing now that I had brought the dog, it looked as if I would have a hard time finding the bird.

These mallards can really be tough, I thought to myself. This one took two shots of 1%-ounces of No. 4s from my 3-inch Magnum 12-gauge to put him down. Plus, the bird fell in heavy cover and was possibly only crippled.

Taking a bearing on a small tree close by, I headed directly toward the spot where I saw the bird fall. Looking around, I spotted the dead mallard a few feet away. It would have been tough if the bird had been crippled, as even a gaudy colored 48 mallard can hide as well as a rooster.

It was getting late in the afternoon, so I knew I had to head back to the blind. Ducks would be flying out to feed in the grain fields soon, and I thought I might get a shot at a thirsty duck after they fed.

The sun was near the horizon as I heard the telltale wing sounds of the first ones. Then they came, flight after flight moving off the lake to feed in the surrounding corn stubble. Ignoring my calls, they were interested only in filling their crops with waste grain. Looking like a swarm of angry bees, hundreds and even thousands of hungry mallards were circling a field less than a mile away.

As I watched, new flocks would join the swarm. Some would land while others would flush, only to land a few yards ahead. Now a few lifted off and headed toward the river, but it didn't make any difference because the sun was down and my hunt was over for another year.

Picking up my decoys, I reflected on a poor duck hunting year —when the populations were good but dry conditions chased most waterfowl out of the state.

The two mallards I had shot were the only ones I had gotten all season. Was the price of a $5 duck stamp worth it? I think so.

A duck hunter is only fooling himself when he doesn't buy a duck stamp because he doesn't think he'll get his mon ey's worth. The money from the stamp goes to purchase habitat for future generations of ducks and duck hunters.

At the cost of a box of shells, the stamp is a tremendous bargain, I thought as I headed back home. Passing the cornfield, I noticed that hungry ducks continued to fly in and land, gleaning dropped grain, while others flew back toward the lake and the river. I'll be back next year, ducks.

THE TRIANGLE

(Continued from page 37)

tried to catch one of the squirmy, little creatures, but they dashed away from her and went tumbling through the grass.

"What shall I do?" cried Mom. "Now that I found them I can't leave them here!"

Peering beyond the Triangle, Mom spied Old Bess, their old black mare. She was busily munching grass at a far corner. Old Bess, however, had noticed the trio long before Mom had sighted her. Gently Mom began to call to her.

"Come girl...come girl...come Bess."

Slowly, ever so slowly, still chewing on a tuft of grass, Old Bess began to wend her way toward them.

"What are they?" whispered Middle Sis.

"They are piglets," said Mom. "They belong to the sows that Daddy thought had been stolen."

Old Bess came trotting across the hay land. She stepped high and carefully. Sensing that something was wrong, she whinnied and came mincing up to them. Blowing softly, and with a toss of her long mane, she side-stepped up to where the trio stood. She tugged at Mom's shoulder with her soft, velvety nose. Carefully Mom lifted first one child and then the other upon the mare's broad back. Manny was in front and Mom gave him a long strand of braided hair. One strand, which Manny grasped tightly.

The old mare knew what was expected of her, as she had done this many times before; sometimes for fun, but often to fetch water or food to the hay-field. Now she waited until the children were settled and Manny clucked to her.

"Tell Daddy to hurry," yelled Mom.

Dad did hurry. He backed the pickup out of the crib driveway as soon as the children told him aboutthe runaway sows. Hastily, he threw in some cured hay. The two older girls came running and crawled into the pickup over the tailgate. Quickly they drove out of the barnyard. Cautiously, Dad guided the pickup up and over the cat-steps. He warned the children against making any noise so as not to frighten the sows.

The sows were gentle, and after much pushing and prodding, all were safe on board the pickup. The piglets had to be caught one by one, although the sows tried to coax them into walking up the ramp after them.

"Thirty-two new babies. Can you imagine that?" exclaimed Dad.

"There's Aggie. Why didn't I think of the Triangle. There is an old mud hole down there... used to be a lagoon... some one tried to fill it in to make a dam out of it. Bet those sows will be mighty glad to get a good fresh drink. Well, we'd better just sit here in the driveway until the rain is over. I'm afraid it's going to be a washer."

Everyone was happy as Dad anchored the doors in place and climbed up to in spect the new little porkers.

It had begun to rain. With the first downpour came a clap of thunder which made the ground tremble. The four children huddled with Mom in the pickup cab. Big Sis held Little Sis close to her. Manny and Middle Sis were trying to watch Dad through the cab's rear window. Dad leaned his arm on the side door and smiled at them.

"Remind me to call Sheriff Fox, will you? Big Sis, you are good on the old grinder. I want you to tell him that some times when it rains in Nebraska, it rains cats and dogs; although I've never seen that happen, but we do know that it rains pigs now, don't we? And now, guess what?" said Dad, "It's time to tail 'em up and move 'em out."

Aggie had just entered the corral and by her mooing they knew she wanted to be milked.

Trading Post

Acceptance of advertising implies no endorse ment of products or services.

Classified Ads: 20 cents a word, minimum order $4.00. December 1975 closing date, October 8. Send classified ads to: Trading Post, NEBRAS KAland, 2200 N. 33rd St., Lincoln, Nebraska 68503, P.O. Box 30370.

DOGS

GERMAN Wirehair Pointers. Pups, started dogs, stud service. Sagamore Kennels, 501 Jeffrey Drive, Lincoln. Nebraska 68505 (402) 466-7986.

AKC Labrador Retrievers Yellow Bitch, Black Stud, Both Fantastic Hunters. Available Around October 15. Kent Schroeder, Kearney, NE (308) 237-9688.

REGISTERED Treeing Walker Pups. Whelped March 25, 1975. Dam, "Wagnors Nebr Echo", Sue's grandfather "Tablerock Flying Hawk". Pups should be outstanding tree dogs. Phone 402-447 2366, Newman Grove, NE.

QUALITY trained and partially trained hunting dogs ready for the 1975 hunting season. Limited number of English setters, pointers, and brittanies. Darrell Yentes, 1118 McMillian St., Holdrege, NE 68949. Phone 308-995-8570, after 5:30 p.m.

EXCELLENT lines, Great disposition, family and hunting dogs. Call Sue Mossman (402) 496 0269. Whelping date October 1.

MISCELLANEOUS

SUEDE LEATHER drycleaned. Write for mailing instructions Fur & Leather Cleaning, P. O. Box 427, Bloomfield, Nebr. 68718.

PLACE your orders now for young dressed pheas ants. Sold by the pound. Excellent Christmas presents. Taking names of interested parties for membership in private hunting and fishing farm. Jack Cline, Franklin, NE 68939, (303) 425-3430.

SMOKEHOUSE INSTRUCTIONS: Made from old refrigerator, $2.00. Wild Game and Fish smoking and curing recipes, $2.00. Bonds, Wilsonville, Nebr. 69046.

DUCK HUNTERS: Learn how, make quality, solid plastic, waterfowl decoys. We're originators of famous system. Send $.50, colorful catalog. Decoys Unlimited, Clinton, Iowa 52732.

GOVERNMENT LANDS DIGEST ... A monthly re view of Government Real Estate offerings through out the U.S.A. . . . Send $2.00 for 3 month trial subscription . . . DIGEST, Box 25561-NL, Seattle, Washington 98125.

CENTRAL Ontario—Choice 640 acre sportsmen's paradise still available—$20.00 plus $6.50 taxes yearly. Maps, pictures, $2.00 (refundable). In formation Bureau Norval 70, Ontario, Canada.

LAKE McConaughy, MacKenzie Subdivision. Lots for sale on south side. Owner will finance. Box 224, Brule, Nebraska 69127.

PREPARE for driver's test. 100 questions and answers based on the latest Nebraska driver's manual. $1.75. W. Keenan, Box 295, Fairbury, Nebraska 68352.

NIOBRARA RIVER DEER HUNTS—Complete Deer Hunting Outfitting Camp on the Niobrara. Includes guides, 4-wheel transportation, pack horses, lodg ing, meals and preparation. Also complete game processing. Sandhills area permit required. For booking and information contact Niobrara Canyon Canoe Tours, Box 654, Valentine, NE 69201 Or Call (402) 376-1256 or 376-1269.

GUNS—Browning, Winchester, Remington, others, Hi-powers, shotguns, new, used, antiques. Want Pre-1964 Winchesters. Buy-Sell-Trade. Ph. (402) 729-2888. Bedlan's Sports, Fairbury, NE 68352.

LIMITED supply of Exon, ''Biography of a Gover nor": Intimate family story of 243 pages. Also, 'Dr. Graham, Sandhills doctor"; humorous and compassionate Nebraskan, 260 pages. Also, water color and pencil notes of Nebraska. Foundation Books, Box 29229, Lincoln, NE 68529.

WORK AT HOME: $300/THOUSAND stuffing en velopes. Complete assistance. Rush stamped, self addressed envelope to N. B. Carlson Enterprises, Box 671, Omaha, NE 68101."

HUNTERS: Don't miss bringing home your limit of Quail this year. If the field fails you—see us. We sell quail live or dressed. Some species year around. Call or write "The Roys", 517 E 16 St., Grand Island, NE (308) 384-9845, OR Box 45, Scotia, NE, (308) 245-2101.

TAXIDERMY

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*/2 miles west of Scottsbluff on High way 26. Phone (308) 635-3013.

TAXIDERMY work—big game heads, fish-and-bird mounting; rug making, hide tanning, 36 years ex perience Visitors welcome. Floyd Houser, Suther land, Nebraska 69165. Phone (308) 386-4780

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.

CREATIVE Taxidermy. Modern methods and life like workmanship on all fish and game since 1935 also tanning, rugs, and deerskin products. Joe Voges, Naturecrafts and Gift Shop, 925 4th Corso Nebraska City, Nebraska 68410. Phone (402) 873

BUFFALO, Deer, Elk, Coyote, Fox, Raccoon, Bob cat Rugs. Single Foot Buffalo, Moose, Elk lamps and ash trays. Gene's Taxidermy 416 17 St Aurora, NE 68818.

JOHNSON'S TAXIDERMY—Mounting of game ani mals, birds and fish from Africa to Alaska. Rugs, tanning and head mounts. Barry Johnson, Lamar NE 69035. (308) 882-4010 or 882-4201.

DEER Skinning & Processing SUMMER SAUSAGE Stuffed & Smoked JOHNSON LOCKERS 40th & Cornhusker Lincoln 466-2777 Browning Our EXCLUSIVE DISCOUNT PLAN on all BROWNING products will save you up to 20%. This includes guns, ammunition, archery, cloth ing, boots, tents, gun cases, rifle scopes and fish ing equipment. Inquire ... it will save you $$$. Big discounts on other sporting goods. OPEN 7 DAYS A WEEK Weekdays and Saturdays- 9:00 a.m. to 6:00 p.m. Sunday - 1:00 p.m. to 6:00 p.m. Phone: (402) 643-3303 P.O. Box 243 - Seward, Nebraska 68434 A weekly Outdoor report brought to vou by tte Nebraska Gam arid Parte Commission each Tuesday at 8pm cdt. LIVE-CATCH ALL-PURPOSE TRAPS Write for FREE CATALOG Low a* $4.95 Traps without injury squirrels, chipmunks, rabbits, mink, fox, rac coons, stray animals, pests, etc. Sizes for every need. Also traps for snakes, sparrows, pigeons, crabs, turtles, quail, etc. Save on our low factory prices. Send no money. Free catalog and trapping secrets. MUSTANG MFG. CO., Dept. N-34, Box 10880, Houston, Tex. 77018 NEW SLEEPING COMFORT 1/ou Steep ON IT 1 nof undex if Provides soothing, re laxing warmth from be low. Why use up vital body energy warming a cold, damp bed? Elec tro-Warmth will stop this waste and you'll feel a big improvement the very first night. Completely automatic and patented. Makes electric blankets obso lete. 5 year warranty. Send for FREE details now. New auto seat warmers available, and also 12v battery operated bunk warmers for trailers, camp ers and sleeper cabs. POSTPAID Model Rating 165w, 115v C-60 165w. 115v C-76 165w. 115v C-24M 60w. 115v Size Std 54 x 40 Queen 60 x 54 King 76 x 54 Bunk 60 x 24 List Price $24 95 $29 95 $34 95 $24 95 Send for free additional information THE ELECTRO-WARMTH CO. 4115 Aspen St., Washington, DC. 20015

NOTES ON NEBRASKA FAUNA... RING-NECKED PHEASANT

by George Nason Art by Neal Anderson

THE RING-NECKED pheasant, a most successful import from the Orient, has become by far the most popular upland game bird in the Midwest. The brilliant coloration of the male bird, the relatively large size, and the superb table quality have created an intense interest from hunters as well as non-hunters which is unequalled by any other species.

The first pheasants reported in Nebraska occurred in the southeast near the Kansas line during the period of 1900 to 1904, but it was in the 1920s and 30s before trapping and transplanting efforts enabled the pheasant population to gain its explosive pro portions.

Phasianus calchicus found the weedy fields and unkept conditions, so common in the aftermath of the depression days, much to his liking. Pheasant populations mushroomed throughout the midwest during that period, building to a peak in numbers which is not likely to occur again.

Residents in all pheasant states have witnessed a slow but obvious decline in pheasant numbers since those heydays in the 1940s and 50s. The decline was certain to come. Improved farming techniques and machinery, coupled with widespread use of fertilizers and chemicals, left little possi bility of unused, forgotten corners. The downward tend of the birds was delayed only briefly by the gigantic and popular soil bank program.

Only the future will tell us whether our present ringneck population is at its lowest point, or if the decline will continue. However, it seems unlikely that our pheasant numbers will continue to drop. Rather, year-by-year numbers should fluctuate only from weather factors such as blizzards, hail, drought and floods. Those who feel amply rewarded by bagging one bird per day of hunting, rather than three or four as in the recent past, should therefor be content with Nebraska pheasant hunting for many years in the future. Pheasants presently found in Nebraska are not a distinct breed but a mixture of many strains of this species found in Oriental countries.

A written description is hardly necessary due to the familiarity of the bird to virtually everyone.

Pheasants are unique in being the only upland game bird in which males and females can be easily distinguished by color. This uncommon trait, along with the fact that pheasants are highly polygamous, allows the game manager to be much more liberal with the pheasant harvest regulations than with other species. Only a small portion of the cock population of any given fall is needed for mating purposes the following spring.

With the coming of spring, the remaining male birds establish terri tories. These territories are defended against all other male pheasants. As the cock patrols his territorial bound ary, time is taken for periodic calling. Crowing begins in March, becomes more intense in April, and reaches a peak during the first half of May. After the peak, crowing slacks off, and only occasional calling is heard by mid-summer. These calls can be heard up to two miles by humans and probably a greater distance by hens. Because the male can effectively fertilize the eggs of 10, 20 or more hens, and because the hens will respond to his calling for such great distances, game managers persist in saying that cock birds will not be overharvested with long hunting seasons. Nebraska hunters have never created a more lopsided cock-hen ratio than about 1 cock to 4 hens.

The nesting season is the most critical time of year for the pheasant. Because nesting activities and hatch ing coincide with farming operations, many thousands of young chicks and nesting hens are lost. Spring plowing of wheat stubble fields in April and May breaks up nests and occasionally kills hens. The first cutting of alfalfa, the pheasant's favorite nesting crop, occurs in late May and early June. Since the hatching peak —the period during which most pheasants are hatched —and the first cutting of alfalfa are the same, many thousands are unavoidably killed by haying equipment.

Once a nest is established, the hen lays eggs at the rate of about one per day. This continues until an average clutch of 10 eggs is completed. When the egg laying period is complete, in cubation begins and continues for 21 to 24 days.

Contrary to popular belief, only one brood is raised during the summer. Observers report seeing young of different size and age in a brood and believe two broods have been hatched by the same hen. This is a result of two broods of different ages mixing together.

Young birds attain their adult plumage by 18 weeks and appear fully grown at 21 weeks.

It is young birds that make up the bulk of the available population when the season rolls around late each fall. Pheasants are a renewable resource, and a good portion can be safely taken each year by hunters under the same principle as the marketing of any do mestic livestock. Wise use, not waste, is good conservation.

Original art of the ring-necked pheasant was done by Neal Anderson, and is for sale. He also will do other paintings on a commission basis. He can be contacted through NEBRASKAland, Box 30370, Lin coln, Nebraska 68503.

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