October 2008 NewsletterJim Casada
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www.jimcasadaoutdoors.com Memories of October MagicFrom my perspective, it’s a toss-up when it comes to the grandest month of the year. There’s a great deal to be said for April, which brings blooming wildflowers, greening up time, gobbling turkeys, and the end to any lingering miseries associated with cabin fever. Then too, May has its special appeal. Trout rise readily to dry flies, bedding bream tear up anything offered to them in and around that month’s full moon, you can enjoy wild delicacies like ramps and poke salad, and the weather stabilizes to be just plain out dandy. When all is said and done though, I’m inclined to give my personal tip of the hat to October. Anyone who watches a harvest moon turn the eastern horizon golden orange has to be enchanted, big bucks are moving into the rut, big brown trout are beginning their spawning runs, and chill mornings giving way to Indian Summer days take me back to my boyhood in a fashion which never loses its magic no matter how often I think about it. Yesterday, as I sat in a deer stand with squirrels raining down hickory nuts from trees on the ridge above me, my thoughts did some time travel back to the 1950s. Dad had brought me along patiently as a hunter, and there’s no telling how many squirrel outings I either ruined or at the very least reduced his game bag through restlessness and the irresistible curiosity which is part and parcel of every youngster’s makeup. Finally though, when I was nine years old, he decided I was ready to have a go at the bushytails on my own rather than just sitting at the base of a tree with him. He borrowed a little single-shot .410 from someone, and I fired it a few times at paper targets. The darn thing kicked like an obstreperous mule, or at least that’s how it seemed at the time, and it was choked so tightly that up to 25 yards it was not all that far removed from shooting a rifle. The biggest difficulty, however, was cocking the darn thing. It had an incredibly tight hammer, so much so that I literally could not pull it back into firing position with one thumb. I had to employ both thumbs, and that meant awkwardness in handling the gun as well as the potential for a lot of extra motion and commotion when the moment of truth finally came. That glad moment occurred on a chilly morning in late October, and I’m pretty confident I could still, all these many years later, climb a high ridge in the Nantahala National Forest and find myself within 50 yards of where I shook hands with pure magic. Dad and I parked, walked perhaps half a mile in the dark, and when we got to the crest of a ridge he whispered: “I remember from last year that there are several big hickories just up there, and every tree I’ve seen is covered with mast this year. You find a log to sit down on somewhere among those hickories, and I’ll be just across from you on the other side of the ridge.” I eased along the ridge until I spotted what looked like a good log, barely visible through the fog of approaching dawn, and had a seat. The woods were quiet, eerily so as is often the case just before night gives way to light, and I shivered a bit while body heat built up during the hike in began to vanish. The mournful, somewhat scary sound of a great horned owl nearby troubled me as well, and anyone who hasn’t whistled or sung to himself while walking home in the lonely gloaming either hasn’t lived or has far more courage than I did as a boy. I wondered a little bit about exactly where Dad was, and I wondered if I would be equal to the task if a bushytail came within range. Once settled down, I broke the gun open quietly, eased the long, slender .410 shell holding number 6 shot into the chamber, and did my best to close the gun silently. I was unsuccessful, and in the dead calm woods the click sounded inordinately loud. Nothing happened for what seemed forever, although in retrospect I doubt if more than a quarter hour passed. Whatever the length of the wait, the morning’s silence was broken by a soft but tell-tale scratching of the sort a squirrel makes when it is easing along the trunk of a tree. I looked in the direction of the sound and sure enough, a big old boar bushytail was easing down the side of a hickory about 20 yards away. Somehow I got the gun cocked, held steady for a shot, and pulled the trigger. The moment remains one of the most treasured of all the many wonderful experiences stashed away in my storehouse of memories. I think that today’s youngsters actually miss a lot when they start out with deer or wild turkeys. There’s too much instant gratification and too little in the way of a learning curve. In the latter regard, incidentally, there’s no finer way to acquire the skills of woodsmanship than through squirrel hunting. The sport teaches stealth, patience, full use of one’s senses, marksmanship, how to read sign, and much more. To my way of thinking, it is the perfect way for a young hunter to get a start. For me, that first squirrel was the start of a lifelong love affair with hunting bushytails, and over coming years I would rush home from school, change clothes quickly, grab a piece of cold cornbread or a baked sweet potato for a snack, and head for the woods. Dusk would find me headed home, usually with the tails of two or three squirrels proudly sticking out of the pockets of my Duxbak jacket. Much of my hunting involved walking right through the main street of the little North Carolina mountain town where I grew up, and no one gave a second thought to a boy carrying a gun. Today it would occasion calls to the police and who knows what else. That’s how much our world has changed. Yet memories of squirrel hunting joys are but one facet of the magic I’ve known in October. Here are a bunch of other magical moments and memories.
That’s enough for now, and about all I can add is to hope you have some similar memories and that a couple of Mom’s favorite squirrel recipes appear below. Since the underlying premise of these monthly meanderings is that they are supposed to drive traffic to this website and create some books sales, I’ll also note that these recipes come from my award-winning cookbook, Wild Bounty, which was written in conjunction with my good wife. Copies are $20 plus $5 shipping and handling. Here’s hoping there’s magic in your October! ANNA LOU’S SQUIRREL1-2 squirrels, dressed Place squirrels in large saucepan. Cover with cold water, ad soda and heat to boiling. Remove from heat and rinse squirrel well under running water (rubbing to remove soda). Return to pan and cover with fresh water. Bring to a boil; reduce heat and simmer until tender. Place squirrel in baking dish, dot with butter, and bake at 350 degrees until browned and crusty. This was Mom’s favorite way to cook squirrel. You can prepare rabbit the same way. FRIED SQUIRREL1 cup flour Mix flour, salt and pepper and place in a paper or plastic bag. Beat egg well and place in a shallow dish. Drop squirrel in flour bag, shake to cover well, remove squirrel, and dip in egg mixture. Return squirrel to flour bag and sake to coat well. Repeat with all the squirrel pieces. Heat canola oil in skillet and quickly brown squirrel. Place browned squirrel in roasting pan or baking dish and bake, uncovered, at 250 degrees for approximately 90 minutes or until squirrel is tender. Thank you for subscribing to the
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