November 2011 NewsletterJim Casada
Web site:
www.jimcasadaoutdoors.com
Incidentally, Sporting Classics, which is pretty well where I got my start in this outdoor writing business, just celebrated its 30th anniversary. I’ve been on the masthead with one title or another almost from the outset, and for years I’ve written the Books column as well as being editor-at-large. Anyway, contact me if you are interested in getting a copy of the book (in addition to serving as co-editor I wrote the Introduction to it). I’ll have it in stock in plenty of time for Christmas. Hardback copies of the 224-page book will be $25 plus shipping and handling ($5), and of course I’ll gladly sign the book. It would make a great gift for a sporting buddy, and maybe sharing a few of the hundreds of quotations will give you a feel for the contents. A small sampling follows.
A year or so ago George Ellison, who shares my passion for the Smokies, contacted me and indicated he would like to include a selection from my writings in Volume 2 of his High Vistas: An Anthology of Nature and Descriptive Writing from Western North Carolina and the Great Smoky Mountains, 1901-Present. The book, which is being published by The History Press, is scheduled to appear later this month and there will be a book signing in which several of the living contributors participate in Asheville sometime in early December. Among those whose work is included are the likes of the late Harry Middleton, and I’m flattered to be in such august company. My contribution comes from descriptive selections taken from Fly Fishing in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park: An Insider’s Guide to a Pursuit of Passion. If you would like to know when the book becomes available (I plan to try to stock a few copies) or details on the scheduled Asheville signing, just drop me an e-mail. Also, mention of my book on trout fishing in the Smokies offers another option. The award-winning book is available in two forms—paperbound at $24.95 and hardback at $37.50. It runs to 448 pages, is lavishly illustrated, includes a removable map of the region, and is to me probably the single most important thing I’ve ever written. It certainly comes from the heart. Finally, many of you who are turkey hunters have responded in a positive fashion to The Literature of Turkey Hunting: An Annotated Bibliography and Random Scribblings of a Sporting Bibliophile. If you have a special turkey hunter who enjoys reading and the literature of the sport, this work could make a fine gift. It is $100 postpaid and insured, and is in a limited, signed, and numbered edition of 750 copies, complete with slipcase, all edges gilt, ribbon marker, and other attributes of a quality book.
A couple of weeks back a good friend and reader of this newsletter who lives in the Topton, N.C., area offered a description I hadn’t heard in decades, and before I share it let me note that if you don’t know where Topton is, don’t worry—it is delineated by a post office, a little community with the wonderful name of Granny Squirrel, and not much more except that it is along the road leading from Nantahala Gorge to Andrews, N.C. Anyway, this friend, Ken Roper (you may recall my mentioning him and his ingenious walnut crackers some months back), said that he had stepped out one morning to a “frost so big you could track a rabbit in it.” I would submit to you that his description, and it is one I heard often as a youngster, captures the essence of a November morning. Think back and I’m guessing you’ve known November days, lots of them, when frost melting as the sun’s rays hit it turned an overgrown, abandoned pasture or piece of farm land run to broom sedge into a place of wonderment where a million diamonds sparkled in a fashion no ring on a fair maiden’s hand could ever hope to match. November also witnesses leaf fall and a distinct change in the landscape. Those who confine all their walking and wandering to warmer months miss something, because woodlands shorn of their leaves provide a different and delightful perspective. You don’t have to worry about blundering into a rattlesnake or copperhead or making a painful intrusion into a yellow jacket nest. What is far more significant though is the fact that you notice things which are all but invisible in spring and summer. Signs of one-time human presence, distant vistas which had been blocked by vegetation, sprightly plants such as galax or partridge berries which pass largely unnoticed, maybe the red seed pods of hearts-a-bursting-with love or jack-in-the-pulpit, and the like are a feast for knowing eyes. The month is also the time for nutting. Once that meant gathering chestnuts, but today the logical focus is on black walnuts. These wonderfully tasty treats take plenty of gumption in what Grandpa Joe would have called “the getting.” You’ve got to gather them, let the husks rot away, maybe helped along a bit by human effort, allow the nuts to dry and cure a bit, crack them, and then hull out the meats. Even with one of Ken Roper’s nut crackers it’s a passel of work, but the rewards are worth every ounce of effort. While you are working, maybe giving some passing thought to the walnut’s rich place in American history might help. It has always been a cherished wood, one which lends itself to things such as lovely gunstocks or beautiful pieces of furniture. The hulls once provided a key raw ingredient for dyeing cloth and leather, and the inedible portions of the nut, hard as an opinionated mountain man’s head, have commercial uses for polishing. I never look at a walnut tree without thinking about my Grandpa Joe, because he could not pass a walnut tree without commenting: “Son, that’s a grandchild’s tree.” When asked for an explanation he would note that black walnuts were slow growing and required three generations to reach the point where they were ready to be cut for saw logs. He was right, because on the old home place where he and Grandma Minnie lived, some of the black walnuts which lined the path leading to the chicken house and the pig pen now have reached a point where, if harvested, they would provide two (and in a couple of cases three) saw logs from which 12-inch boards could be cut. One other thought comes to mind when musing on black walnuts. They are an excellent signpost for one-time human presence. While existence of a mature walnut tree in a remote area of woodland, national forest, or national park doesn’t guarantee that folks once called the site home, it’s mighty suggestive in that regard. Walnuts are a hardy tree, and their nature is such that not a whole lot of competing vegetation springs up where they are found, so the knowing eye can pick them out in the November woods without much trouble. I always kept a keen eye out for walnut trees as a boy (and still do today), although I must admit that gathering nuts was not the primary reason I sought the tree. Rather, if there was a tree at the edge of a field or along a fence row, something easily spotted when a party of us took to the fields on a rabbit hunt, there was always the possibility of a squirrel or two being nearby. I’d give the limbs a thorough look-see, searching for a tell-tale budge or something which looked a bit out of place. Occasionally I would be rewarded and a bushytail would add a comforting bit of heft to the game bag of my hand-me-down Duxbak hunting coat. Thoughts of that old hunting coat, and Duxbak attire in general, strike a nostalgic chord with me. In the 1950s and 1960s Duxbak was THE choice when it came to field clothing. Camo attire was unheard of, but the stiff, sturdy, enduring nature of Duxbak was another story entirely. To my knowledge today’s world of outdoor clothing has nothing approaching it in terms of combined cost and durability. I know that I would no more have thought of going afield without Duxbak pants, vest or jacket, and cap than I would have skipped a Saturday rabbit hunt to hang out in the local drug store or even visit my girl friend of the moment. One did, after all, have to have priorities. Duxbak has gone the way of so many other fine America-made products, but I’m guessing that anyone who reads these words is on the upper side of 50 years of age, and hunted as a youngster will remember the brand with fondness. I knew that on a personal level such was the case, and it was a sad Christmas when my gifts didn’t include one of four things—Duxbak attire of some kind, a new knife, a box of shotgun shells, or new long handles. The early weeks of November were for me as filled with eager anticipation as were those immediately preceding Christmas in December. It may seem strange, in today’s world, to think of a boy getting excited about the opening day of rabbit season, but for me it was a truly special time. The season then usually opened the Saturday prior to Thanksgiving and ran through the end of February. Our beagles had been in training for weeks, and if you think a dog can’t tell when you are about to go hunting, well, about all I can say is that you haven’t spent much time around hunting dogs. As a wonderful black lady who was a good friend of mine put it, in simple yet heartfelt fashion, “they know.” When we headed down to the kennel in the pre-dawn chill of that first Saturday, I felt like jumping and cavorting just like the beagles did. The inner boy in me had been solidly stoked with a breakfast of bacon and eggs, maybe biscuits if Mom had made them the night before (Dad’s culinary efforts didn’t run to biscuits, and Mom drew the line at preparing breakfast at ungodly hours) or otherwise plenty of toast. As an “adornment” for the bread portion of breakfast there was recently made molasses, homemade blackberry jam, or maybe a bottle of Dixie Dew. The latter was store-bought cane syrup with the finest bit of labeling advertorial I’ve ever seen: “Covers Dixie like the dew and gives a biscuit a college education.” There would also be stewed apples from our little orchard, heated and mixed in with a bit of butter. Or, if the stars were really aligned in the most propitious of fashions, there would be pork tenderloin. If you haven’t eaten fresh pork tenderloin from hogs you raised, butchered, and processed, with a fine helping of milk gravy on the side, I feel a bit sorry for you. Yours has been a life of culinary deprivation. There’s was always the possibility of tenderloin about this time of year, because hog killing time at Grandpa’s (he raised hogs for the whole family and everyone pitched in on the first Saturday it was cold enough to do the job right and not have to worry about flies, yellow jackets, or spoiled meat. Thankfully, that always came a bit in advance of rabbit opener. We would head out with beagles, pick up a couple of my buddies, link up with Dad’s best friend and his pack of dogs, maybe add another adult or two to the party, and drive to wherever the adults had decided to open the season. Interestingly, and this is a major change from the situation in today’s world, we almost never encountered posted signs or were denied permission to hunt. Occasionally someone would say, “hunt rabbits but don’t shoot my birds,” but that was about it. In terms of access, the “good old days” truly were good. Big game, most notably the comeback of the whitetail, has changed all of that. To me then, and now, those were the days. I didn’t need mossy-horned deer to get me excited. Just a shotgun, some simple gear, a pocket full of shells, and countless carefree days afield gave me a start down a glorious sporting road which still leads out before me. It also kept me out of trouble, and I never felt deprived because we didn’t have a television, it took an act of Congress for me to get to drive the sole car the family owned, our phone was on a party line and wasn’t for adolescent chit-chat, or because we almost never went out to eat. Robert Ruark’s personal life may not have set the best of examples (see Alan Ritchie’s Ruark Remembered, which I edited, for details on this), but he was squarely on target when he suggested that a youngster who hunted and fished didn’t have to worry about becoming a juvenile delinquent. Like me, such kids were far too busy having fun. That’s enough for this month, although the temptation to go on at length about the joys of Thanksgiving fare is mighty tempting. If you want some of that though, just go into the archive which takes you to back issues of the newsletter and read November offerings for previous years (www.jimcasadaoutdoors/NewsLetters/Archives.htm). Have a great Thanksgiving, and whatever you hunt in the nurturing days of November, shoot straight and be a straight shooter. DUCK GUMBO
2
mallards or 3 wood ducks Clean ducks and boil in a covered pot until meat falls from the bones. Remove meat, saving stock, and cut into chunks. Cool the stock and remove the fats and oil. Add salt and pepper and enough water to cook the potatoes or rice (with celery). Cook over medium heat until a firm done is reached. Add meat and cook just long enough to reheat. BLACK WALNUT POUND CAKE WITH FROSTING
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cup butter (the real thing) Cream butter and shortening thoroughly. Gradually add sugar; cream until light and fluffy. Add eggs one at a time, beating well after each. In a separate bowl, sift flour and baking powder and add chopped black walnuts to flour. In measuring cup, add vanilla to half-and-half. Blend and mix well (beating is the secret to a good pound cake). Pour into a prepared 10-inch tube pan. Bake at 325 degrees for 1 hour and 15-25 minutes or until done. Cool for 10 minutes and remove from pan. Frost with recipe below. BLACK WALNUT FROSTING
1
stick butter melted Blend melted butter and powdered sugar. Add enough half-and-half to reach desired consistency. Fold in walnuts and frost cooled cake. PUMPKIN PIEThis traditional Thanksgiving dish was a fixture with our family. We always had four or five choices of dessert, but this was one of my favorites. We grew our own pumpkins as well as kushaws, and the “meat” from the latter will work in this recipe.
1
cup stewed pumpkin Add the sugar and seasonings to the pumpkin and mix well. Then add the slightly beaten eggs and the milk and lastly stir in the melted butter. Turn into a pie plate lined with pastry and bake in a 425-degree oven for five minutes. Then lower the heat to 350 degrees and bake until the filling is set. The pie should be allowed to cool prior to serving. BACON RABBIT
Strained bacon drippings Cook bacon and strain drippings. Pat squirrel dry wit a paper towel. Roll rabbit in flour mixed with garlic salt, pepper, and paprika. Dip in bacon drippings and completely moisten. Dredge in bread crumbs. Place rabbit in baking dish and bake at 375 degrees or 30-45 minutes on one side; turn and bake on other side for 30-45 minutes more or until browned and tender. Thank you for subscribing to the
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Also,
release of a book which I co-edited is set for the middle of the month.
The book has the simple title of Passages. It is a collection of
timeless and telling quotations which have appeared on the back page of
Sporting Classics magazine over the years. The quotes page has
become one of the magazine’s most popular features, and I’m proud to
have been an integral part of its origins as well as having been
responsible for a passel of the quotations used in the early years.
