August 2009 NewsletterJim Casada
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www.jimcasadaoutdoors.com August is an AugurySlice it and dice it any way you like—August just isn’t my favorite month. According to the mountain lore I’ve listened to and cherished all my years, rattlesnakes and copperheads are particularly irritable during the dog days of summer, and the same holds true for me. After all, a body can tolerate only so much heat and humidity, fishing is typically in the doldrums, mosquitoes can be maddening, and what some old-timers used to call dog pecker gnats (after one of the places you regularly saw them seem to take delight into flying into your eyes. On top of that, to look at things from a personal perspective at this moment, with August at hand, trout streams in the North Carolina high country tend to be at or close to their annual low. Flatland furriners are as thick as fleas, and if you take to most area creeks you face a steady “hatch” of canoes, kayaks, rafts, or inner tubes. It’s enough to drive a sane trout man (if there is such a beast) insane, and on top of that chiggers are a plentiful plague. By now I suspect you begin to get the picture. August fits into the category of times that try men’s souls, at least if they are avid outdoorsmen. Then too, right now we are having a much-needed rain, but it just happened to come at a point when I had some late afternoon creek time in mind. Instead I’m writing this newsletter, and if I seem a mite tetchy, just blame it on August. Yet overall I’m pretty much an optimist, and I like to look at August as being an augury (one of those $10 words my 9th-grade English teacher loved to serve up) of better things to come. Christmas in September (opening day of dove season) lies not too far away, and the glories of Indian summer’s onset in the high country are only six weeks or so distant. Indian summer will, in turn, give way the leaf fall, and once the colors fade so do the leaf peepers and what locals call “Floridiots” (if you are from Florida, please don’t take offense, but for some reason folks from that state, more than any other, flee to the mountains not knowing how to drive on our tortuous roads and being all too ready to offer advice along the lines “of we don’t do it that way in Florida” the first time something doesn’t suit their fancy. If all of this sounds a bit xenophobic (another of those big old words), just put it down to having had a few too many experiences with tourists. Just two days ago I took Dad (who will turn 100 about the time most of you read this newsletter) on a rural drive. At one point we needed to cross a one-lane bridge over a creek in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. It’s narrow under any circumstances, and it gets sho nuff narrow when a mass of humanity lines both sides of the bridge to watch tubers drift by below. I eased out onto the bridge only to have one woman yell: “You don’t have to be so rude.” I just continued easing on by, although Dad commented through open windows that we were on a public road. It did occur to me that she might not realize that had I been some good old mountain man with a honey locust thorn in my mental outlook, she might well have found herself unexpectedly joining the tubers eight feet below her in the creek. For my part, I just thought good thoughts, with my mind jumping back to one of the most memorable moments of my entire fishing career. It was beneath this very bridge (which crosses a Park stream known as Deep Creek), long before tubing and tubers became a plague, that I caught two rainbows in the 14-15-inch range in the space of 10 minutes right at dark one summer evening. I was just a teenager and was actually waiting for my father and his good fishing buddy to show up at day’s end. Those two fish filled out my limit, and when they did eventually show up, I was just about bursting with pride and the desire to show them my catch. Now in some parts of the world I realize that trout of that size are quite ordinary, but by Smoky Mountain standards they are good fish. In fact, anything much larger ranks as trophy size. Thoughts of that sort have played through my mind a lot of late. Part of that comes from spending several weeks with Dad and our occasional conversations about the “good old days” and fishing experiences we shared. Then too, as those of you who are regular readers know, I’ve been hard at work on Fly Fishing in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park: An Insider’s Guide to a Pursuit of Passion over the last few months. Thankfully it is done, and if all goes well the tail end of August may suddenly become a lot more appealing to me. That’s when the printer tells me the book should be ready. Many of you have already asked to be notified, and that will happen within a day or two of the books being delivered to me. I can provide the details now. The book is huge, size-wise, running to 448 pages and upwards of 50 chapters. There is also a lengthy section of photos, many pages of stream graphs, information on seasonal variations in temperature and rainfall, a folding map which can be removed from the book, and an extensive bibliography. The book will sell for $24.95 in paperback form and $37.50 in the hardback version. I think you’ll be pleased and I can assure you that I’m more excited about it than anything I’ve ever done in the literary field. I’ll never have what pointy-headed academic types like to describe as a magnum opus, but this is as close as a son of the Smokies can come. If you’ve already told me you are interested, you don’t need to do anything else, but if you haven’t, just drop me an e-mail and I’ll be sure you are notified when the book appears. Now, with that more or less obligatory advertorial behind me (hey, it doesn’t cost you anything to get this newsletter, and I’ve got to attempt to hustle something to justify the time I spend on it to the minions of the IRS), I’d like to turn briefly to memories of some things I did during August as a boy which brought me a great deal of joy. They revolve around the time-honored practice, now sadly in decline, of gathering one’s own fishing bait. Here in the little town of Bryson City there’s a family business, Simonds Bait Shop, which has been operating since 1952. They sell night crawlers, minnows, meal worms, crickets, and all sorts of fishing tackle. But when I was a boy they sold one other natural bait, and that one was a real moneymaker for me. It was what mountain folks called spring lizards, although in reality they are salamanders. Springs lizards, a whole bunch of different species of ‘em, are extremely common in the rain-rich, ecologically diverse Smokies. It just so happens that smallmouth bass in particular, but also largemouth bass, brown trout, and channel catfish think a spring lizard is about the finest foodstuff to be found in the piscatorial world. When I was a teenager they brought very good cash money, and the whole enterprise of lizard catching was made even more enjoyable by the fact that capturing the elusive critters is quite an adventure. Old Mrs. Simonds, a wonderful lady who was crippled but didn’t let her handicap stand in her way, would buy all the lizards I could provide. They had to be of a certain size (at least as long as my index finger was at that point in life), and the bigger ones brought better money. The starting price was three cents, and a big red lizard (most of them were brown or black, but there was a red one with scattered black spots) would bring a nickel or even more. The trick to capturing them was to turn over a lot of rocks and rotten logs in seep springs and tiny branches, and then be quick of hand before they got away. A good day’s work could produce several dollars worth of spring lizards, and in the late 1950s that was serious money for a teenage boy. I also sold night crawlers, although the prime time for capturing them was after an evening rain in May or June. Other natural baits which formed part of my youthful quests included grasshoppers, crickets, minnows (I sold some of them), and “nests.” The latter was a catch-all term for the larva of wasps, yellow jackets, and hornets, and “nests” were such an effective bait, not to mention carrying with them a delicious degree of danger, that the were reserved for personal use. By August the various stinging insects had had sufficient time to build up their household to pretty good size, and even now I’m quite careful to watch for hornet nests on overhanging limbs as I fish trout streams this time of year. I got my share of stings, but there was also many a knottyhead, bream, trout, and catfish which fell victim to the offerings which came from raids to obtain nests. What all of this really says is that while August may not rank particularly high in my overall estimation of the months, over the years it has given me a fair measure of pleasure. And there is one feature of the month which goes far toward offsetting its shortcomings. Garden produce is at its peak, and with that in mind I’m going to knock off, go pull me an ear of Silver Queen corn to cook, and along with it enjoy a bacon and tomato sandwich featuring an heirloom variety, Mr. Stripey, which I really love (it’s a yellow tomato with hints of pink running through the flesh. With a couple of slices of icy cantaloupe on the side, and a slice to black walnut cake for the sweet tooth, I reckon supper will, a couple of hours from now, be a delicious memory. That will make it a partner with August days of yesteryear, for they too are delicious memories. DOG DAYS FIXIN’SThe height of summer is a traditional time for picnics, family gatherings, neighborhood cookouts, and similar activities. It is also the perfect time to make major inroads on emptying last year’s venison from the freezer as you anticipate the upcoming rites of autumn. Here are some recipes perfectly suited to times around the grill and to making scrumptious use of your ground venison. Before getting to those recipes however, I did want to acknowledge receipt of kind words from a number of readers regarding the recipe for berry cobbler in last month’s newsletter. The recipe was that of my late Mom, and over the course of her life there’s no telling how many score of times she used that recipe with one berry or fruit or another. It’s simple, scrumptious, and fail-safe. What I didn’t note (and should have)—a dish of that cobbler can be topped with milk, cream, or vanilla ice cream and it becomes pure heaven of the sort sure to bring tears of joy to the eyes of a country boy. When such fare is in the offing, thoughts of things like calories and waist lines just have to be forgotten for a time. VENISON LONDON BROILIf you have plans to fire up the grill, here’s a dish fit for the finest of easting. 1 ½ to 2 pounds venison steak Marinade ¼ cup oil Place steak in a shallow non-metal dish. Mix marinade ingredients with a wire whisk and pour over steak. Cover and refrigerate overnight (for at least eight hours). Grill three to four inches form heat for 12 to 14 minutes. Do not overcook. Cut diagonally across the grain in thin slices to serve. VENISON STEAKS WITH MUSTARD RUB1 tablespoon lemon
pepper Blend rub ingredients in a small bowl. Rub mixture evenly over the surface of venison loin steaks, being sure to coat completely. Grill over medium heat, not hot coals, until desired doneness is reached. Turn only once. Be careful because overcooked steaks will become dry. ONION BURGERS WITH BASIL MAYONNAISE1 pound ground venison Basil Mayonnaise 3 tablespoons
mayonnaise Place ¼ cup water and onion soup in glass measuring cup, stir well, and microwave for one minute. In medium bowl, combine ground venison and soup/water mixture. Mix lightly but thoroughly. Shape into patties. Grill patties, turning only once, until done. In a small bowl combine Basil Mayonnaise ingredients. Mix well with a wire whisk. Use about one tablespoon mayonnaise mixture per burger. Serve on buns with lettuce, sliced tomatoes, and sliced onions. VENISON HOT DOG CHILI1 pound ground venison Brown venison and onion. Add seasoning package or your personal chili choice, water, and tomato sauce. Simmer 10 to 15 minutes until thick. Serve atop hot dogs (or venison burgers). Thank you for subscribing to the
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