June 2009 NewsletterJim Casada
Web site:
www.jimcasadaoutdoors.com June Joys—Musings, Memories, And Things I Miss
In the years after his presidency, Theodore Roosevelt pursued various activities squarely in keeping with his advocacy of living what he styled “the strenuous life.” This year marks the 100th anniversary of his grand African safari, which he chronicled in African Game Trails, and later in life he would, in company with one of his sons, venture into the vast, unexplored wilderness of the Amazon River basin. It was, as TR (I try never to call him “Teddy,” because he hated the moniker) put it, “my last chance to be a boy.” I think more of us need to make a practice, as Roosevelt did, of returning to our childhoods. A couple of weeks back, in company with my brother, a first cousin, and the cousin’s son, I did just that. We spent four glorious days and three nights deep in the heart of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, camped at the designated Bone Valley campsite, well over five miles by foot from the nearest access to civilization (boats on Fontana Lake), and even farther from the nearest road. Trout on the suppertime plate, days in sparkling streams, taking trails to tombstones in remote cemeteries to pause and ponder the lives of those who once eked out a living in this back of beyond, and plenty of recollection—such was our lot. In the aftermath of the adventure, which cost me five little needed pounds of weight and enough aching joints to last a year, I got to thinking about just how privileged a boyhood I enjoyed (I should also note that we all had so much fun that we’ve decided, after giving ourselves a few months for recovery, to take another backpacking trip come the Indian Summer glories of a mountain fall). As a family we certainly weren’t blessed with wealth, but we had plenty to eat, thanks to a thriving garden, a small apple orchard (Mom had an annual goal of canning at least 200 quarts of apples, not to mention a similar number of jars of green beans and lesser cannings of all sorts of other fruits, vegetables, and berries), chickens and hogs raised at the nearby home of my grandparents, and lots of fish and wild game. Similarly, we never seemed to lack for entertainment, never mind the fact that there was no television, just a party-line telephone which was not intended for use by youngsters, and a single radio. But we had the whole world of the Smokies as a backyard, a broomsedge-laden hill which was perfect for sliding on sheets of cardboard, nearby branches for damming and seining minnows, a river for catfishing, creeks aplenty filled with trout, and small game hunting just steps from the back door. I miss much of that and the simple lifestyle which went with it. No one bothered to lock their car doors, and seldom did they lock the doors of the house. The place where you got gas was known as a service station, and the word “service” was an apt one. When you fished with bait you procured your own. That might involve digging worms, catching night crawlers after a warm rain in late afternoon or early evening, seining for minnows, turning over rocks in spring branches to catch spring lizards and crayfish, or raiding the nests of yellow jackets and wasps. Similarly, what were really chores became exercises in delight. For example, I picked blackberries with a will when they ripened (usually beginning in late June). They brought a whopping two bits per gallon, but with that quarter I could buy a trout fly tied by a master of the vise named Fred Hall who lived in my home town. Or, if I was flush with flies thanks to a surreptitious raid on Dad’s vest or maybe a particularly good run of luck in finding them while fishing (I looked for the tell-tale sign of a lost fly, tippet dangling from a limb over the stream, with the eyes of a hawk), I might splurge for a spool of monofilament. With six or seven spools of various sizes and strengths, I had the makings of a whole bunch of leaders. Better still, I could tailor them to the length I wanted. June meant school was out for a glorious three months, and even when my list of chores around the house was pretty burdensome I could usually get the day’s work done by early afternoon. That meant jumping on my bike and heading for the creek or the river, whichever struck my fancy. Mostly I fished, but there were dandy hours swimming in the icy waters of Deep Creek, inner tube rides when the creek got up after a prolonged rain, and outings which were especially enjoyable for the simple reason that they had no real purpose. They just provided a chance to wander and wonder while close to nature. Of course Grandpa Joe, my paternal grandfather, figured into the June equation in a pretty big way. He might help me fashion a slingshot, craft a flutter mill, construct a whimmydiddle, or make work which should have been pure drudgery a source of delight. For example, he would show me how the blade of the hoe I was using to help him work out row after row of Hickory Cane corn could paralyze a cricket. I don’t know what it was, but once you got a cricket to jump on the blade they just stayed there and you could catch them for fish bait with ease. We “fished” for a kind of subterranean worm he called a grampus by carefully inserting a broom straw or length of broomsedge down the critter’s hole. When the slender straw wiggled, a quick jerk would bring the grampus out of its hole and into a jar where we stored fish bait. We noted the whereabouts of maypops (fruit of the passion flower) and ground cherries for future consumption, checked to see how the watermelon and muskmelon patches were doing (and in late June would begin to enjoy the first watermelons as they became available in stores), noted the status of the mast crop with an eye toward squirrel hunting in the fall, competed to see who could make a rock skip the most times in the river which ran before Grandpa’s home, made a game out of slopping hogs and feeding chickens, and generally acted like two boys. In truth we were, because Grandpa’s outlook and mindset, other than being possessed by a considerable degree of paranoia which convinced him his only way through life was total independence, was that of a youngster trapped in an old man’s body. As I ease, gracefully I hope, from middle age into a more senior status, I hope I can emulate much of his perspective. Of all the things I enjoyed though, Grandpa’s storytelling sessions took pride of place. On rainy days when we couldn’t work the fields or fish the river, he would hold court from a rocking chair throne on the front porch. It overlooked the whispering river, a magic and mesmerizing sight which was changeless but ever-changing, a perfect setting for his tales. Most involved either hunting or fishing, along with exciting things such as encounters with poisonous snakes, ghostly encounters, and fanciful matters I found enchanting. He spoke of killing a cougar (he called it a “painter”) as a young man, of the eerie hoots of mountain owls signaling a death, hunting turkeys (I never saw one until I was grown), and catching a giant muskie which he called a jackfish. Those were, to my eager ears, manna from a true master of the storyteller’s art. As I grew older, Mom and Dad had the courage, or maybe the trust, to give me free rein when it came to fishing. From the age of 12 or thereabouts, I was allowed to go fishing on my own, and through the years from then until I went off to college, I spent untold hours and days fly fishing for trout. It was an apprenticeship in a pursuit of passion which has been an integral part of my life ever since. By and large I’m a self-taught fly fisherman, although Dad did teach me some knots, comment on my casting from time to time, and help me with that most valuable and vital of angling skills, the ability to read water. As I’ve mentioned from time to time in recent newsletters, all of that experience, along the better part of five decades of angling as an adult, has finally been turned to written form in what I consider the book of my lifetime. I’m happy to announce that I am, for all practical purposes, through with Fly Fishing in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park: An Insider’s Guide to a Pursuit of Passion. The book is a whopper, running to more than 450 pages (and that doesn’t count the illustrations). It has my heart and soul in it, and while others will have to judge its overall merits, I can say two things with every confidence. The book is the most important I have ever written and it contains far more depth, whether viewed from the standpoint of where to or how to information, insight on the Park’s human history, tips on tactics and techniques, and much more. There’s a lengthy annotated bibliography, seven appendices covering things such as stream gradients, temperatures and rainfall on a month-by-month basis, detailed information on frontcountry and backcountry campsites, and every major stream in the Park is covered in detail. Similarly, almost all of the minor streams are covered as well, and the adventurous angler is sure to be intrigued by the “Back of Beyond” segment of each chapter dealing with specific streams. As I write these words the book is in the hands of the fellow who is doing the layout and design. He’s done everything except the dust jacket for the hardcover version and the back cover for the paperback, and we are waiting on word regarding whether a map of Park trails will be best done as a multi-page offering or as a separate, folding add-on. I expect to have the books in hand in late summer or early fall, and those of you who have asked to be notified as soon as the book appears will be notified immediately when I have it in hand. If you are interested and haven’t notified me, just let me know. Believe me, since I’m self-publishing this book (I wanted to do it my way without dictates about “change this” or “this doesn’t really belong” from some publisher), I’ve got every incentive to try and sell it. Meanwhile, I’m busy wrapping up another book which will be an anthology of Archibald Rutledge’s Christmas stories. He loved Hampton Plantation and the Hampton Hunt was a family tradition which spanned many decades. This book will bring dozens of his Yuletide tales together and will wrap up with a culinary section featuring recipes for holiday foods at Hampton. Rutledge wrote wonderfully well about food—just to read some of his material puts my salivary glands into involuntary overdrive—but to my knowledge he only published a couple of recipes. However, with the able help of my wife, we have researched the dishes he describes and provide detailed recipes to prepare these tasty dishes from a grand Southern tradition. Let me know if you want to be placed on the list to be notified when this book appears. It will join four previous Rutledge anthologies I have edited and compiled, and I have three of these, Hunting and Home in the Southern Heartland: The Best of Archibald Rutledge, Tales of Whitetails: Archibald Rutledge’s Great Deer-Hunting Stories, and America’s Greatest Game Bird: Archibald Rutledge’s Great Turkey-Hunting Tales, available for purchase on this Web site. That’s it for this month, other than to share a few recipes below (offered with coming summer in mind) and to note that in the coming weeks and months I fully intend to pursue further efforts to call back my boyhood. I’ll be spending quite a bit of time with my 99-year-old father, a joy and a blessing in itself, and that gives me a perfect base of operations to fish the streams I knew so well as a youngster. First on my list is Indian Creek, the stream, above all others, where I learned the ropes of dealing with wild trout in tight quarters. I’ll fish with the South Bend Tonkin cane rod which was my first fly rod, and I even intend to ride a bike to my destination as I did in yesteryear. I’ll try to remember and let you know how things go in the July newsletter, but based on lots of previous experience, I can confidently say I expect to catch dozens of small but spunky rainbows. Gracious GrillingThe arrival of summer weather means it is time to heat up the grill and utilize it regularly. Mind you, grilling can and should be a year around approach to cooking, but we all do more of it in the summer. All the recipes which follow are intended for the griller, and they come from Backyard Grilling, which my wife and I wrote in conjunction with two other cookbook authors, Kate Fiduccia and Teresa Marrone. GRILLED LAMB LOINMARINADE1 cup olive oil Whisk together all marinade ingredients and cover 2 boneless lamb loins. Cover and let marinate at room temperature for 1 to 2 hours, turning lamb in marinade several times. When ready to cook, prepare grill for direct high heat. Drain lamb and discard marinade. Place lamb on grate over heat and sear on all sides, 1 to 2 minutes per side. At this stage the lamb should be rare to medium-rare. If you want the meat more well-done, continue to cook, turning as needed. Remove from heat and let stand for 5 minutes before slicing. LONDON BROIL1 flank steak (1 ½ to 2 pounds) MARINADE¼ cup canola oil Place steak in shallow dish. In a mixing bowl, whisk marinade ingredients together and pour over steak. Cover and refrigerate for 4 to 8 hours, turning occasionally. When ready to cook, prepare grill for direct medium heat, lightly oiling the grate. Drain the steak, discarding marinade. Place on grate over heat and cook until desired doneness, 12 to 14 minutes, turning once. Allow steak to rest for 5 minutes to redistribute juices before slicing thinly across the grain. VENISON KABOBS2 to 2 ½ pounds of venison loin MARINADE½ cup soy sauce In saucepan, combine marinade ingredients and heat over medium heat, stirring constantly until sugar dissolves. Set aside to cool. Cut venison into 2-inch cubes and transfer to nonmetallic bowl. Poor cooled marinade over venison, tossing to coat. Cover and refrigerate for 4 to 6 hours, stirring several times. When ready to cook, prepare grill for direct medium heat and lightly oil grate. Thread venison, add button mushrooms, cherry tomatoes, and pineapple chunks alternately on skewers. Place skewers on grate and cook for 20 to 30 minutes or until steak has reached desired doneness, turning several times. Thank you for subscribing to the
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First
of all—an explanation. You did not receive a newsletter in May. I wrote
the blooming thing and sent it to the web master, but somewhere out
there in the ether things went awry. Such mysteries are well beyond me.
It just disappeared, much like three or four turkey I’ve had dealings
with over the years. To make matters worse, I either failed to save it
or, if I did, couldn’t locate it. I suspect it all revolves around
writing on a laptop away from home, near terminal technological
ineptitude, and preoccupation with matters such as trying to raise three
gardens in two different places while doing some fishing and giving
several talks. At any rate, I apologize. I won’t promise it won’t happen
again, because my ongoing war of wills with computers is by no means
won, but I can promise I’ll do my best to see that it was a one-time
event. With that out of the way, let’s turn to more meaningful matters
in the form of some June memories and musings on the month which sees
spring give way to summer.