Speak Up

Sir/I want to thank you for your Bicentennial issue of NEBRASKAland, Portrait of the Plains. It was the best piece of work put between two covers that I have ever seen.

Looking through this issue, you notice some of the beautiful scenes we take for granted in Nebraska. Portrait of the Plains shows us what a great state we have and how proud we should be of it. Thanks again.

As It Should Be

Sir/After living in New Jersey for four years and having Bicentennial done and redone to the point of oversaturation, your January "Portrait of the Plains", at last, is a salute to the nation and to our state as it should be.

"Portrait" brings us back to the land, the flora and fauna, our very unpretentious existence.

In the Tri-Centennial, "Portrait" will still be pertinent. How perfect to picture Chimney Rock on the cover. It was there 200 years ago when the Indians loved the land; it will be there 200 years in the future for those who will love it then.

We greatly enjoy receiving NEBRASKAland while we are away. We enjoy the paintings by Neil Anderson and expect to hear more about him as an outstanding wildlife artist.

Please continue your excellent work and help keep Nebraska a "living" state til we can return to it.

Thank you for your letter, and weTI do all we can to carry on. (Editor)

Sir/We have just received Portrait of the Plains. Congratulations, it is a beautiful book and should surprise any subscriber. 4 We would like to order some separate copies so we could send them to my relatives and friends in Switzerland. I am a native of Switzerland, though Nebraska is my home state where I became a citizen in 1960 and I am proud of it and always will be.

We are subscribers and enjoy the magazine for years —also donate the magazine for years to the Omaha Home for Boys.

The Hunting Parson

Sir/I received my October NEBRASKAland with the letter from Mrs. Griffith of Carleton, and it ought to tell us who hunt to appreciate the farmer and his land. I hunted in South Dakota last year and then went to Sherman Reservoir near Loup City. We had a wonderful time. My wife and I met the friendliest folks, and are looking forward to returning this year. I have always made it a practice to stop at the farm house and ask permission to hunt, and then ask what areas I should not hunt in. I have been refused permission, and I respected that person's decision because I own land in Michigan. Last spring I spent a month making maple syrup, and this fall I will stop at all the farm homes that let me hunt and say hello, and give them a half gallon of pure maple syrup for their pancakes this winter. I am also taking some along for new friends I hope to make.

So please tell Mrs. Griffith that if I come to her house, I will drive in and come to the door and ask. I would hunt only where she says I may. I will leave no trash on the land, or bring a gang with me. And, I will guarantee there will be no hen pheasants in my rig. I can sympathize with her, but certainly all hunters are not like those she described. Sometimes when we expect the worst, it happens; and when we look for the better things, they happen.

I agree that we often see bad happen if we look for it, and too many people have gotten conditioned to look only for the bad. Most Nebraskans are extremely friendly and cordial, and I hope that you continue to encounter only those. Happy hunting. (Editor)

Toughen Penalties

Sir/I heard on the radio the Game Commission is thinking of raising the license fee for hunting and fishing.

Nebraska is the highest in the nation for resident license. Why don't they make the penalty for poaching and over-bag limit much higher? This way, the people who buy a license and stick to the law don't get penalized. This is our sport —don't drive us to hunt in our neighboring states!

Ray Vondracek Omaha, Nebr.

It's a good idea to toughen penalties for violators, and probably to put the money into management rather than local school districts. But the proposed license fee increases are for our, the hunters' benefit, and we must be willing to pay more for our sport than we did in the good old days, just as penalties should be updated. (Editor)

For the Birds

Sir/I read that the proposed habitat stamp would be required for deer and antelope hunters, also. I believe that is very unfair and improper. The habitat for deer and antelope cannot be improved or new habitat acquired.

If so, how can the big game habitat be improved? There is more and better habitat for antelope now than during the last antelope season at the beginning of the century. Many cultivated fields have reverted back to prairie, cactus and yucca since the homestead and Kincaid days without a habitat stamp fee. The deer need no more habitat with the present good hunting management. The habitat stamp is an excellent idea for improving habitat of pheasant, quail and waterfowl, but should only be paid for by the hunters of upland and water birds, exactly as the old upland bird tax was assessed.

Frank Tesar Omaha, Nebr.

While deer have adequate habitat in most areas of the state, access to land is getting tougher, and part of the idea of the habitat plan is to provide public lands and leases on private lands where possible. All hunters will benefit from the plan, as no segment is being favored over another. Any improvement in one also tends to benefit all others, and certainly hunters should be sticking together. (Editor)

Snake Observer

Sir/I enjoyed your last issue about rattlesnakes. I have fished and hunted all my life. About a year ago I was coming home from fishing above Arcadia in the canal. I started up a high sandy bank with fishing tackle in one hand and a plum stick in the other, and saw a loosely coiled yellow snake about three feet long. I lifted him out of the way with my stick and started up the bank again and it coiled and struck at me. I then noticed he had a viper shaped head but no rattles. I hit it two or three times with my stick and went on home. I was glad to read what kind it was from NEBRASKAland.

FOR FUN AND FISH

Like casting bread upon the water, a flyrod will return many times the cost in excitement and pleasure. Few methods of angling can match the thrill of landing even a small fish, and learning is not all that tough. Give it a try this summer!

EVEN IN MID SUMMER, when the fishing doldrums set in and most anglers have given up on their weedy fishing hotspots in favor of an easy chair and iced drinks, there is still hope. All you have to do is put on your waders and try a little topwater action for bass and bluegill.

Few outdoor experiences can match the excitement of a good bass smacking a topwater popper. And, that same popper in a smaller size can be just as effective and a lot more fun when fished with a fly rod. Even a 3A-pound bluegill can put a healthy bend in a long and limber fly rod, yet this same outfit is capable of landing the biggest bass in the state if it's handled properly.

Too hard to learn to use one, you say? Baloney! A fly rod is just as easy to learn to use as any other fishing outfit and a lot more fun.

Many anglers would like to learn fly casting and maybe have even gone as far as buying an outfit, but have given up because they couldn't cast a line. Many prospective fly rodders get discouraged at this point and give up, but that's a mistake. Fly casting isn't hard; it just requires a balanced outfit and a little concentration at first to learn the basics of casting.

So stay with me; I'll tell you what to buy, how to cast and where to fish. I won't guarantee you'll catch big fish right away, but if you stick with it, you'll at least catch bluegill and small bass and have a heck of a lot more fun doing it.

EQUIPMENT: The first thing you'll need is a rod. A lot has been written about the virtues of a heavy 9-foot rod, while others say a short, 7-footer will do the job very nicely. True, but a good quality fiberglass rod of 8 to 8V2 feet combines the virtues of both, giving you a rod with the backbone to lay out a long line and yet is easy to cast without tiring you out rapidly. What to buy depends a lot on the size of bug you intend to cast. A heavy popper or fluffy deer hair bug has a lot of wind resistance. It may require a heavy line and therefore a heavier rod than if you intend to cast small panfish-sized poppers.

So, if you plan on casting big stuff, 6 get an 8 1/2 footer. If you want to use the smaller bugs and poppers, an 8 footer will do the job. Cost-wise, you can spend a lot of money and get a really good rod, but a usable rod can be purchased for around $15 to $25.

Buy one with the so-called "slow action" that flexes throughout its entire length, even into the handle. Stay away from "fast tip" or "fast action" type rods. They have a place in fly casting, but they require too much work to cast bugs and poppers easily.

The fly reel is not really critical; its purpose is merely to hold the line. When you hook a bass, you normally play him by hand-stripping line from the reel and applying drag on the line as necessary. A good quality, single-action or automatic fly reel can be purchased for slightly more than $10. Cheaper ones can be had, but you take the chance of a poor quality reel binding up as you're playing a big fish.

Most experts use a single-action reel but a few use automatics. Both reels have their merits but the single-action is lighter and therefore probably balances better on a rod. Beyond this it is a moot point; whichever the angler prefers will work quite well for this type of fishing.

The line is probably the next most critical piece of fly equipment to buy after the rod. To cast properly, get a line weight that is recommended by the rod maker. Most fly rods today are marked with the proper line weight that you should use. If not, an 8-foot rod should handle a No. 6 or No. 7 line, and an 81/2-foot rod should take a No. 7 or No. 8 line. In bug fishing, don't get a line that is too light; it may be better to get one a size bigger to help cast the wind-resistant big ones.

For bug casting, use either a level-floating line or the more expensive weight-forward (WF) floating line. Either one will work, but the weight-forward line will be easier to cast and will carry an air-resistant bug farther. A leader is a necessity with a fly line but bass are not as picky about line sizes and lengths as trout are. A six to seven-foot leader usually is plenty. Tapered ones are best for laying out a bug but they aren't really necessary. If you want to, you can tie your own tapered leaders. Start with about 3 feet of 20-pound mono, 2 feet of 15-pound and about 1 Vi feet of 10-pound. Tie the sections with a blood knot and use a blood knot or nail knot to attach the fly line to the heavy end of the leader.

What's the best flyrod lure for bass? Topwater poppers made from cork or plastic probably work the best. Some bass fishermen use large deer hair bugs that resemble frogs or mice, which are quite effective at times. The smaller poppers are dynamite on bluegill and small bass, especially when fished over shallow spawning areas of the bluegill.

Good popper colors are white, yellow, black and green with a white belly. Try some with feathers, buck-tail or rubber legs. The rubber-legged ones can really be effective at times, especially on bluegill. You can buy flyrod poppers in most tackle stores. Mail-order supply houses are another good source, or you can make your own.

A good pair of waders is a real help in getting away from trees and brush on the bank that might foul up your back cast. In very warm weather you probably wouldn't need them; a pair of old pants and tennis shoes are very comfortable to wade in. A small boat or canoe is good for reaching places you can't cast to by wading. If you don't have a boat, a canvas and innertube float works well to reach the hard-to-get-to backwater areas.

TO CAST: In learning to use a fly-rod, keep it simple at first. The best way to learn is without leader and lure. Find yourself a nice open grassy area so you can cast without hanging up on trees or overhead wires.

Strip out about 25 to 30 feet of line and lay it out in a straight line in front of you. Hold the rod in vour right hand, parallel to the ground and pointing down the line. Take up the slack with your left hand.

Now pull on the line with your left hand and start it moving toward you. At the same time, quickly pull your rod hand upwards, bending your arm at the elbow. (Continued on page 44)

WEEKEND IN THE SADDLE

For the boys, trip would be respite from mowing lawns and haying. For dad, it was simply a chance to ride with his sons

AT FIRST GLANCE, Nebraska's Sand Hills region appears as rolling sameness stretching beyond the horizon, taxing even one's imagination by sheer vastness. From the ribbons of pavement that cross the undulating dunes only at great intervals, the casual motorist can see little of the hills and their hidden treasures of succulent green and sparkling blue.

Turn five youngsters loose on horseback, add a father for guidance and cooking, and the beauty of the hidden valleys and rolling dunes form the backdrop for outdoor adventure and learning.

The idea for a western style campout and ride was met with enthusiasm at the Gary Schlichtemeier residence in Alliance. A native of Crete, Gary shares a love of horses and things western with his three growing sons; Jeff, 12, Chad, 10, and Jason, 7.

Also, two of their friends, Tom Wildy, 12, and Loren West, 12, joined in the trip. It was with no better plan than to enjoy the pleasant weather that the six moved out across the prairie. Only time, and a well provisioned pickup and stocktrailer, separated the riders from similar trips on the prairie of yesteryear. The trailer transported the horses and gear northeast of Alliance, where a group of friendly ranchers opened their land to the riders. Enthusiasm was the game plan, and informal the password.

Camp was located near a sparkling, marsh-ringed lake. On two sides a high ridge of hills defined the limits of a natural hay meadow. The first hours were hectic —gear unloaded, tent set up, and horses cared for.

Tom and Jeff soon slipped away to explore the area, and their entry in the camp journal described finding two lizards, one toad and two mallards, one male, one female.

Each of Gary's boys has a growing interest in wildlife, a byproduct of their dad's career as a wildlife habitat manager for the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission. Each youngster noted the species in the journal, and an unofficial race for new and varied journal material quickly ensued.

The sandhills were up to the examination. Everywhere signs of new life appeared. Locked in winter's icy grip for a three to four-month period, spring fairly bursts upon the hills as new life and new growth feed on winter's moisture.

The marsh-ringed lake attracted waterfowl and shore birds, and young boys in pursuit of knowledge. Avocets, graceful on awkward appearing legs, stood while the boys tallied their numbers along the shallows of the lake.

Red-winged blackbirds returned the boys' interest with vibrant melodies; a call, once heard, forever remembered as a natural song of a natural marsh, forever a memory of a warm summer afternoon.

The brownish hens of the species jumped from bulrush to bulrush as the youngsters approached, their movement a vain effort to hide the nest held above the water's

Overhead, the brilliant red and black of the male signaled with his nearly stationary flight that the youngsters were too close to the nest; his shrill warning taken up by the other birds of the marsh.

A hen mallard moved out from the lake to the far shore, flying in an ever widening arc. With a quick maneuver, the hen suddenly dropped and disappeared into a camouflage of grass.

Hidden there by the "tent type" grasses, the mallard had constructed a nest of soft grass and down from her body. Secreted within the soft enclosure were eight greenbuff delicate eggs.

After searching near the camp on foot, the horses were saddled for a ride before dinner, which the journal entry described as sandwiches, cookies and water. A near-by indmill provided the latter.

The six riders had an opportunity to fill in as working cowhands as they helped their rancher friend round up cattle that had moved out of his pasture. After the cattle were turned in, the riders moved leisurely back to camp.

Stew followed by popcorn filled the young riders, and after supper everyone turned in. Tom and Jeff found the stock trailer to their liking while the rest unrolled their blankets in the tent.

One of the most memorable times on any camping trip is the night spent under the stars. Only under the blanket of millions of twinkling lights did the sandhills surrounding camp become insignificant. Looking at the color changes of individual stars and bands of concentrated light, that night formed a bond between each of the six adventurers camped on a small part of a small continent, on a small planet among millions.

Nearby the horses could be heard moving in the dark. A coyote added his forlorn call to the night. Sleeping bags and warm blankets never felt so good.

The morning sun returned the majesty of the Sand Hills with light bouncing from hilltop to hilltop. Golden rays moved down from the hills to push back the purple shadows of the valley. Soon the camp was stirring with activity.

Tom and Jeff rode early and found a dead bull, a reminder of the high winds and heavy snows earlier that spring. The morning's journal also noted many ducks, as well as Chad and Loren finding several snakes near camp.

Before breakfast the horses were cared for by the youngsters —each knowing well that on the prairie a rider couldn't skimp on the care and feeding of his horse. Too many miles of hard walking stood in front of the man who neglected his transportation.

With dad preparing lunch after the morning's ride, the youngsters splashed into the lake, their youthful exuberance and shouts rolling across the hay meadow. A mule splashing youngsters in the lake below. Dad also kept a watchful eye on his crew.

That afternoon, Gary and the boys fished a nearby pond. If it held any fish the boys never found out, but it was a special time for Gary and his sons. Seven-year-old Jason moved close to his father, and sitting there on the grassy bank they formed a memorable picture that would linger long after the disappointment of the fishing was forgotten.

Rain came to dinner that evening, and the tent and stock trailer saw use once again. Outside, the gray sheets of rain whipped across the surface of the lake and up the sides of the high range of hills. The fresh smell of rain on a spring landscape returned with the sun. The boys washed off the alkali from the day's swim in a windmill tank. "Very cold", was the journal's entry.

The evening was a special one for the riders. The rain had cleared the air and everywhere the brilliant green of growing things shimmered under beads of moisture. Moving to the highest hill overlooking the valley, the boys watched the sun disappear behind purple hills to the west.

The journal would forever remain blank about that night, for the boys slept well after the day's activities. Gary alone soaked in the warmth of the day as he sat in the darkening glow before the camp, the steam from his coffee a screen to view again the memories of good times.

Camp was packed away the following morning. Gary made two trips to town, first with a load of horses and then with the boys and the remaining horses. The last entry in the journal noted the finishing activities with a simple, "very tired —very thirsty — went home." Ω

FISHING...BEST TIME FOR BASS

Records, experience show that May is top bass fishing time

Largemouths come in all sizes, but they all have that strange attraction PROBABLY THE BEST time of all is right now; the month of May. At least, you most likely feel that way if you're addicted to bass fishing to any degree.

In most years, May sees the best of Nebraska's large-mouthed bass fishing. It's the time when ol' bigmouth is feeling his sassy best, with his wintertime blues long cured by several weeks of warm water. In May, hungry bucketmouths are busily packing in the chow that makes for much of their annual growth and gives them the reserves to help them through spawning and summer's dog days, when their appetites slacken.

And, in May, eager bassin' folks capitalize on all this activity. Fishermen by the score probe the better public bass waters, and most private ponds and pits host one or two anglers favored by the landowner and allowed in. These fishermen are there in force because they know that, in most years, May will give them their biggest rewards.

Observant fishermen have suspected this for a long time, and statistics of the Master Angler program back them up. In 1975, 102 of the year's 388 trophy largemouths were taken in May. The records also provided information that might be of more practical use to the May bass fisherman, but we'll get to that later.

Without a doubt, the largemouth is the most sought-after game fish in Nebraska and the whole country. Clubs have been formed by those addicted to his pursuit, and big-money tournaments are staged for the best of the pros. In conjunction with this bass mania, a whole array of gear has been tailored for the bassin' man, ranging from small-change items like lures and rods to special, big-muscled boats sporting sophisticated electronic gear and price tags of several kilobucks.

And, for every fisherman caught up in the fast-moving world of clubs, tournaments and big-time paraphernalia, there are scores who quietly go MAY 1976 after the largemouth alone or with a buddy or two, and with little or no special gear or fanfare.

Those nbt bitten by the bass bug might ask what makes this fish so danged special. And, most bass fishermen would jump right up and offer an answer. But, if there were a dozen bass fishermen in the same gathering, chances are there would be about a dozen versions of the largemouth's qualities as a game fish offered as the reason people fish for him.

A look at what makes the largemouth the fish that he is will go a long way toward helping normal people understand those apparently addled folks who pursue him. And, a little review of some basic lore on the largemouth might also help the angler.

For starters, the large-mouthed bass is a pretty good sized customer. Two and 3-pounders are common in Nebraska, fish 5 pounds or bigger are considered trophies, and the state record stands at 10 pounds, 11 ounces. This size, coupled with a pugnacious disposition, make him hard to beat for a sporting fight.

The largemouth is an adaptable fellow, capable of living in small farm ponds, sandpits, flood control and irrigation reservoirs, slow streams, and river backwaters. He is available almost anywhere in Nebraska, and is usually abundant in waters where conditions are right for him. And, early in the season (like right now) before the water gets tepid, the largemouth is a rather tasty morsel in the bargain.

But, don't let his aggressiveness or abundance fool you, because the bass is nobody's dummy. But more important, the bass is a complex fish with a number of drives and requirements. And, different waters and different days offer him various ways of meeting those wants and needs. Thus, putting all the clues together to simply find the bass becomes a big challenge, to say nothing of getting the fish to slam a lure after he has been located. This challenge is probably the biggest thing about bass fishing that lures, and hooks, anglers.

The largemouth is an efficient predator, dining mostly on other fish but also hitting worms, insects, crawdads, frogs, small birds and just about anything else that doesn't eat him first. His whole existence centers around eating, surviving and staying just as comfortable as possible in the process. And, for a bass, comfort is mainly a matter of the proper temperature.

In fact, nothing rules a bass' life more than water temperature. Bass do not begin to feed actively or grow in the spring until the water warms to 50 degrees or more, but as it warms, the bass" appetite grows. At about 65 degrees, the males begin to think about selecting nest sites, and spawning takes place when the water is between 68 and 72 degrees.

Their metabolism is in high gear around 80 degrees, and this temperature seems to offer them the most comfort. Research in power plant cooling reservoirs, where a wide range in temperature is available, shows bass gathering in waters between 77 and 86 degrees. Generally, the smaller bass preferred the warmer end of the spectrum while larger ones favored slightly cooler areas. When the water reaches 86 degrees the bass begin to slow down, and at 96 degrees, they begin to die.

Cover is also important to bass. They apparently feel vulnerable in open expanses of clear water, so they hide out around sunken stumps, logs, weedbeds and the like. A bass doesn't like to chase a meal very far, either — uses up too much energy. So, he lurks in cover and ambushes his meals. The cover also gives him a refuge from bright light, which bass shun.

To help him live up to his reputation as a big eater, the largemouth is equipped with some pretty keen senses. Though a bit nearsighted, the bass sees anything within a few feet quite well, and he sees it in full, living color. He hears through a set of internal ears on his head, and senses 15   vibrations like those made by a swimming baitfish (or lure) through very sensitive nerves in his skin. His senses of smell and taste also function well.

All of these things help the bass find his food, and the angler can use them to make his lure appeal to the fish. But, these senses can also alert the bass to the angler's presence. A bass can see a fisherman standing in a boat or on shore, or perched high in a pedestal seat on one of those fancy bass boats. They can hear the hum of an electric motor or an oar bumped against the side of the boat. And, they can taste or smell the taint of outboard motor fuel or cigar smoke transferred to a lure by a fisherman's careless hand. What it all boils down to is that the bass has a lot going for him, and catching him consistently calls for a "savvy" and careful fisherman.

Knowing how temperatures affect bass will keep the angler from wasting time too early in the year. And, when the thermometer says spawning temperatures have been reached, the smart fisherman will be looking for sandy or sand-clay bottoms under two to six feet of water; favorite locations for bass nests.

After spawning, the bass' need for cover will tell a fisherman where to go. Sometimes, the bucketmouth's favorite hangout will be an undercut bank, or a tangle of tree roots along shore, or the edge of a weed bed, or the timber and hedgerows that were flooded when the pond or reservoir was built. The best way to determine the bass' cover preference at any particular time is to fish them all. If there's no action after a short time, move on. Once the bass are located, keep fishing places just like that until success drops. Sometimes, one particular type of cover will stay prime for only a few minutes, and at other times the action there may last for days or weeks.

Anglers should remember to the foot the exact spot at which they caught fish on other outings. Only largemouth know just exactly what it takes to make the perfect bass lair. But, they all seem to recognize a good hangout when they see one. So, if you catch a decent fish under a particular branch of a certain downed tree, try it again. Chances are another fish came along within a few days and called it his home.

Of course, it never hurts to learn more about bass fishing from other anglers. But, much of the information found in the reams written on bass fishing comes from other parts of the country with different kinds of bass water. However, we might be able to learn something from successful Nebraska fishermen, like those who took Master Angler fish last May.

The most obvious factor among them is the waters these anglers fish. The majority scored on lunkers in farm ponds, sandpits or small reservoirs. The only large lakes represented were Red Willow Reservoir, which produced a handful of good bass last May; Merritt Reservoir with a couple; Branched Oak Lake with a few; and a single trophy bucketmouth from Sherman Reservoir. It is apparent that big waters are not generally largemouthed bass waters in Nebraska.

The lures these fishermen used seem to tell a story, too. Spinnerbaits were far and away the most productive on big fish, accounting for one quarter (24) of all Master Angler Award bass taken in May of 1975. Ordinary spinners and plastic worms each accounted for another eighth (12 fish each).

Floating/diving plugs, deep-divers, surface lures, alphabet or "fat" plugs, spoons, live baits and various pork or plastic critters each took a handful of fish and accounted for the rest of the 98 fish. Four fishermen did not say what bait or lure they used.

Spinnerbaits are not usually fished much deeper than six feet, nor are floater-divers or a lot of the other lures. The Texas-rigged plastic worm can go deep, but it is also used a lot in medium-depth situations. It's an assumption, but judging by the lures used, deep-water tactics do not seem to produce all that well in Nebraska, at least not during May.

Of course, that would be expected early in the season when shallow-water temperatures are still comfortable for bass. However, the not-so-deep stuff continues to work to some degree all year long in Nebraska. Perhaps that is because Nebraskans are not familiar with deep-water methods, or it might be that big-water tactics simply do not appeal to them.

Much of a largemouth bass' worth is calculated on his status as an excellent sport fish, and so is a lot of the lore fishermen study about him. But, he has another value —that of maintaining a balance in the fish populations of the waters he inhabits.

Most good bass fisheries in Nebraska are based on the bluegill as a food source for the bucketmouth. The bass' appetite for bite-size bluegill keeps the lid on the panfish population and keeps it from dominating the lake. And, with the bluegill populations heavily thinned, the panfish grow to good size because there is enough bluegill chow to go around among the survivors.

If, for some reason, the bass are not able to keep up with the prolific panfish, the lake is soon overpopulated with stunted bluegill. These hordes of small fish prey on bass spawn and dominate the food that any surviving bass fry need during their first weeks. The result is disaster for both the bluegill fisherman (nothing but runts) and the bass angler (no bass reproduction).

How does a lake get into such sad shape? Too much fishing pressure on the bass and too little on the bluegill will do the trick in short order. This is exactly what happened so often on small lakes near eastern Nebraska population centers and those along Interstate 80. Under such intense fishing pressure, not many bass had time to grow to spawning size and populations of stunted panfish eventually took over.

In fact, this can happen to any lake if the small bass are not allowed to grow up. This is one reason for the 12-inch size limiton bass in Nebraska. For every good-sized bass in a lake, there are dozens of eight or nine-inchers, and they delight in eating just as many one and two-inch bluegill as they can find. Obviously, these junior largemouths are of much more value in the water doing their job on the bluegill than they are in a frying pan.

As a matter of fact, bassin' sportsmen would do well to release more bass, even if they top the 12-inch legal minimum. There's nothing wrong with keeping a few modest fish for the skillet, particularly early in the year when they taste best. And, fishermen landing a big ol' lunker shouldn't worry a bit about keeping him for the den wall. The oldtimer probably didn't have much longer for this world anyway.

But many bass are caught and killed by people who already have a freezer full of fillets and must struggle to give them away. And others catch and keep bass simply for bragging stock, camera fodder or "macho" points with the neighbors, and have no desire or intention of using them as food for themselves. The bass is too valuable as a fishery resource to be caught and killed for such motives. If you want to score a hit in the neighborhood by providing everyone with fish, do it with bluegill or crappie.

Releasing bass means that they may someday thrill another angler with a savage strike and strong fight. In the meantime, they will continue their campaign against panfish overpopulation with the utmost efficiency. Bass, bluegill and fishermen would be better off if this happened more often. Ω

the Wild Turkey in Nebraska

ONLY AFTER MANY unsuccessful efforts releasing game-farm " birds did Nebraska's wild turkey program get underway. Then, trapped wild birds were used, and they were capable of not only surviving but thriving in Nebraska's Pine Ridge. Although a native, the wild turkey was removed from the state by settlers who found this large, noble bird more desirable on the table than in the fields. Although it is often told, the success story of stocking the wild turkey bears repeating, as a nucleus of 28 birds was responsible in only 3 years for an estimated 3,000. Not only was it possible to then open a hunting season, but birds were also trapped and transplanted in other areas offering adequate habitat. It is now felt that all available wooded areas with sufficient cover to support a turkey population have received birds. Few game animals are so fascinating or frustrating, or are held in such high esteem by dedicated hunters. Following is a special section on these colorful birds.

[image]

Tom turkeys court with spread tails and drooped wings

A Year with the Merriam's

photos by Bob Grier

SINCE THE DOMESTIC turkey was originally developed from wild stock, the general appearance of the birds is very similar. However, to the outdoorsman, some differences are very easily discernible. Wild turkeys have longer legs and a more streamlined body. The neck is longer and the head smaller and flattened. The adult Merriam's wild turkey normally has pink legs while those of young-of-the-year are brownish-gray. The large, black bird displays a variety of iridescent colors from bronze to green. Breast feathers of the torn appear to be jet black while the hen's are edged with a white band, giving the appearance of a white, frosted breast. The neck and shoulders of the bird appear metallic bronze in the sunlight. Wing primaries show distinct white bars with a light gray background. The back is covered with velvety black feathers. The tail coverts or rump feathers are edged with white or light tan. Farther back toward the tail the feathers are a rich chestnut brown with darker markings. The tail feathers are almost black with chestnut markings and a light tan or buff-colored tip. The head of the torn is bald with a narrow band of feathers running up the back of the neck almost to the crown. The head is greenish blue except when the torn is excited, when it will turn red about the neck and reddish blue in the cheeks. The hen's head is covered with a scattering of short, velvety black, hair-like feathers.

The wild turkey, the largest upland game bird of America, weighs up to 30 pounds. During fall hunting seasons in Nebraska, Merriam's turkeys average 18 pounds for adult toms, 12 pounds for juvenile toms, 10 pounds for adult hens, and about 9 pounds for juvenile hens.

As the days grow longer and nights shorter during late winter and early spring, the increased amount of light upon the receptive cells in the eyes of birds and many mammals causes a response from certain endocrine glands. The hormones produced enlarge the ovaries of the hen and the testes of the torn, resulting in physiological changes in the birds. Courtship and mating begins about the same date each year despite temperature variations. The toms spend increasing periods of time in gobbling and engaging in mock battles with one another. Often these activities result in a squaring off of two males with much neck exercise, similar to "necking", and end with a show of strength with the pair having their necks twisted around each other.

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Turkeys start to roost at sundown and leave shortly before sunrise

"Breast sponge," a mass of cellular tissue filled with oil and fat, begins to develop in the male. The male probably relies on this energy reserve, since during the peak breeding period little feeding is done. Apparently the torn is more interested in his amorous antics than he is in his physical wellbeing.

Dominant males soon establish breeding territories on which more and more time is spent. During the peak of courtship and breeding activities, the toms are on their established mating grounds entertaining as many hens as choose to visit them.

Breeding or mating grounds are also referred to as strutting grounds. There may be several within the territories of dominant males. Several adult toms may frequent an area established as their territory and visit their strutting grounds, and will actively defend them against lesser males. Gobbling is their way of announcing their status and encouraging hens to visit them. When the hen becomes receptive to mating, she will seek out strutting grounds and participate in the courtship ritual. Mating is promiscuous, and while non-receptive females will avoid the toms, receptive hens will seek them.

The tom's courtship display movements are slow and deliberate with a proud display of feathers. The wings are lowered to the ground with the primary feathers spread apart, sometimes dragging in the forest and grassy litter. Body feathers are held erect and the tail is held upright and fanned out, cocked first to one side and then the other. The neck is pressed against the body while the upper portion of the neck is curved forward in an S-shape. The caruncules (fleshy part of head   and neck) change from red to blue and the peduncle becomes elongated and turgid. The presence of a receptive female increases the intensity of the male's courtship display. Pacing back and forth, several quick steps may be taken toward the hen with his wings dragging while expelling air in puffs.

The male is a formidable sight of solid power in the early morning sun, as the feathers display various iridescent hues of bronze, gold, red, green and blue. The female responds by assuming a low crouching position, holding her head close to her body with tail low, but raising her head as the male approaches. The male mounts the female very deliberately, with their sexual organs in contact it takes only a moment to consummate the copulatory act.

Only one successful copulation is necessary for the eggs of a single clutch to be fertilized. Eggs laid up to four weeks after the last mating have been found fertile, as the walls of the upper oviduct serve as reservoirs for the male sperm. Sperm has been found to remain viable for 56 days in the oviduct of the hen.

When the turkey hen becomes broody, her ovaries begin to shrink and mating ceases. It is at this time, when the hens are on the nest incubating their eggs, that the amorous males respond to artificial calls and can be lured to within shooting range of the hunter. Based upon information compiled in Nebraska, most hens are actively engaged in nesting by mid to late April.

Nests, which are crudely constructed, may be only slight depressions in the forest litter. Several nests have been examined which revealed very little concealment; located in open areas and usually on a side hill. The eggs are highly resistant to cold as shown by late snowstorms during the spring of the year which still resulted in fair production. An undisturbed, experienced hen covers her nest with feathers, leaves and other forest litter when leaving to feed or water. Clutch size averages 10 eggs, with 13 to 15 not uncommon. Egg laying usually takes 14 days for the 10 eggs.

The incubating hen leaves her nest secretively for short periods during the early or late hours of the day for brief feeding and watering. Nest abandonment is not infrequent during the early stage of incubation, but the hen will exhibit greater broodiness during the last several days of the 28-day incubation period. The frequency of abandonment is not known in our turkey populations, but it is suspected that disturbance by human intervention is a far greater cause than any other.

Hatching peak in Nebraska occurs during the first weeks in June. Although hatching may occur over a period of 24 hours, most of the eggs in the clutch hatch out within a short time. Shortly after hatching activity ceases, the hen leads the poults to a nearby grassy opening where insect life abounds. The poults grow rapidly on the protein-rich diet of insect and other animal matter.

Chilling by dew or summer showers during the poults' early life can be disastrous. The hen's body and wings provide adequate warmth and shelter for the poults from precipitation, but if they feed, they may get wet. The hen will lead her brood to a feeding area as soon as a storm lets up. The young poults following the hen may be in head-high, moist vegetation and may soon get chilled. Lowering of body temperature will soon affect the poults and they will become sluggish and lie down frequently. The hen may notice the loss of a poult, but can only call to her straggler. If the weakened poult does not join the family group, it will be left behind to succumb to the elements.

The young poults are brooded on the ground for about four weeks since it takes that long for the primaries to develop and sustain the turkey in flight. However, even at two weeks of age a young turkey is capable of hopping

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Age Determination With a bird in hand, age determination is a simple matter. Spur length is one characteristic to note. First-year males have short spurs with a dull surface. As the bird ages, spur length increases and it becomes more polished. The feathers of the wing offer another clue to a turkey's age. If the outer two primary feathers of the wing are sharply pointed and indistinctly barred, the bird is less than one year old (above right). If they are rounded and distinctly barred, the bird is an adult (above left). This is true for both spring and fall huntingseasons. The remaining "shoulder" feathers of the adult's wing are darker in color and have more sheen than the juvenile's. Because of the sequence of feather replacement in the tail, the center two feathers of juvenile birds will be longer than the others during its first winter and spring (above right). Adult tail feathers are equal length

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Most chicks hatch out within a relatively short time and are immediately led from nest

and fluttering into low limbs of small trees.

As summer progresses, the brood is joined by other families. Much can be said in favor of this gregarious nature of turkeys as there is safety in numbers. A group of turkeys can feed and travel in safety as there are more sentinels to keep watch. At no instant will all the birds have their heads down and feeding, thus any suspicious movement or object will be noticed and soon the entire group will be alerted. Observations of turkeys indicate that while the birds' vision is no sharper than man's, it is capable of detecting the slightest change in position of an object. Vision of the bird is flat and requires several quick glances, and from different positions, to ascertain size, shape, and interpretation of an object. Experienced hunters have learned this fact and try not to reveal themselves with movement even though they may not be concealed too well, as the wary wild turkey cranes his neck one way and another to get a better picture of the scene. Studies have shown that wild turkeys can easily detect differences in some colors such as white and yellow. Nocturnal vision is quite poor, and no movement from one tree to another occurs after they go to roost. When disturbed and forced to leave their roost, they will awkwardly blunder about, crashing  

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By late June, most Merriam's hens are leading poults on insect-hunting forays

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Sex Identification ost hunters see their turkey on the run, and since only toms are legal during spring season, identification is imperative. Mature birds are easy to identify under normal conditions. The gobbler has a greater portion of his head devoid of feathers. The hen has a more feathered head and lacks the fleshy folds of skin that mark the male. The beard, a group of modified feathers found protruding from the breast of all male turkeys, is a good confirming character. About 10 percent of Merriam's hens in Nebraska also sport beards, though, so hunters should look at the head to confirm sex before shooting. The short body feathers, especially those on the breast, are tipped with a dark band on the male. The body feathers of the female are white tipped. From a distance this makes the torn appear shiny black; the female more dull Female Male Breast Feather Female Breast Feather

into tree limbs and trunks, and will alight on the closest perch.

Turkeys usually start to roost about sundown and leave shortly before sunrise. However, on dark, overcast days the birds may go to roost earlier and on cloudy or snowy mornings may spend a greater portion of the day on their roost trees.

Observations of wild turkey behavior indicates that their hearing is quite sharp, comparable to man's. Turkeys detect differences in sound frequencies more easily than do human ears, and like most wild creatures, are acutely aware of a great range of sounds in their environment.

Turkeys, like most birds, have a poor sense of smell but it is believed they possess a sense of taste about equal to man. Wild turkeys are not finicky in their choice of food. They are omnivorous feeders and will pick up nearly anything and consume it. Their choice includes soft vegetation and insects to very hard nuts and pits of fruits. Greens, seeds and animal matter constitute the major portion of the turkey's diet in spring and summer while fruits are consumed in great quantities in late summer and fall. Mast and waste grains are used in late fall and winter. Pieces of minerals and rocks that they pick up and store in their gizzards help break down hard food material. The digestive tract is highly developed and has a high microbial count of bacteria that enables the wild turkey to utilize many varied and bulky items.

The wild poults and young turkeys depend on the wisdom of the older birds. In response to a warning cluck of the hen, wild poults will freeze and be camouflaged in the surroundings while domestic birds will scatter. Older birds will rely on their long legs to carry them from danger in short order, although they are capable of swift flight.

When startled or if danger is close at hand, the birds take to wing and fly at speeds of about 30 to 35 miles per hour. It has been estimated that the wild turkey can attain a flight speed of up to 50 or 55 miles per hour. Perhaps this is achieved in a flight down into a valley. The distance flown is dictated by the terrain and the danger, but flight capability is one of the turkey's greatest assets for protection. After a few running steps he can spring into the air and the wings will lift him quickly upward. Rising almost straight up until the tree tops are cleared, the bird levels off and glides and soars to safety.

Sex and age information of a flock of turkeys in the wild are important in managing the species. Determination of sex is more difficult during the sub-juvenile state, but even as early as September, when turkeys are 12 to 15 weeks old, sex can be determined by examining the contour feathers. Male's are black tipped and female's are white tipped. In younger males, the black band may be masked by a buffy fringe that will eventually be worn off. By late fall, most of the young birds of the year can be sexed easily by the feathering of the female's head, or the lack of feathering of the male's head.

Sex determination of the mature birds is easier. The gobbler has a greater portion of his head devoid of feathers and covered with fleshy folds of skin that elongate to great size during sexual excitement. The contour feathers of the body, especially the breast, are tipped with a dark black band of a rich sheen that makes the torn appear black in the distance. These same black feathers will become iridescent with many colors in the sunlight. The shape of these breast contour feathers are more squared than that of the females, which are rounded at the edges. The "beard" is a group of modified feathers found on the breast of the gobbler. It may attain a length of up to 12 inches, but is usually about 6 to 10 inches long. These hair-like feathers look like bristles, and continue to grow throughout the birds' lives, but wear and breakage limits the length. It is not uncommon to find birds possessing multiple beards. Adult toms also possess a modified scale on their tarsus which is commonly referred to as a spur.

 

Hens have a more feathered head than the male and lack the fleshy folds of skin. Her contour feathers are white tipped rather than black tipped, and generally they do not have beards or spurs. However, it has been found that from 10 to 20 percent of adult hens possess the hair-like appendages with some up to 7.5 inches in length. Therefore, hunters after gobblers in the spring should not use this characteristic alone in determining the sex.

Longevity of the wild turkey has been recorded up to 10 years, but in a hunted wild population this is quite rare. Our marked bird information shows a longevity of at least 6 1/2 years, while tag recoveries show a population turnover of 56 percent.

Movement of turkeys varies from day to day and with season of the year. Basically, habitat quality is the most important factor influencing the extent of daily and seasonal movements.

When a flock is favored with good range, the birds remain in a relatively small area, but in years of poor mast crops the birds may have to range a greater distance. Generally, young hens are greater travelers, perhaps in their quest for nesting sites.

Wintering turkeys spend much of their time feeding, and often range large areas. The warmer, southern slopes are utilized as the snow disappears sooner, making scratching in the litter for pine mast and other seed crops easier. The turkeys group together in large flocks of families. The adult males form their own group but frequent the same feeding and loafing areas. Roosting sites at this time may have a series of trees occupied by as many as 200 to 300 birds.

Predation in the wild is a constant battle for the wild turkey. Acute vision, hearing and quick flight protect the turkey in his struggle for survival against both avian and mammalian predators. Perhaps the most important predator is the bobcat and possibly the coyote. Other predators are the golden eagle, great horned owl, raccoon, fox, skunk, badger, magpie and crow. Losses in the wild to these predators are not considered harmful to the turkey population since most of these natural predations occur upon weak and sick birds. There are situations when predation may have a drastic impact upon the wild population, but if the habitat provides adequate cover the effects are minimal.

The only predator that the wild turkey must fear is the human, with his efficient equipment and machines that can alter the habitat drastically. Uncontrolled fires, started naturally or by man, may destroy the turkey habitat in a short time.

The turkey is known to be susceptible to many diseases and parasites, especially under confinement. Probably the most feared disease that may ravage a population of turkeys is blackhead, or enterohepatitis, especially in a high-density flock. Other diseases that are more commonly cited in literature are fowl cholera, fowl pox, fowl typhoid, avian tuberculosis and coccidiosis. Parasites that are commonly found internally in the turkey are roundworms, tapeworms and flukes, and externally, lice, fleas, flies, mites and ticks.

Several Merriam's turkeys bagged during past hunting seasons have shown lesions on the internal organs, mainly the liver and spleen. Specimens examined by the pathology laboratory in Lincoln revealed the birds were infected by Mycobacterium avium, the causative agent for avian tuberculosis. It is said to be a contagious disease characterized by its insidious chronicity and persistence in a flock once established. It shows few external signs and in general produces unthriftiness, lowering of egg production, and finally death.

Prevention and control of this disease, as in all disease and parasites, is difficult and there is no current cure. Sanitation is about all that can be suggested. For this reason it is best not to encourage large flocks of wild turkey in a given area. Artificial feeding, yarding, and over-protection are not good management practices and certainly not to be recommended. Ω

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During the wnter, family groups join toform large flocks, some numbering in the hundreds

THE FIRST TOM IS THE HARDEST

For years I got permits, but never a bird

THAT OLD MODEL 12 with the specials-finch nickle steel barrel has occupied a corner of our house for as long as I can remember. The only time it disappeared was when dad did, and that was every weekend to a duck blind on the then wide Missouri River.

Winter blizzards, whipping the sand off river bars that once interrupted the Missouri's flow, completely etched away every speck of blueing that shotgun had when it was new.

The removal of the gun blue only added to its nostalgia and background of experiences. And one can't forget the aroma of roast duck, generously stuffed with apples and sparingly basted with wine, which my mother prepared on special occasions.

Last spring, I sort of took over that old gun that dad called "Long Tom", and it was partially because of that name that I took it over. After all, the gun had already demonstrated its ability for shooting long and hard, and with the nickname "Long Tom", what would make a more perfect turkey gun?

Besides, I needed something to change my luck on spring turkeys, since once again I was successful in drawing a permit. But, where I hadn't been successful was cashing in on one of those big birds.

This time I had drawn a buddy permit on spring toms with working pardner George Nason. We applied for the Round Top Unit, which takes in most of the canyon country around Chadron and Crawford... probably the most beautiful country I've ever been in.

The night before the hunt, I spent hours cleaning that old Model 12 and 'hoping that I could report success with a clean shot and a fair hunt.

George is a wildlife biologist and game management supervisor for the Game and Parks Commission in North Platte. He is one of the few who can lay claim to seven Nebraska spring gobblers and he is quite an authority on the subject. We planned on finding remoteness by packing in and camping until we got our birds or the season ran out.

About 12 miles north of Harrison, we found a spring-fed lake in a canyon, pitched our tent, and cooked supper in the dark Sunday night. We were out of bed before the sun to find our water containers frozen solid as the over-night temperature dipped to 19 degrees.

A flip of the coin determined who would hunt the east ridge and who would hunt the west ridge of the canyon in which we had pitched our tent. With our areas decided, we struck out with calls in hand and camouflaged like a couple of bushes to try and out-smart one of nature's smartest. We were to meet back in camp at 10 a.m. and had agreed not to start worrying about each other until noon. Gobbling activity is generally concentrated in morning MAY 1976 hours, and hunting any later than 11 a.m. is usually not rewarding.

Tired and weary, I started working toward camp about 9:30 without success or even the faintest glimpse of my quarry. A couple of distant gobbles kept my hopes alive and my heart pounding, but I decided to give it up till evening when activity generally resumes.

I arrived at camp about 11, just ahead of George, who had gotten right down to business and put all his experience to work. He had filled his permit and had a nice 16-pound torn tied around his neck, and was about to drop from exhaustion. It's hard enough carrying your gun through that country, let alone 16 pounds of turkey meat.

He had shot the bird at 9:30 after a series of good calls on an inexperienced yearling torn. Young toms are unpredictable and seldom display, and I doubt if they are sexually mature, but they are quite eager to beat an old bird to a hen. That's not to say they aren't alert, because even the youngest torn, in my opinion, will beat the Canada Goose hands down. It's just that sometimes spring fever will get the best of them, and they become a little careless.

In this case, there were two yearlings, and competition was fierce. Their slow approach to George's call led to a foot race, and George dropped the first bird with a good head shot coming straight at him at 19 paces. George's hunt was over, and I was envious of the results.

He said that he was prepared to stay on until I got my bird, even though he realized that success runs only about 20% on spring toms. With only 20 out of 100 permit holders successful, the chances of both permit holders on the buddy system filling their permits are next to nil.

Realizing that the hunt might drag on for a few days, we took his bird to the locker plant in Harrison for storage. The owner of the locker informed us that six toms had already been checked out of the area where we were hunting, and he suggested that we contact a local landowner near a public hunting area to ask permission to hunt his canyon land. The smell of well-cured and delicately smoked summer sausage persuaded us to buy a couple pounds for lunch.

On the road back to camp, we visited with two friendly ranchers whose hospitality was tempered by the cautions necessary for mixing ranching and hunting. Most any rancher would allow access to his land if he could be assured that everything would be left as it was found. Fire and safety to livestock are probably the biggest concerns in range and timber land, and a rancher can generally tell by talking with you if you share his concern. We left the ranch with an invitation to hunt, but I first wanted to try an evening hunt near camp where a favorable spring-fed creek seemed to spell turkey.

We returned to our campsite, where I unsuccessfully hunted the remainder of the evening. Not even a distant gobble! But, George's luck had not run out yet. While I was out straining every muscle in my body, George was pulling in every trout in the lake. He had also found a well-preserved Indian hide scraper, which he left lying quite obviously by my bed roll. By this time, his success had made him just a little difficult to live with. The next morning began at 4 a.m. as I decided to accept the rancher's invitation to hunt his canyons. The weather was favorable, (Continued on page 48)

A RIVER AND ITS PEOPLE

It is the life and spirit of the valley and the dominant natural feature—a touchstone to reality

IT WAS IN THE spring of 1966-an early dry spell had extended itself over a portion of Nebraska. Spring crop planting was in jeopardy, but the farmers pushed ahead, keeping to the cyclic schedule for planting and seed germination. Strong winds blew, picking the parched and powdery soil from the land and swirling it into the air. I was living in Lincoln that spring of 1966, and so was my brother who was a sophomore at the University.

It was on a Sunday evening, and the State Highway Patrol bulletins said travel conditions were hazardous due to blowing dust. My brother made the trip back to Lincoln from Nance County over the protective objections of our parents. He made the 120-mile journey in about 5 hours; twice the normal driving time. He told of dust blinding travelers MAY 1976 on Interstate 80, of cars creeping along in places at 15 miles per hour; of stopping on several occasions to remove the dust from his windshield. His arrival in Lincoln occasioned a telephone call home to our worried parents.

In talking to my mother over the telephone, I asked her if the topsoil on our farm was blowing away. How serious was the wind erosion? She replied, "I've been outside several times tonight. It's alright. We can still see the stars."

Astonished by her reply, I asked: "What do you mean —you can still see the stars?" She explained. During the 1930's, great clouds of dust had blocked the stars from view. To my mother, the wind erosion was not serious if the stars were not blocked from her sight. (Continued on page 45)

Prairie Life/ Plant Succession

YEARS OF OVERGRAZING and the plowing of marginal farmland for wheat fields prepared the plains for the "black blizzards" of the 1930's. It was only a matter of time before reoccurring years of drought and powerful prairie winds scoured the land. Plants that had held the soil for countless dry seasons were swept away or buried under drifts of silt that banked against buildings and fences like winter snow.

The shallow roots of Russian thistle were the first to reclaim the barren plains. Gusting winter winds pulled them from the soil and sent them tumbling mile after mile, scattering their seeds in overabundance. For several years, "tumbleweeds" were the only plants to cling stubbornly to the shifting landscape. In their protection, plants with deeper roots —sunflowers and pigweeds —eventually colonized. Within 10 years, 50 or more different types of plants could be found on a single field. Short-lived grasses like squirrel tail and three-awn began to appear, and as time passed, buffalograss and the gramas rooted. Two decades after the drought, needle-and-thread, Junegrass and other perennial grasses had returned. Deep-rooted forbs with the capacity to store water germinated from wind-blown seed.

As years passed, the plants mended the soil, their roots forming an underground network and their above-ground parts buffering the effect of wind and runoff. As the complexity of plains vegetation increased, so, too, did the variety of animal life that relied on them for food and shelter. Predatory animals again coursed the plains to crop the abundant grazing animals. Nearly 30 years after the plow had turned the grassland and cattle had grazed it to the very surface, the plain's fragile association of soil and native plants was restored.

The orderly colonization of the 38 Dust Bowl plains by native plants was as predictable as the disaster that followed man's abuse of the land. Rank, short-lived "weeds" that can survive in unstable soils and with a minimum of moisture, are always the first to come back. In their protection, plant groups that require a more hospitable environment become established. Finally, a more permanent association of plants, that survive only in stable situations, crowd out the interim species. In a sense, each temporary plant community creates a favorable environment for its successor by altering the local temperature, light, soil, humidity and wind conditions.

This orderly replacement of one plant community with another and yet another is called succession. If an area is not further disturbed, succession will finally lead to the group of plants and animals best adapted to the geographic and climatic conditions: the climax community.

Nebraska has three general types of climax vegetation: tall-grass prairie over the eastern third of the state, mixed grass prairie in a north-south band through mid state and in the Sand Hills; and short-grass plains in western and southwestern Nebraska.

Within each of these broad plant communities are unique climax communities that have colonized in response to local soil or climatic conditions. Hence we find ponderosa pine woodlands on the rocky plateaus of the Pine Ridge, deciduous forests best adapted to the high-moisture environment along the Missouri and lower Platte blufflands, and water-loving plants taking advantage of the environment created by sandhill lakes and marshes.

Measured in geologic time, even these climax communities are relatively temporary. The rocky bluffs of western Nebraska will eventually erode away and short-grass prairie will cover the land. Sandhill wetlands will fill with silt and be covered by mixed-grass prairie. The Missouri River will probably continue to support hardwood forests along its southerly latitudes, but should its course shift, tall prairie grass will replace the established woodlands. Climatically and geographically, Nebraska is a grassland region.

It is nearly impossible for trees or shrubs to invade an established grassland by virtue of their seeds. The dense growth of grasses and forbs leave little room for seeds to germinate, and block out the sunlight from those that do manage to unfurl their leaves. But shrubs, especially hazel, coralberry, sumac, raspberry and gooseberry, migrate with ease into a grassland behind their shallow, creeping roots. Within a few short years they often overshadow the grasses and begin to crowd them out. After the prairie sod is bared, other less aggressive shrubs follow —buckthorn, elderberry and the dogwoods among them. Pioneering vines —greenbrier, Virginia creeper, poison ivy and bittersweet

As the river cuts closer to the north slope, the shrub community becomes more moist, partially of its own doing, as it has slowed the dry prairie wind that robs the soil of its moisture. The shrubland is ripe for invasion by trees, and the second stage of succession begins. Where the dense prairie sod once crowded them out, the seeds of bur oak, bitternut hickory and honey locust reach the soil's moisture and send up spindly seedlings. In time they tower over the shrubs and rob them of vital sunlight. The deep taproots of the oaks and hickories enable them to tap subsoil moisture and survive an occasional dry summer. Some shrubs, likesnowberry and coralberry, are able to coexist with the trees, but others, like the sun-loving sumac, disappear. A woodland has claimed the north slope.

As the river moves closer and the oak/hickory community lowers the wind velocity at ground level, the stage is set for the infiltration of a less extensive band of moist woodland trees, primarily black oak and shellbark hickory. As their spreading canopy of leaves blocks out the sunlight, most of the shrubs perish. Each stage of succession brings with it an association of plants especially adapted to eke out a living under the dominant trees.

Eventually the Missouri's floodplain is just below the north slope and the climax community, characterized by red oak and linden, replaces the black oak/shellbark hickory association of plants. The red oak and linden grow in dense stands that tower 75 to 80 feet over the forest floor on southeast Nebraska's moist and well-shaded slopes. Even shade-tolerant shrubs disappear under these giants. Small trees —iron wood, Kentucky coffee, paw paw and redbud —are occasionally found in open sites among them. Shade-loving flowers like the yellow lady's slipper, showy orchis and May-apple, are found on the forest floor under the red oaks and lindens.

As succession progresses in a woodland or other ecosystem, certain predictable changes occur. Generally there is an increase in the mass of plants and animals living on a given area. A forest of towering hardwoods has a larger standing crop than a grassland with waist-high grasses and forbs. But, the rate at which new plant material is produced decreases as succession progresses. This is because the plants of a climax community are more stable and not subject to the high annual turnover typical of a herbaceous plant community or a community of short-lived shrubs and trees.

Succession proceeds more rapidly in the Sand Hills since the life cycle of the grasses and forbs is shorter than those of slow-growing oaks or lindens. In just 20 years, the recolonization of a blowout can be well on its way.

Blowouts are a natural element in the sandhills and have probably always resulted from denudation by prairie fires and buffalo concentrations. Wind, a ubiquitous force on the prairie, carries away sand that is not held together by moisture or anchored by plants.

The first pioneer to grow in the blowing sand is appropriately enough called blowout grass. This slender grass sends out a network of tough, horizontal roots, offering the first opposition to further movement of sand. As it gains a foothold, new roots are sent vertically to a depth of six feet or more and a mesh work of roots spreads horizontally. Blowout grass is not favored by livestock; the wind is its only competitor.

Once the sand is somewhat stabilized, other plants invade the dune. Tufts of sandhill muhly and sandreed are early to establish, along with lance-leaved psoralea. Tooth-leaved primrose, spiderwort and other forbs follow. These plants become living fences, buffering the effect of the wind. Their roots hold the sand and help to retain moisture. Slowly, the microenvironment of the sand dune changes and plants that are better adapted to the more moist, stable conditions move in. One of the first plants to lose its place is the original colonizer, blowout grass.

The blowout is nowsparsely topped with vegetation and fringed with yuccas that have anchored the margins. The pioneers of succession have prepared the crater for invasion by the upland plants typical of the sandhills. As the bunchgrasses, primarily little bluestem, sand bluestem and needle-and-thread move in, the interim plants are overshadowed and phase out. Patches of wild rose colonize. Shade-tolerant Junegrass, dropseed and sedges fill the openings. The climax vegetation has re-established.

Sandhill lakes, in fact most closed drainages, are natural collection sites for silt and consequently diminish in size as they age. Finally, they disappear completely. Their demise is speeded by a succession of plants not unlike the sequence that colonized the sandhill blowout.

The Nebraska Sand Hills area was formed thousands of years ago, the windblown leavings of eroded sandstone in the Dakotas, Wyoming, Nebraska and Kansas. Erosion of the Rocky Mountains also contributed material. As vegetation halted dune movement, shallow lakes, fed by a vast underground aquifer, formed in the valleys. For years they were devoid of any plant or animal life.

Unimpressive microscopic algae and animals were the first forms of life to colonize the lake. As their numbers swelled, larger animals appeared to feed on them, but more importantly, they formed a rich layer of oozy material on the lake bottom when they died. An environment favorable to the growth of more complex plants was thus created. Submerged vegetation, pondweeds, coontail and milfoil, took root in the ooze and bound the bottom soil together. In time they, too, added to the accumulation of organic matter on the lake's bottom.

As in the deciduous woodland and the blowout, one stage of succession creates a favorable environment for the plants that will replace them. As the lake grew more shallow, emergent plants appeared, rooted to the bottom but sending their stems and leaves above the surface to catch the sun. The submergent plants followed the deeper water toward mid-lake.

Cattails, bulrush, arrowhead and other emergents soon choked the shoreline and shallows. Short-growing sedges formed a lush fringe just above the emergents, taking advantage of high water levels in the spring that saturate the soil in which they are rooted. Season after season, tons of plants are crushed to the bottom and decay, adding to the buildup of organic material. Their dense stands become efficient traps of rain-washed silt and wind-blown sand. Slowly the shoreline and shoreline plants creep into the lake.

As the lake ages and succession advances, the expanse of open water becomes smaller. It has evolved into a shallow marsh over several feet of mucky, water-logged soil. As the soil builds above the water table, wet meadow grasses encircle the marsh. Bluejoint and prairie cordgrass are the most common plants to establish in the tension zone between dryland and water. Erosion of the surrounding hills by wind and water pours more and more sand over the old lake site and the soils become too dry for marsh plants. Old necks of the lake are cut off and isolated, spike rushes and sedges cling to the last of the wet depressions. Eventually, the lake becomes a wet meadow environment composed of sedges and lowland forbs. As the level of the valley floor rises, typical sandhill vegetation claims the old lake site. The plants best adapted to the sandhills climate have colonized the land by way of an orderly succession of plants that were each in their own time, temporarily suited to a changing environment.

Had the lake been in southeast Nebraska, rather than in the Sand Hills, the succession of plants would continue. Willows, dogwoods and other woody shrubs that thrive in moist soils would have invaded. Cottonwood and elm would probably have taken root. As the soil became better drained, other trees, such as ash, oak, hickory and their association of shrubs and forbs, would come to cover the old lake bed. Should available soil moisture continue to decline, the trees and shrubs would eventually perish and tall-grass prairie would dominate.

Plant succession is seldom as simple or orderly as suggested here, as the natural world rarely conforms to definite rules. There may be delays or set-backs in succession, or, some stages of succession may be skipped entirely or accelerated.

Before the white man plowed the prairie, fires set by lightning or by early man frequently swept across the grasslands. The germ of life in a grass plant is below the surface of the soil and is little affected by rapid-moving fires. Shrubs and trees, though, are easily destroyed and forced from the prairie by the raging flames. Photos from the turn of the century showing a treeless Platte or Republican River Valley document the negative effect of fire on woody plants.

The effect of fire on prairie vegetation has long been the subject of speculation and disagreement among plant ecologists. Are trees the climax plant community of eastern Nebraska and has normal succession been set back time and again by periodic prairie fires? Or, are prairie fires a natural element of the environment, as much as rainfall and temperature and prairie grasses and forbs the true climax vegetation? Today, the argument is merely for the sake of argument, for another element, man, has vastly altered the prairie condition. He has artificially arrested succession with his croplands. Surely, man is as much a part of the environment as the bison or prairie wolf, but is man's manipulation of the land a "natural" factor affecting plant succession?

Most plant ecologists agree that, for practical purposes, climax is rarely if ever attained. A plant and animal community never achieves stability. The final stages of succession are relatively stable, and changes in the composition of those communities occur at a slower rate. But there is always change. As measured in geologic time, constant climatic conditions seldom exist and the slightest change in humidity or temperature may be enough to shift the balance in a stable plant or animal community. The concept of plant and animal succession and of climax communities, is simply an attempt by man to understand the complex workings of the natural world. Ω

FOR FISH AND FUN

Keeping your wrist straight, stop the rod at about the 1:00 o'clock position and watch the line straighten out behind. Just as it straightens out, snap your arm forward as you would if you were hammering a nail. Stop your arm at about the 10:00 o'clock position and watch the line straighten out in front. Just as it uncurls, lower your rod tip and the line should drop smoothly onto the grass in front of you.

Keep casting until you've mastered this technique. Don't put a lot of effort into your casts — let your rod do the work. Concentrate on getting rhythm into your casting.

Next try false casting. This involves casting without letting your line touch the ground on forward casts. Make your forward cast and as the line straightens out in front, make your backcast again.

After you get this down pat, you're ready to cast a longer line. To accomplish this, strip out several feet of line from your reel. Make your backcast and forward cast the normal way. Then just as the line straightens out in front of you, release the line in your left hand. The loose line will shoot out through the guides, increasing the length of line that you have out. Keep stripping out line and false casting until you can work out a fairly long line. Watch your backcast; you have to pause longer between the backcast and forward cast as line length increases. Don't worry if you can't cast 70 or 80 feet; you seldom need to use over 50 feet when you're fishing.

After you learn this, tie on a leader and a small popper. Cut the hook off so it won't snag in the grass. Start again with a fairly short line and cast until you can easily lay out the popper to distances of 50 feet. For 90 percent of your fishing, this should be enough, especially if you can wade or float to the best places. You'll find that it's easier to hook fish that strike when you do have a shorter line out.

WHEN TO FISH: When the air temperatures climb into the 80's and 90's and

Head for the weed-choked lakes and farm ponds. In the big lakes, get back among the trees. Fish around the fallen logs and stumps; the more cover the better. In rivers like the Missouri or Loup, head for the backwaters, they hold a lot of nice bass. Don't worry about underwater vegetation. If the surface looks like a green carpet, you can bet there are big bass around. Look for holes in the thick stuff and cast your lure there.

When you fish a bass bug, vary the techniques until you find one that works for you. Try casting it out and retrieving it in spurts like a swimming frog. If this doesn't work, let it sit a minute after casting, give it a little tug and let it sit again. Keep doing this and you'll drive a big bass crazy after awhile.

Fish larger poppers basically the same way but give them a little pop now and then to attract the bass. Watch for strikes. Small bass often strike the popper fast but big ones usually just suck it in and you may not see the fish take the lure.

Often when you cast a bug or popper near a bass, it will swim off. Don't get in a hurry because it will almost always return to see what caused all the disturbance. Bass are curious, but they don't get big by being dumb. Try to make your retrieve as life-like as possible but don't be afraid to experiment a little.

Fish for bluegill the same way you fish for bass but use smaller poppers and a smaller tippet on the end of your leader. The little poppers with rubber legs are especially deadly for panfish. When the bluegills are in the shallows you can have a field day catching them on yellow and red poppers.

Poppers will catch both bass and pan-fish anytime of the day in the summer but most days, you'll catch more and bigger fish by fishing early and late in the day and you'll have a lot more fun doing it. A graceful flycaster you may not be, but given time and a little patience, you can make a flyrod work for you to chase the summer doldrums away. Ω

A RIVER AND ITS PEOPLE

After I hung up the phone, I repeated over and over to myself my mother's observation, "We can still see the stars." The stars, as I realized then, were living things to my mother; living things she had to see to know that the physical world had not revested from its natural course. Or, in other words, without the stars giving off their light in the dark sky over Nance County, Nebraska, the harmony of my mother's psychological world would have been threatened. She would have become frightened, disoriented and confused.

I tell this story of my mother, who has lived most of her 65 years on the flood plain and terrace of the Loup River, to lay forth a premise of the land culture in which she has always lived. This premise is simply that man living from the land possesses a metaphysical relationship to the living things of his environment. This relationship is a response to the specific, physical world of the Valley. It recognizes the place and function of the natural, living things and of man's inability to dominate or tame them. It regards the natural forces with respect and sees man as diminutive on the scale of natural importance.

To the Valley people, the Loup River, which marks the community's southern boundary, is the dominant natural feature in their lives. It is the life and spirit around which the land and the people are organized. It is the basis of their economy, the source of their identity, the measure of their mortality; and even more than the living stars, it is the touchstone to their lives —providing the Valley people with both location and orientation.

There are three categories of relationship between the Valley people and the Loup River. These categories are economical, sociological, and psychological. I will attempt to illustrate how pervasively the Loup River has entered into the lives

The Loup River is the economic life-blood of the community in that it has created the rich farm land on the terrace and the lush pasture land of the flood plain; and it delivers the water to sustain life along it. Testifying to this fact is that a major part of the tax base in Nance County is from the farming operations in the Valley. Almost without exception, each landowner with land adjoining the river is pumping irrigation water from it. Those without land along the river are now anxiously seeking privileges to the river's water. Thus, the economic foundation of the Valley's successful agriculture is the soil—which is innately rich —and the river water, which is an essential vehicle for prosperity.

Sociologically, the Loup River has created in Pleasant Valley an isolated community with a strong sense of identity. Because of its strength and width as it flows along, forming the community's southern boundary, the Valley people have no neighbors along their southern border. Rising hills and plateaus on the northern border create a different scenery and, hence, different neighborhoods. Thus, by centuries of work, the river is responsible for creating a topography which has acted as a containing agent in the lives of the Valley people. Simultaneously, the river has affected the formation of the Valley culture by functioning as a bonding agent of community identity. Along its bank, the people mutually share the phenomenon of the living river —both natural and recreational. They share ice jams, flooding, and high and low water while partaking of hunting, swimming, fishing and boating. Other kinds of community gatherings such as hiking parties, trail riding on horseback, overnight campouts, and outdoor picnics are regular events. The river's place in the Valley people's social consciousness is illustrated further in the regular telling of river stories in the folk tradition which flourishes in the Valley.

Psychologically, the river is a permanent, physical manifestation of natural power by which the people measure their lives. Man living beside the Loup River is a finite creature standing beside the greater, infinite, natural creation. In this sense, the river brings together within each individual the past, the present and the future. It is the vehicle of the past, the Promethean god-like form of the present, and the projection of life of tomorrow.

The past that the Loup River brings to the present is that of the human life it has drawn to itself: the Pawnee Indians, the fur trappers, the migrating Mormon Trail pioneers, the ranchers, the homesteaders, and the descendants of yesterday: the land culture people. The river binds these dead in a common history with the living. Even its name is a connecting link to prairie life before the white man. George Bird Grinnell in Pawnee Hero Stories and Folk-Tales tells of the naming of the river by the Pawnee Indians. The story is that one winter the river through the Valley was populated by an immense population of wolves feeding on buffalo carcasses. For this event, the Pawnee named it Wolf River and the French trappers, taking the name from the Pawnee, translated it into their tongue as Le Loupe; and then the English-speaking white man anglicized the French pronunciation to Loop. The Pawnee Indians have left behind their lodge sites, their great burial hill looking southward to the Loup, and their naming of the River. The ghosts of the fur trappers walk in the imagination on the back water-ways of the river and the system of creeks that drain into it. The cattle of the ranchers in the days of the Great Cattle Empire have left their descendants to populate the native grass pastures along the river's edge. The Mormon Trail pioneers have left the signs of their migration in deep wagon ruts as they plodded westward along the Loup. Still remembered are the sites of the soddies and dugouts of the first homesteaders. The human past lives in the Valley not as a collection of lifeless artifacts but as the imaginary real because the river and its immediate environment retains its native character. Technological change which can be so dazzling and so ruthlessly destructive has already come to the heavily tilled terrace land of the Valley, but as yet the river and grassy marshes and flood plain have not been essentially altered.

In the present, the Loup River is the connecting link to the wilderness. The mythology of the river is that of an alternate world. It has a romantic character to the child, to the woman, and to the man. In the words of a 1 0-year-old child:

This child's assertions are true for all the occupants of the Valley. The river has a power in stark contrast to the man-made world. "The river is wild," says the child.

Especially to the Valley male, the river and its encompassing wilderness is the testing ground for his masculinity. To attain esteem in his adulthood, he goes there to harvest the animal wildlife: pheasant, quail, goose, and duck; squirrel, rabbit, raccoon, coyote, and deer. He relives the role of the wilderness man providing wild meat for his family. He acts out the role of survival where man is one-on-one with nature. The physical strength of the river is the gauge by which he measures himself. Away from the secular world, reliving the role of a more natural man, he is wholesome and whole again.

For all, the river has created a wild garden —wild raspberries, strawberries, gooseberries and chokecherries for wines, jellies and pies. Wild asparagus, rhubarb and mushrooms for vegetable dishes. All of these are shared by man and wildlife alike. Toward the river and its encompassing wilderness, the Valley people exhibit a posture of possessiveness. They are protective of their wild animals and their wild plants; they do not like outsiders harvesting them —not a deer or a wild chokecherry. They are fearful the outsider does not exhibit the proper respect for the native life of the wilderness.

The river and the future must be seen in the perspective of the past. In the past, the river was a deep, swift stream. River stories from the 1920's tell of the necessity to swim the river on horseback to make a crossing during the time of low water in August. Today, the river is wider and shallower. Byjuly, it is tame enough for a child to wade across. The people of the Valley have seen the river become more braided, more filled with sandbars and islands, and

The urgency of the river's condition has become more immediate because of the portents of the 20-year drought cycle now at hand. In the 1930's, the decade of the dust bowl, the river with its water was there; but the people had not the technology to utilize it. By the drought of the 1950's, a few men with foresight had tapped the river's water supply —avoiding the economic disaster which sent two-thirds of the Valley's farmers fleeing from their land. Today, in the 1970's, the rush for water is real and in earnest. In 1975, 10 new irrigators drew water for the first time from this 20-mile stretch of river.

Less as a matter of greed but more out of fear to keep their farming operations solvent, the farmers in the Valley have begun to think of the river simply as water. A new kind of discord has disrupted the community, manifested in a series of acts of property destruction, physical fights and court litigation. Neighbor has become pitted against neighbor in the fight for the river water. The county sheriff and the State Highway Patrol have become frequent visitors to the Valley.

Heightening the civil war over water is a new uncertainty of the river's volume of water. In the summer of 1974, the declining of the river in the first week of July to a mere feeble trickling sent waves of astonishment and shock resonating through the Valley. The farmers saw for the first time and wondered: could the river as a volume of water be depended upon? Because the river hinted that at some future time it might not be depended upon to give water, the foundations of the Valley culture have been shaken and cracked.

There is a belief in the Valley: when man gets too brave in his attempts to alter nature, it leads ultimately to failure or disaster. The wisdom of the Valley culture suggests that in trying to apply his technology to the river, man may be destroying his own psychological touchstone, and thus losing his sight of the stars. Ω

THE FIRST TOM IS THE HARDEST

with warm temperatures promised, but the wind was a killer. It was gusting to 25 miles per hour, and any wind tends to dampen gobbling activity. I decided to start at the upper end of the canyon and work into the wind so I could hear any calling in the area.

Seven miles of tough going, repeated calling on my part, and a lot of perspiration, finally got me to our meeting place — an old homestead near a lake. I never saw nor heard a bird and early found that I was over-dressed for the work involved. The old 20 percent statistic was even more prevalent in my mind.

Though I was totally exhausted, George would not let me quit after I told him I had found turkey sign every 20 feet or so. He suggested that we head for the canyon directly south of the homestead. Since George had not received his morning constitutional as yet, he decided to go along. Thinking back on it, I'm glad he went, because I really needed a witness for what was to come.

We crossed a meadow and came upon a shallow ravine which we decided to skirt instead of cross. As we edged along the perimeter of the ravine, we were both startled by the sound of crashing brush in the bottom. We couldn't believe our eyes, as a large cow moose broke out of the gulley and clambored to the top of the ravine, where she came to a stop just 35 yards in front of us.

Now there we were in the Pine Ridge area of Nebraska, noted for thousands of turkeys, and I had not yet seen one. However, I came face to face with the only moose in the state. Probably the fact that her appearance was so unexpected added to the impact that her tremendous size had on us.

Her chest started at about my shoulders, and I estimated her weight somewhere just under 1,000 pounds. She stood there and stared at us for about a minute as we stood perfectly still and observed this grand, misplaced animal. When she finally decided that she was too close for her own safety, she trotted like a fine race horse to the top of the canyon that we had previously designated our hunting spot. Then she disappeared to areas unknown. The ridge again proved unsuccessful, but the moose cow tempered my disappointment.

We returned to the car, where we repaired a torn-off muffler caused by the so-called road that brought us to such remoteness. A faulty muffler can act as a flame thrower in rangeland, and repair was a priority before continuing the hunt.

I had not yet seen the other three sections of land that the rancher had invited 48 us to hunt, but after sharing a can of Spam with faithful ol' George, I was quite anxious to get back with the program.

The road took us past a couple of deserted homesteads and a couple of wary antelope. The country was beautiful, and turkey habitat was everywhere. A thunderstorm approached quickly and belted us with a Fourth of July display indescribable to anyone who hasn't visited the Pine Ridge area.

George said that thunder sometimes made old toms lovesick and excited their gobbling instinct. I was ready to go, and headed for the piney hills with the last clap of thunder.

As I walked down the meadow and approached the evergreen canyon, I shoved three No. 7Vi loads into old Long Tom. I remembered the criticism back at the office for hunting such big birds with small shot. Even I had begun to wonder if my selection was well founded, as I realized I would have to call my bird in relatively close to kill him. But that was my intent —call the bird in as close as possible, and if he was too far for a good head shot, don't shoot.

Small peninsulas of grass protruded out toward the canyon, then it dropped sharply to the bottom. As I came to the first plateau, I sat down and removed the match-book cover from under the lid of my turkey call. The matchbook prevents unwanted noises coming from the call as you walk.

The wind had died completely, and the thunder had subsided with it. As I started my first series of calls, I could hear its resonance as it echoed down the canyon, and I really felt that I had found the true love yelp of a promiscuous hen.

Repeating the series of calls a number of times without results, I had already decided on my next calling position, some 1/2-mile across the canyon. I started to replace the match book under the lid of the call when I noticed a speck of black moving along the canyon bottom about 300 yards on my left. It was a turkey heading in my direction, and there I sat in the wide open meadow, if the turkey appeared as a speck to me at that distance, he would be able to see me quite easily if I made even the slightest movement. I froze except for my pounding heart. Behind the lead bird I noticed another, and then far behind was still another bird. They were obviously all toms, and I was in an awkward predicament.

I realized that in order for the birds to get to me, they would have to descend to the bottom of the canyon and climb a steep cliff. As they approached, they slowly disappeared from view below the cliff except for the last torn. He was obviously the king gobbler, as he could not walk more than three steps without going into full display. At each sound of my call, he would spread his tail feathers into a wide fan. His head would radiate bright red, and every feather on his body would protrude, giving him the appearance of a large, black, feathered toad ready to croak.

Finally, he too, dropped below the cliff, and I wasted no time scrambling for the nearest pine some 35 yards from where I figured they would appear over the cliff. I was never so scared in all my life. I realized that the first two birds were young toms, and would beat the big bird to me in a similar foot race as George experienced with his toms.

I also then realized that they were across a creek from me, and persuading a torn turkey to cross water for a little courtship romance under the pines is next to impossible.

When the birds reached the edge of the creek, they began to call to my pocket version wooden hen. It was her turn to come to them. But, "she" refused, as I was in control of her calls and did my best to sound her most alluring love call. There was no mistaking the sound of six beating wings carrying the three birds across the narrow stream. They were coming, and my excitement almost shook me out from under my tree. I knew that it would be only a matter of seconds before the first bald head would summit the ridge, and I also knew it would be one of the young toms.

Enough of the call; they were ready to sow their wild oats and I need not make a careless mistake by over-calling or sounding a sour note.

I carefully laid down the call and rolled away from the pine tree which would have harbored my silhouette from the binocular-eyed birds as they came to the call.

I laid prone on the ground, gun shouldered and safety off. That 32-inch barrel was jumping a foot at a time with each beat of my heart. They were about to appear, all because of my call, right before my eyes.

As predicted, the first red head popped up like a fishing bobber after being pulled down by a hungry crappie and then released. Then the second... both young toms...and there I laid, motionless and in plain view, awaiting the big bird which I knew was close behind.

I didn't dare move because the slightest scare would trigger the warning call of one of the yearling toms and all would be lost. The front bead of that old gun was hovering around the eye of the first bird over the hill, and I was ready to take him if the danger alarm were sounded.

The young birds spotted me immediately, but didn't seem to know how to react, as I didn't move a muscle. They knew that something wasn't quite right, and began to act nervous. Yet I waited for my prize to appear. The young toms turned and started to retreat and my heart sank.

But, when I thought all was lost, the large fanned tail appeared at the canyon lip. He was still coming but was almost 45 yards away. He appeared as an Indian chief in full war bonnet and was obviously proud of his gallant display.

I moved the gun barrel to the tip of his tail feathers and waited for his head to clear the far bank. The young toms had retreated and I had laid all my bets on the table. A moment later, old wart-head was looking me square in the eye, and I squeezed her off.

At 35 yards, I only got 3 pellets below the neck. A solid head shot put the bird, 100 feet below me, head over heels. There has never been a gun designed that shot any harder.

The trip back to the car with my bird was totally exhausting as he later tipped the registered butcher scales in Harrison at 21 pounds 8 ounces.

Sitting in camp, I felt quite privileged for having the opportunity to hunt such challenging and magnificent creatures. I also felt the need to thank someone for that opportunity, but I had only myself to thank, and other hunters like me, who annually purchase hunting permits.

Twenty years ago, there wasn't a wild turkey in the state, but hunters' dollars provided the capital for live trapping them in Wyoming and for their subsequent transplant in Nebraska.

And I had beaten one of these offspring fair and square. Knowing that you have outsmarted a Merriam turkey in the spring, is a combination of good luck, hard work and knowing where to be at the right time. Seldom is that combination possible, as 80 percent of spring hunters know. This was just apparently my year, and a good year it was, indeed. Ω

Park Lands are for People