August 2008 NewsletterJim Casada
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www.jimcasadaoutdoors.com Ambling Through AugustIf you asked me to pick the month of the year I like least, it would be a toss-up between August and February. Still, for their undeniable shortcomings, both have redeeming features aplenty. We’ll save little February until its time and season, so right now the matter at hand is August. I’m running late this month, even later than usual, and that’s thanks to two interrelated and delightful circumstances involving the circle of life. Earlier this month my father celebrated his 99th birthday, and all his children, along with his grandchildren and single great grandchild, joined him in the North Carolina high country for the event. I’ve spent much of the summer with him, sharing time with my brother, since we feel he has reached a point in his life where it isn’t wise for him to be alone for any extensive length of time. During the week of his birthday, my wife and our granddaughter joined me in the Smokies, and we devoted much of the week to enjoying what my granddaughter dubbed “Camp Pa-Pooh.” In case you are wondering, yours truly is “Pa-Pooh,” the name my granddaughter chose when she was first learning to talk. In the course of the week we relived portions of my own boyhood in the Smokies—that included a “nature” day; one spent hiking and walking to waterfalls; tubing down the clear, cold, and tumbling waters of Deep Creek; a visit to a trout pond to let her catch some big old trout (which later formed the centerpiece of an evening meal; and a drive and picnic on the nearby Blue Ridge Parkway. All of that, spiced by the reminiscing my father so enjoys, took me down delightful avenues of memory to my own boyhood days of August. They were, from my earliest memories right through the teenage years, simple times filled with an incredible measure of pleasure. Interestingly, I don’t recall doing anything which involved much in the way of expenditure of money (we didn’t have much and what I earned was carefully hoarded for important purchases such as trout flies, leader material, shotgun shells, stamps for my collection, or the enduring passion of my penchant for being a packrat, books). But I sure had a lot of fun. August would involve at least one camping trip somewhere in the backcountry of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. Trout fishing was the primary focal point of interest, but this was also a time of just being a boy. It says a lot for the temper of the times, as well as the wisdom of my parents, that they felt perfectly comfortable in letting me, from the age of 12 or 13 onward, set off into the wilds on my own or in the company of a buddy or two of about the same age. Maybe sharing the experiences of one of the most memorable of those August camping trips will provide some indication of the excitement they could produce. In company with a regular fishing buddy named Bill Rolen, who was the son of a park ranger, we loaded ourselves down with an incredible amount of gear for a camping trip that was to extend well beyond the normal three or four days. I carried a pack that weighed 60-plus pounds, quite a load given that I probably topped the scales at no more than 115 pounds. Somewhere I have a grainy black-and-white photo of me ready to set out on the trail, and how I made it 200 yards, much less seven or eight miles in rugged terrain, part of it off-trail, is a mystery as well as a testament to the resilience of youth. In it was a blanket (we didn’t run to luxuries such as sleeping bags), personal gear, and way more food in the form of canned goods than any camper would think of toting today. Yet a fellow had to have sardines and Vienna sausages for the mid-day meal, fruit cocktail seemed a must to balance fish and taters, and we knew absolutely nothing about dehydrated foods. If anything, my buddy Bill’s pack was heavier. On top of the packs, one of us carried a lantern and a gallon of “white” gas (as unleaded was known back then) while the other carried a two burner Coleman stove. We shared a burlap tent, as opposed to some of the high-tech lightweight stuff you get today. Then there was fishing gear, a cooking kit, a frying pan, a hatchet, and Lord knows what else. On the trail to our destination, which was one of the most remote areas of the Smokies and a campsite where we really weren’t supposed to be (but remember, my buddy’s father was a ranger), Bill stepped right over a rattlesnake. I was following him and saw movement as it coiled up. When I pointed out what he had just done, he turned white as a ghost. Interestingly, a few days later I had a similar encounter with a rattler. While climbing up a ledge from one plunge pool to the next, I topped out only to look squarely at a sunning rattlesnake at a distance of perhaps 18 inches. Needless to say I baled out, landing squarely in the pool below me and getting soaking wet. All’s well that ends well though, and in each case we summarily executed the serpents. If that offends you, just accept as a fact that for mountain folks then and now, the only good rattler was a dead rattler. We had two other brushes with danger. One involved Bill making a rather ill-advised effort to get a sodden campfire going with the addition of a bit of white gas. What he failed to realize was that there was still a spark there, and almost instantly he had fire all around. Fortunately he had the presence of mind to throw the glass jar from which he was pouring gas. Still, the “whoosh” from the ignition and the sight of birch bark burning all around was a scary sight. Thank goodness the woods were wet from a rain earlier that day. The second problem came when I managed to hook a hornet nest with a wayward backcast. As I can assure you from painful past experience, hornets do not take kindly to such invasion of hearth and home. In the end I was stung five or six times, all in the head and neck area, and for 24 hours or so I wanted no part of much of anything. Fortunately we had enough sense to apply the juice of jewel weed to the stings, and that helped quite a bit. All those episodes aside, it was an absolutely wonderful trip. We caught trout literally by the dozens day after day, enjoyed food as only those in an outdoor setting who have expended a lot of energy can, never saw another soul, picked luscious blackberries in forest openings, tried to scare each other with bear stories, and reveled in just being boys. The memory is one I cherish. Other August memories involve running trotlines, seining for minnows (to sell for bait), going through the important process of selecting all the raw materials to make a slingshot, practicing endlessly with the slingshot, and spending precious hours with Grandpa Joe. He made August a lot more acceptable because of his knack for telling stories and his abiding love for watermelon. In August there was always a watermelon sitting in a washtub holding ice water, and thoughts of that juicy red sweetness made things like hoeing late corn, picking beans, and gathering weeds for the hogs almost bearable. They became even more so when chores were over and we went fishing (having been suitably fortified by a huge slice of watermelon) or settled down in the shade of the back porch for a session of tale telling. Then there were Concord grapes ripe for the picking, ground cherries to be eaten when found amidst rows of Hickory Cane corn, fox grapes to be spotted for later picking (they didn’t ripen until September), mast trees to be checked in anticipation of the coming squirrel season, “tommy toes” to be eaten ripe from the vines (I particularly relished the little pear-shaped yellow one and still grow them), the beauty of Cardinal flowers in bloom to delight the eye, the pleasures of going barefooted and knowing your feet were calloused enough to stand most anything except hot asphalt, and the simple culinary pleasures of things like a big glass of buttermilk and crackling cornbread for supper. Now that I look back and give the matter some thought, I guess August was closer to being awesome than it was awful. But then again maybe it’s just a trick of memory, because one truth I’ve discovered that bears no doubting—with each passing year those boyhood days get a bit better and memories of them gain in poignancy. That, my friends, is one of the privileges of age. Thank you for subscribing to the
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