Barbeque Controversy

Yes, I said what I said.  In “Barbeque” I expressed my opinion of my favorite form of barbeque and now I’m hearing back about it.  The responses from Tennessee, the Carolinas, Kansas City, and all points outside of Texas understood what I was talking about.  Barbeque is where you find it, and all of it (well, most of it) is worth trying, even if it is not your preferred style.  The problem I am having is with the Texans.  Why doesn’t that surprise me?

Texans are the most opinionated people to walk this earth, and that’s my opinion on the matter.  Texas is so big that it can be viewed as distinct regions for just about everything, food included.  Barbeque has so many regions and approaches in Texas that I always wonder just what people mean when they refer to ‘real Texas barbeque.’ 

A portion of my family comes from Shelby County in East Texas.  The last time I was there was in the late 1950’s, but I remember the pig being roasted over a pit dug in the ground and filled with burning coals.  When it was done, we cut it into chunks and served it with a vinegar/pepper sauce, home baked bread, and poke salad greens.  They called it barbeque. 

The next day we were invited to a neighboring farm where the pig was baked in a smoky wood-fired brick oven, and then chopped into tiny pieces and mixed with a thick tomato/mustard sauce and served with hamburger buns and cole slaw.  They called it barbeque.

One of my friends lived in Wichita Falls where they grilled steaks over a hot fire, and served it with slices of cantaloupe.  They called it barbeque.

Out near El Paso, I had lunch at a barbeque joint that served only chicken marinated in vinegar and chiles then tossed onto a smoky grill.  On the side were cheese enchiladas.  They called it barbeque.  Actually I don’t care what they called it as long as it came with cheese enchiladas.

At a friend’s home in Dalhart up in the panhandle, big chunks of beef were simmered in a tomato/chile broth, and then finished in the oven.  The broth was served as a soup.  They called it barbeque.

In San Antonio a restaurant I frequented served cabrito, tortillas, beans, rice and hot pickled carrots.  They called it barbeque.

A market in central Texas serves ‘hot guts’ (sausage) and calls it barbeque.  I could eat my weight in these things.

A family I know in Eagle Pass simmers big pork shoulders in a broth, and then smokes it directly over hot mesquite wood coals before slicing it and frying it in a skillet.  They top it with a thick ancho chile sauce and serve it with big ears of boiled corn.  To them it is called barbeque.

I’ve seen barbeque cooked in big smokers, on top of grills, in skillets, ovens, and slow-cookers.  And then there is the open pit.  This is more or less what my East Texas relatives were using, but I’ve seen some of these things that looked as though they were a city block long.  Maybe they were.  In the summer of 1967 I attended a Walter Jetton catered event northwest of Fort Worth where enough pigs, chickens, steers, and sausage were on the pit at one time to feed almost 3,000 people.  And this was not considered big by Walter Jetton standards.

This doesn’t begin to cover the many approaches Texans take to barbeque.  My preference is the central Texas German smoking style found in and around Lockhart, but if I am not in Lockhart or the surrounding area, I will definitely not go hungry. 

Once again, barbeque is where you find it.

Right now I live in California, and there are a few places advertising ‘real Texas barbeque.’  They have some interesting approaches, and I’m certain somewhere in Texas this is considered ‘real Texas barbeque,’ but this is California.  So why isn’t this ‘real California barbeque?’  Come to think of it, I see ‘real Carolina barbeque,’ ‘real Southern barbeque,’ ‘real Kansas City barbeque,’ ‘real Memphis barbeque,’ and a few other ‘real’ barbeques, but I’ve never seen ‘real California barbeque’ being advertised in California.

Before I travel down this road much farther, I must acknowledge Santa Maria barbeque.  Of course I’ve tried it, but I wasn’t impressed.  From my experience it is either an expensive steak burned over a hot red oak fire and served covered with ashes, or it is a tri-tip soaked in vinegar, coated with black pepper, burned over a hot red oak fire and served sliced and covered with ashes.  The taste in both cases was juicy over-smoked grit.  If this is ‘real California barbeque,’ no wonder they try to imitate other places.

I know I’m going to hear about this, but I think I’ll look into this a bit deeper.  It may take a while.  So much barbeque and only one of me.  I’d better get started.

Crappie

Crappie fishing can be big fun.  My Uncle Sam loved to fish and crappie was his “go to” fish when nothing else were biting.  He shared with me his secret hole one day, and it was everything he said it was when no other fish could be found in the entire lake.  Since he always saved it for the last resort so as not to be skunked, it was not overly fished, and each time we went there, the crappie were biting.

Sam was a man of pride (aren’t we all?), and he refused to return home without fish to brag about.  I didn’t know of this secret crappie hole for about a year after I started fishing with him, but that was because we had always caught enough fish to brag about.  Then one day it happened.  Even Sam couldn’t find a fish.  They were there, of course, but we spent hours at the best spots and couldn’t bring anything to the boat.  So he told me about his closely held secret.

At the north end of Eagle Mountain Lake near a place where the West Fork of the Trinity River made its entrance to the lake was an old collapsed wooden dock where Sam had me tie up the boat to one of the remaining pilings.  He refused to allow me to drop the anchor because it would spook the fish, so I went along with it.  He tied a small hook on his line and skewered a small grub on it.  Slowly he lowered it into the water and quickly he brought it back up with a decent crappie on it.  I followed his lead, and in about 45 minutes, we had enough fish to have a fish fry.

I was sworn to secrecy.  And I could not fish there unless he was with me.  During the next year, we went there only two or three more times, but once was just because Sam wanted to prove some point to another family member who wouldn’t get in the boat with him.  We headed straight to the crappie hole, and came back an hour later with a boatload of fish.  I didn’t ask Sam what he was trying to prove, nor did I ask who the family member was, and it didn’t matter.  Sam felt he proved his point, and that was good enough.

One day Sam refused to go fishing with me.  For two years we had fished at least twice a month, and most of the time it was three or four times each month.  Never before had he turned me down, and no one else would fish with him, so I was baffled by this.  He said something about having done it all, and the tide had turned, but I didn’t get it.  No other explanation was ever given.  Sam never went fishing again.

I began fishing elsewhere.  There were many lakes surrounding Fort Worth, and I believed I should try them out.  Besides, each time I returned to Eagle Mountain Lake to fish, my heart wasn’t in it.  I missed my fishing buddy.  As ornery as Sam was, he had become my friend and fishing mentor, and I couldn’t think about fishing that lake without him.  He would still talk fishing with me, and he would loan me specialized gear from time to time, but he never returned to the water with me or with anyone else.

The knowledge of fishing Sam passed on to me became the basis of successful fishing throughout my travels.  My job took me all over the U.S.A. as well as some other countries, and everywhere I went, my fishing rod and tackle box went with me.  At no time did I feel I couldn’t fish a new body of water due to lack of experience as a fisherman.  Maybe the fish were different from my home territory, and maybe the techniques varied a bit from what I knew, but I could hold my own with very little guidance.

I fished in several places most people can only dream of fishing, and I caught some very exciting fish.  Yes, sometimes I didn’t catch a thing, and I thought about that secret crappie hole, but I couldn’t go there.  I had promised Sam I wouldn’t go there without him, and he wasn’t fishing any more.  Not to mention the crappie hole was often more than a thousand miles away.

Whenever I was back in Fort Worth, I would always go visit Sam, and we would talk about fishing, and he always loved to talk about it, but he still wouldn’t go.  Then one day about a year after he stopped fishing Sam told me the crappie hole was mine.  I could go there anytime I wanted to and I didn’t need his permission.  As far as he knew, no one else was aware of it but him and me, and soon it would be just me.  That’s when I first noticed his age.  Sam had always been ageless to me.  I should have known better, but there are many things I don’t notice about a friend and age is one of those things.  Now Sam suddenly looked his age.

A month later I returned home from a business trip to discover Sam had passed away, and I had missed the funeral by a few hours.  I grabbed my fishing gear, pushed a boat into the water and headed straight to the crappie hole.  That afternoon I caught at least 75 fish and probably many more.  I took them home, cleaned them and put them into the freezer, and I never again fished Eagle Mountain Lake.  It had been a crappie day.

The Unknown Category

There are many categories, but in Texas the word ‘category’ usually (usually) refers to food.  And sometimes these categories are known as food groups.  (This is not about beer.)

There is the category of Barbeque.  Texas even has its own Barbeque Trail.  I’ve traveled all over the United States, and I’ve eaten barbeque in many places, but I’ve never seen such a concentration of barbeque eateries as in Texas.  And that’s saying a lot.  Kansas City is packed with them, and so is Memphis.  St. Louis-style ribs have their name for a reason.  The Carolinas and the south are blanketed with barbeque joints, and Santa Maria in California has someone cooking on every street corner on most weekends (although I don’t know why).  But the ratio of barbeque restaurants to the population density appears to me to be greatest in Texas.  And every Texan has an opinion on this category.

The category of Tex-Mex goes without speaking.  The ubiquitous combo plate of beans, rice, and enchiladas started in Texas and is still at the heart of Tex-Mex cooking.  No Texan who has had to move beyond the state’s borders can forget the smells and tastes of the peppers and spices that make Tex-Mex uniquely different from Mexican or Southwestern cooking. 

Chili is its own category, although for the sake of convenience I will sometimes include it with Tex-Mex.  The flavors of chili intertwine with Tex-Mex making this bundling of categories an easy step, but chili is too big to be squeezed in with another category on a permanent basis.  All one has to do is attend a chili cook-off to understand the reason a single bowl of this spicy stew/soup can have its own category.

The above-mentioned categories are the most well known to anyone living outside of Texas.  But another category in Texas is Chicken-Fried Steak.  This draws as much passion out of a Texan as Barbeque, Chili, and a favorite Tex-Mex restaurant.  I believe I have never met a Texan without a preferred chicken-fried steak recipe, or at least a favorite restaurant where it can be found for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

The one category that is not a category (although I am now declaring it to be one) is Catfish.  When one thinks of the different foods in Texas (doesn’t everyone?), one tends to overlook catfish, but maybe that’s because catfish is so common that it is taken for granted. 

I cannot remember a time growing up in the big state when there was a catfish shortage.  When I fished, I fished for bass and crappie, but I brought home as much catfish as all other fish combined.  We had regular fish frys at my grandparent’s lake home and catfish was the most common fish we ate.  But it wasn’t limited to fish frys.

At home a fish dinner routinely consisted of catfish.  At the local cafeteria where I ate lunch about once a week when I was in town, I always had the catfish.  Several of the breakfast diners I frequented served catfish and eggs.  A good friend made catfish chili occasionally.  And I made a great Catfish Vera Cruz.  Looking back at the 26 years I lived in Texas, I can’t remember a single time without catfish available.

I recently read that Texas is responsible for about 50 percent of the nation’s entire catfish consumption.  While I find this to be a Texas tall tale, I do believe the amount of catfish Texans eat is quite high.  I’ve traveled throughout the south, and honestly, Texas has nothing on Mississippi, Louisiana, Alabama, or Georgia when it comes to catfish, but my opinion is that Texas is not far behind on catfish eating.  Anyway, I believe that in Texas catfish is a category of its own.

Texas Fried Catfish Taco

Serves 4

    1 ½ cups yellow cornmeal                                     

    ½ cup all purpose flour                                      
    2 teaspoons Kosher salt, plus additional                       
    1 teaspoon cayenne pepper, plus additional                     
    1 teaspoon smoked paprika, plus additional
    1 teaspoon onion powder                    
    8 catfish filets                                                
    Canola oil for frying                                          
    Jalapeno Chipotle Tarter Sauce, recipe follows                                         
    Shredded cabbage
    Hot pickled carrots                                               
    Corn tortillas, warmed
    Lemon or lime wedges (grapefruit wedges?)                                                  

Pour about 1 1/2 to 2-inches of oil into a heavy (cast iron) skillet and heat to 360F. In a wide bowl, mix cornmeal and flour with 2 teaspoons salt, 1 teaspoon cayenne, 1 teaspoon smoked paprika, and onion powder and set aside. Rinse fish and pat off excess water with paper towels. Lay filets out on a platter and season both sides with salt, cayenne, and paprika, patting the seasoning into the fish. Cut filets into 2-inch strips. Dredge in cornmeal mixture. Carefully drop fish into hot oil being careful not to overcrowd and cook until fish comes to the surface and is golden brown (about 7 to 8 minutes).

Serve with Jalapeno Chipotle Tarter Sauce, shredded cabbage, hot pickled carrots, corn tortillas, and lemon or lime wedges (or maybe grapefruit).

Jalapeno Chipotle Tarter Sauce

Makes about 1 cup.

    1 cup mayonnaise (homemade is good)                                              

    1 tablespoon chopped green onions
    1 tablespoon finely chopped shallots                              
    1 finely chopped jalapeño pepper                               
    1 minced chipotle chile in adobo                              
    ½ teaspoon adobo sauce                                        
    1 teaspoon lemon juice                                         
    ¼ teaspoon kosher salt                                       
    ¼ teaspoon cayenne pepper                                    

Mix all ingredients together in a small bowl and refrigerate until ready to use.  (This is quite warm on the tongue.  For a milder sauce, just reduce the amount of jalapeno and chipotle.)

I know, it sounds more like a Baja-style fish taco, but I grew up eating fried catfish wrapped in a soft corn tortilla and topped with cole slaw, salsa, and shredded cheese.  I first encountered this approach to catfish in Eagle Pass, Texas about 1970 or 1971.  Just maybe the Baja-style fish taco is a knock-off of the Texas Fried Catfish Taco.

Gunning

A big dictionary doesn’t have enough words to explain the experience I had hunting duck and geese on Tangier Island on the east side of the Chesapeake Bay.  It was one of those magical times where everything just goes right.  I had rarely hunted birds larger than quail or dove, although I had hunted teal a couple of times.  But I was ready to give it a try.

My job had me visiting stores on the east coast during November one year when one of the store managers invited me to go with him on a guided hunt for goose and duck.  The hunt wouldn’t be until January so I would have some time to prepare, get my license, practice with the shotgun, etc.  It sounded good to me.  Especially since I could use my own shotgun.

I had recently been in Spain on business where I had an opportunity to hunt for red-legged partridge and quail near Madrid and Barcelona.  I had borrowed shotguns for both hunts and, although I had fun (sort of), I found the big twelve-gauges to be more work than enjoyment.  I had always used a twenty-gauge bolt-action shotgun, and I didn’t see the need for anything bigger.  I still think I’m right about this.

My shotgun was older than me.  It had been my grandfather’s rabbit gun, and when it became mine, I felt it was the perfect shotgun.  Under Texas laws I had to wait until I was twenty-one before I could hunt with it, but that was all right with me.  My hunting focus had always been with game I could hunt with a bow, so the shotgun was easy to wait for.  When I turned twenty-one, the old shotgun went quail hunting.

The skeet and trap range a few miles from my home was closed until spring, so I didn’t really have much opportunity to practice before the scheduled trip.  I did manage to hunt some rabbit a couple of times, but it’s just not the same as a bird flying by, so I resigned my self to using a lot of shells for minimal birds.  I was told to bring at least one box each of BB and BBB, so I bought two of each.  And I bought two of each in magnum as well.

I had to return to Raleigh for business just before the January date for the hunt, so I chose to drive rather than fly and ship my shotgun and shells by carrier.  I had traveled enough to know that anything not in the hand was probably lost forever.  And I didn’t wish to lose the shotgun.

I arrived in Raleigh during a winter storm that made me think the hunt would be called off, but after three days the sun came out and I made the drive up to Richmond in time to be picked up by Feargus the store manager.  We drove to the Chesapeake where we caught a boat over to the island on the east side.  We met the guide, checked into the lodge, and talked hunting. 

The guide insisted on examining our shotguns and shells before the hunt, and when I unwrapped my twenty-gauge, I though he was never going to stop laughing.  He had seen a few twenty-gauges used in the past with little to no luck, but he had never seen anyone bring along a bolt-action version.  Pumps, over-and-under, side-by-side, semi-automatic, even a single-shot, but a bolt-action?  Had I ever even been hunting before?  That evening I made certain I screwed the full choke onto the end of the barrel, and I placed two of the boxes of magnum shells in my hunting bag.  I was going to make absolutely sure that twenty-gauge did its job.

My alarm sounded off with the most annoying noise at 4:00am the next morning, and I was very confused about it.  I had slept so well that I couldn’t remember where I was, why I was there, or why I wanted to get up so early.  I managed to fall out of bed and stumble around in the dark all the while trying to locate the source of the noise and/or a light.  Finally I discovered a lamp and turned it on so I could see where the alarm was sitting.  Then it came back to me.  I’m getting up at 4:00am because breakfast is at 4:30am, and I’m going duck and goose hunting at 5:30am.

By 7:00am the guide, two dogs, Feargus, and I were sitting in some rushes/tall grass along side of the water looking over several decoys floating a few yards away and watching the sky grow lighter.  We had less than twenty minutes to wait before several Canadian geese flew by about fifty yards out.  The guide pointed at me to take the first shot.

I gave the first goose a short lead and squeezed the trigger.  The magnum load sounded extra loud in the early morning quietness, and the second goose in the formation fell from the sky.  The guide, two dogs, and Feargus looked over at me with their mouths open.  I just smiled and said that’s how we do it in Texas.  I didn’t tell them that I had actually missed my shot.

The black lab brought back my goose, then stood beside me to shake some of the icy water off him and onto me.  The next fly-by was a few ducks and Feargus brought down two with his double twelve-gauge.  Then my turn came again.  This time it was a flock of teal.  I could see them a distance away, so I removed the choke and waited until they were about thirty yards out.  Then I squeezed off a shot.  Four teal dropped into the water.  One of the dogs growled at me.

I did miss my next shot, but that was purely my own fault.  I had forgotten to screw the choke back on the shotgun, and the goose was just too far away for an open cylinder discharge.  But I took a second goose and a few ducks that day proving that a twenty-gauge bolt-action could do everything its bigger relatives could do.

That evening the guide wanted to reexamine my shotgun to see if I was doing something illegal, but it was exactly as it looked—a twenty-gauge bolt-action shotgun.  He wasn’t convinced, although he conceded that I did manage to keep up with the bigger guns.  He just wouldn’t admit I had done a bit better.

The following morning found us a mile away from the previous location, but with the same set up.  We were on the shore shooting (excuse me, here they call it gunning) over a few duck decoys floating several yards away.  This time I left the full choke in place for the entire day.  Feargus, however, was sporting a new twenty-gauge over-and-under.  Hmmm…  When I inquired about the change, he said his shoulder was sore from yesterday.  Hmmm…  Well, I don’t know about that since he took only a dozen or so shots, but there it was—a twenty-gauge.

The guide started in with his duck calls, and soon a few ducks (I think they were Golden Eye) were flying low over our decoys.  Feargus let loose with one barrel, and one duck hit the water.  The chocolate lab sighed and jumped in the water to retrieve it.  The guide didn’t say a word, but my turn was next, and I noticed the duck calling was not as loud and a bit more sporadic.

We watched as ducks and geese flew by out of range for an hour.  Actually there were more ducks than geese, but they were all about seventy yards or more away.  Finally Feargus had enough.  He strongly suggested we move back to yesterday’s spot, or go home.  Either way, it had to be better than this.  With that the guide pulled out different call and gave it a few loud quacks.  For some reason this worked.  A flock of snow geese changed direction and came directly at us.

Feargus and I both opened up.  He got off both barrels; I emptied my three shots.  And we nailed four geese.  The guide snarled louder than the dogs.  We decided that we had enough.  It was cold, the dogs were stopping beside us to shake off the water, and the guide was upset; however, Feargus and I were quite pleased with ourselves.  And Feargus became a lifelong twenty-gauge fan.

That evening back at the lodge (wait, they called it an ‘inn’) we dined on goose and duck from the previous day’s hunt.  I noticed the guide wasn’t talking much, and a few of the other hunters staying there were watching him closely.  I’m usually not the one to bring up a subject that’s attached to a sore point, but I couldn’t help it this time.  I asked Feargus how he liked using a twenty-gauge.

The guide dropped his fork, pushed back his chair, and left the table.  The other hunters snickered until the guide turned and stared at them for a long moment.  Then he left the room not to be seen again.  The hunters turned to us with questions written all over their faces.

Why bother to explain? 

Feargus and I returned to Richmond with our geese and ducks packaged and frozen.  And I drove back to Texas laughing all the way.

Brisket Eater

People around the world dream of living in Texas (don’t they?  Of course they do!), but few people realize that Texas is a divided country.  There is Tex-Mex/chili country, chicken fried steak country, and barbeque country.  And each of these divisions is divided into smaller factions with big agendas.  Personally, I find myself divided, uh, conflicted on these issues.

I am a chili eater from way back.  I have my own opinions on this subject, and I’ve written about it in “Chili for One”, and I tend to agree with people who think it best represents the Texas state food dish.  Besides, you can’t have Tex-Mex without some type of chili around, even if it’s in the simple form of chili gravy.

I am a barbeque eater from way back.  I have my own opinions on this subject, and I’ve written about it in “Barbeque”, and I tend to agree with people who think it best represents the Texas state food dish.  One cannot travel through the big state without being aware of the smoky aromas emanating from every third restaurant (the other two are serving Tex-Mex/chili and chicken fried steak). 

Okay.  I’ve eaten chicken fried steak all my life, and, yes, I have my own opinions on this subject, but until now I haven’t written about it.  What?  You thought this was about brisket?  Well, it is.  And it’s about barbeque, and Tex-Mex/chili, and chicken fried steak.

I don’t know when I developed this recipe, but it must have been some 40 years ago.  And it must have been after I smoked a big brisket and had some leftovers, although I’m not certain how that happened.

Smoked Chicken Fried Steak with Chili Gravy

Serves 6 with extra brisket for another meal.

Step One—The Brisket

    1 whole beef brisket (10 to 12 pounds), untrimmed

    ¼ cup balsamic vinegar

    ½ cup coarse salt

    ½ cup coarse ground black pepper

    ½ cup ancho chile powder

Score the exposed fat on the brisket with a sharp knife to make a ½-inch crosshatch pattern.  Using a pastry brush, apply the balsamic vinegar to the fat, covering evenly.  Cover the brisket with plastic wrap and set it in the refrigerator for 1 to 2 hours.

Mix together the salt, ground pepper, and chile powder.  Remove the brisket from the refrigerator, uncover, and pat the dry rub onto all surfaces of the meat and fat.  If there is any left over, just apply to the fat.  Recover and place back into the refrigerator overnight.

Early (very early) the next morning, remove the brisket from the refrigerator and allow to come to room temperature while preparing the smoker with an oak and/or pecan wood fire.  (Alternatively, prepare a charcoal fire and add oak and/or pecan chunks that have been soaked in water about 1 hour.  Replenish the wood chunks each time additional charcoal is added to the smoker.)  When the smoker has reached about 225F, uncover the brisket and place on the grill rack, fat side up, as far from the heat source as possible.  Maintain a temperature of 220F to 230F for about 8 to 9 hours.  Remove the brisket, wrap in aluminum foil, and place back into the smoker for another 3 to 4 hours, maintaining the 220F to 230F temperature.

Again remove the brisket from the smoker, unwrap and separate the top and bottom layers.  Rewrap the individual layers in foil and return the top layer to the smoker for an additional 2 hours allowing the fire to die down.  Allow the bottom layer to sit on the cutting board tightly wrapped about 30 minutes before unwrapping.  Slice the bottom (first cut/flat cut) layer in half butterfly-style, and then into 12 equal sized portions.  With a meat tenderizer mallet (the flat portion, not the part with the spikes), gently flatten each portion to about 1/3-inch thick.  These should be individually wrapped in plastic and refrigerated until ready to make the chicken fried steaks.

When the remaining brisket is finished, remove from the smoker and allow to rest about 30 to 45 minutes before unwrapping, thinly slicing across the grain, and serving.

Step Two—Chili Gravy

Makes about 4 cups

    3 tablespoons melted lard (preferred) or shortening

    1 tablespoon bacon drippings (essential)

    1 small yellow onion, very finely chopped

    1 large shallot, very finely chopped

    1 large clove garlic, minced

    ¼ cup chili powder (Gebhardt’s is good)

    ½ teaspoon toasted and ground cumin

    ¼ teaspoon dried Mexican oregano

    2 cups beef stock

    2 cups water

    1 tablespoon toasted corn flour* (not masa harina)

    Salt, to taste

Over medium heat, sauté the onion and shallot in the lard and bacon drippings until the onion is softened, but not browned. Add the garlic and stir for about 1 minute.  Stir in the chili powder, cumin, and oregano.  Gradually add the beef stock and water and stir until well mixed.

Simmer, uncovered, for 30 minutes until mixture is slightly reduced and thickened. Mix the toasted corn flour with 3 to 4 tablespoons of beef stock and stir back into the gravy. Simmer for 10 minutes more. Taste the gravy and add salt if needed

*To toast the corn flour, place on a baking sheet in a 350F oven for 5 minutes.  I like to toast about 2 cups at a time.  Seal in an airtight jar, and use when needed.

Step Three—Chicken Fried Steak

    12 refrigerated smoked brisket portions

    3 cups all purpose flour

    2 teaspoons baking powder

    1 teaspoon baking soda

    1 teaspoon freshly grated black pepper

    1 teaspoon ancho chile powder

    1 teaspoon salt

    1 ¾ cups buttermilk

    2 large eggs

    4 teaspoons Cholula or Tapatio hot sauce

    2 cloves garlic, minced

    Lard or vegetable shortening for frying

    6 jumbo eggs, fried as desired for serving

    Grated longhorn or mild cheddar cheese for serving

    Chopped onion for serving

    Sliced pickled jalapenos for serving

    Corn tortillas for serving

    Salsa for serving

Place the flour in a shallow bowl.  In a second dish, stir together the baking powder and soda, pepper, chile powder, and salt, and mix in the buttermilk, egg, hot sauce, and garlic.  The mixture will be thin.  Dredge each cold steak first in flour and then in the batter.  Dip the steaks back into the flour and dredge them well, patting in the flour until the surface of the meat is dry and well coated.

Add enough lard or shortening to a deep cast-iron skillet to deep-fry the steaks in at least 3 inches of oil.  Bring the temperature to 325F.  Fry the steaks, turning them over each time they come to the surface.  About 7 to 8 minutes the steaks will be golden brown.  Drain and transfer to a platter to keep warm until served.

Serve 2 steaks with a fried egg, and chili gravy.  Garnish with grated cheese, chopped onions, and jalapenos.  Pass the tortillas and salsa.

Actually this works with just about any way you prepare the brisket.  The smoked version is my favorite, but I’ve made this chicken fried steak with oven-baked brisket also.  Just make certain the cooked brisket is refrigerator cold when frying.  Since the meat is already cooked, this will prevent it from over cooking. 

This is not the fastest breakfast you will ever put together, but it’s worth the wait.  It’s even better when served with a couple of big cheese enchiladas and some pan-fried peppers and onions.

44th Annual Wild Game Feed

New Post on July 8, 2019.  51st Annual Wild Game Feed.

New Post on May 30, 2018.  50th Annual Wild Game Feed.

New Post on June 23, 2017.  49th Annual Wild Game Feed.

New Post on June 1, 2016.  48th Annual Wild Game Feed.

New Post on May 27, 2015.  47th Annual Wild Game Feed.

Everyone!  On May 26, 2014, I posted something about the 46th Annual Wild Game Feed.  Take a look.

Thanks,
David


Today I received an order form for a ticket to the 2012 Wild Game Feed in Irvine, CA.   And by this time tomorrow my money will be in the mail.

I spent years as a fisherman and a hunter.  Somehow I missed fishing in Maine, New Hampshire, Florida, and Hawaii, but there is still time.  As for hunting, well I’ve missed a few more states, and hunting is now in my past due to physical ability, although I will take every opportunity to sink my teeth into just about anything someone else hunted.

My friends and acquaintances over the years have provided many exotic meals in which I was a willing participant.  Several of the meals were better than others, but all were interesting.  Elk, moose, duck, goose, turkey, caribou, bear, deer. . .you name it.  If it came from the wild, we ate it—or at least tried to.  There were a few items on the list that we apparently didn’t know how to prepare (muskrat comes to mind).  I discovered that armadillo makes a pretty good sausage.  Alligator tail is great in a gumbo.  Nutria makes a fantastic stew.  And what is there to say about duck, deer, elk, and goose?

Many years ago I cased my rifles and shotguns for the last time, and when the freezer was just about empty, along came Rich.  Rich was a salesman at the company where I was working, and I thought he was about the oddest character I had met since my recent trip downtown on the bus.  He was big, gruff, and had a loud distinctive voice.  My kind of person.  Rich and I began a unique friendship that has lasted years beyond the job.

Rich was a member of a club known as ‘Wild Game Feed.’  Once a year this club would sell tickets as a fundraiser to an event known (strangely enough) as ‘Wild Game Feed.’  The profits of this event went to a number of worthy charities in the area, and I thought to myself, “Yeah, right.”  But the more I looked into it, the more impressed I became. 

I didn’t purchase a ticket to the event the first year I knew Rich, but it was only because I wasn’t too certain about it.  I didn’t know if it was a legitimate not-for-profit organization, and I wondered about the legitimacy of the game.  If they were selling tickets, the game had to be farm raised.  Wild caught or hunted fish and game were not legal to serve in California if tickets were sold.  However, the company I worked for provided refreshment (a.k.a. beer) to the Wild Game Feed, so I, along with two others from my department, was invited to the event as a guest.  Only an occasional illness has prevented me from returning every year since.

More than a thousand men (stag event) were gathered at the private park in Irvine, California.  The ticket included almost everything.  All food and drink were covered in the price of the ticket, but more that that, it was all the food and drink one could consume.  The menu included buffalo ribs, frog legs, alligator, crawfish, wild game chili, salmon, quail, Cajun gumbo, wild game tamales and tacos, clams, specialty sausages, spit roasted pig, chucker, gamehen, oysters (Rocky Mountain style), as well as many other things I’ve forgotten about.  And that was just the appetizers.

Then they brought out the main course.  Venison, antelope, elk, boar, buffalo, musk ox, duck, ostrich, albacore, sea bass, and more.  There were a few radishes and celery sticks for those who wanted a salad.  For some reason, the only leftovers were the radishes and celery sticks.  Actually there were plenty of leftover meats, which many of the ticket holders divided among themselves to take home.  Nothing went to waste, except a few radishes and celery sticks.

I sat there that first afternoon with some refreshment and a cigar enjoying a plate full of appetizers and thinking to myself, “I’ll be back.”  I watched as the various raffles took place and men won everything from rifles to big screen televisions to a fully restored vintage Jeep.  Camping gear, motorcycles, fishing equipment, GPS, optics, barbeques, archery equipment, shotguns, and a hunting dog were all raffled off that afternoon while the food kept coming. 

I don’t know how much money was raised that day, or in the many years since that day, but I do know it is significant.  Every year the event grows larger, and someday the organizers may see the need to limit the number of men who can attend, but for now the group keeps growing.  Each year I start looking forward to the next year’s event the day after it is over.  Once a year isn’t enough for me.  I’d like to see this held several times each year, but I know that isn’t possible.

Each year, the third Friday in September is the annual Wild Game Feed, and I will see my friend Rich once again.  As I said earlier, we have a unique friendship.  The only time we see each other is at this event each year, but Rich is a highly valued friend, and I know I could call on him for help at any time, and he could call on me any time.  We will have a few cigars, a few beverages, a few appetizers, some pickled quail eggs, and we will catch up on the past year.  Even though I don’t hunt any more, the rewards are still coming.

Bow Fishing

Many times while fishing backwaters in Texas, and also a few other southern states, I wished I had brought my bow along.  Sometimes it could have provided dinner when a rabbit wandered by, or, in season of course, sometimes a deer.  But mostly I wanted it for a particular fish known as an alligator gar.

The gar is an ancient fish, a holdover from the age of dinosaurs.  It comes in several sizes and types, but the one that I would regularly see had a double row of sharp teeth and was somewhat reminiscent of an alligator.  And many times it would take my bait as though I was there just to feed it.

When I first started asking about bow fishing at the local hardware store, the owner just looked at me as though I was crazy.  He was equipped to sell me anything for bow hunting or pole fishing—but bow fishing?  I inquired at several hardware stores before I found one that knew what I was asking for.

Stud’s Hardware was one of the local fishing and hunting supply stores in Fort Worth.  They sold a few screws, nails, and hammers, I think, but mostly they existed for the local hunters and fishermen.  One of the employees, Eddie, was a bow hunter like me, and he had recently begun to bow fish.  He had managed to talk the owner into special ordering a bow reel and fishing arrows from an archery company, and he had been using it almost every time he wrangled a day off work.

He had his setup in his truck and ran out to get it for me.  When I looked at it I could see the simplicity of the concept, and I thought I could make it work for me.  When I left the store that afternoon, I had left behind down payments for the same equipment.  I could expect it to arrive in six to eight weeks.

Summer was almost over when the reel and arrows arrived, but all was not lost.  Eddie offered to take me to one of the rivers for a few lessons, but first he wanted to see for himself my skills on a stationary target.  I assured him I was quite proficient, and I had been a successful bow hunter for several years.  But he wanted to see for himself, so we went to my place where I had a number of permanent targets set up at varying distances.

I was quite used to the targets and their distances, so for me a center shot was normal, but Eddie had no idea of the distances.   I took the first release at a fifty-five yard target and was about two inches from center.  Eddie placed his arrow about the same.  Next was a target at about thirty-two or thirty-three yards.  I centered my shot, and Eddie’s arrow tip was touching mine.  We played this game for dozen or so shots before Eddie decided I could hold my own with the bow.  Now we would try this in the river.

The Trinity River holds some strange wildlife, and among the strangest are the snapping turtles.  These provided my first water dwelling targets, but they were as safe as could be.  I couldn’t hit one if I had to.  Eddie tried to explain the light angles to me, but I just couldn’t get it.  It wasn’t until he took a shot that I could see the difference of angle where the arrow entered the river compared to the location of the turtle.  Then I watched as he reeled in the turtle.  It was a fight.  Man versus turtle.  But I learned how it was done, and I learned that day how to dispatch a turtle and prepare it for the stew pot.  (For the record, snapping turtle isn’t very tasty.)

For the next seven or eight months I practiced bow fishing in an attempt to learn the angles.  When I could, I traveled to a nearby stock tank where I could shoot at various things growing just under the water’s surface.  Weeds, lily pads, and other ‘stuff’ became targets for my arrows, and slowly I began to understand.  Eddie and I got together a few times; however, he soon moved up to Oklahoma leaving me on my own.  But I got there.

Texas fishing regulations allowed for bow hunting, and that surprised me considering I had never before seen anyone attempt it; however, it was legal.  There were a few restrictions, and game fish such as bass were not allowed, although gar, carp, catfish, certain turtles and others were fair game any time of the year.  I knew that I would be prepared for a gar the next time I encountered one.

Mid-summer had arrived before I saw another alligator gar.  It was broiling hot, crystal clear skies, and the humidity was approaching 100 percent.  And I was sitting in the tail waters below the dam at Eagle Mountain Lake.  These waters held some big fish.  Really big fish.  A four-foot catfish was not uncommon.  And the ‘gator gar could easily double that.

I was soaking a worm under a red and white float and thinking I needed to drop it another 10 feet toward the bottom of the hole I was fishing in.  My bow was on the ground beside me gathering dust, and I wasn’t paying much attention to the churning taking place about 40 feet away.  I knew it was a gar rolling just under the surface, but it was just a little too far for me to take a shot.  Not that it was very far, but I still wasn’t too certain about the angles.

I dropped the line under my float another 10 feet or so and within five minutes a catfish was hooked.  It wasn’t a big one, maybe two feet long, and I brought it up to the top rather quickly.  When it reached the surface, the catfish began to thrash around a bit, and this must have gotten the attention of some gar, because they began to surface within fifteen feet of the bank I was sitting on.  I unhooked the catfish, tossed it over onto some grass and grabbed my bow.

There were two large ‘gator gars on top of the water close enough to me that I decided to take one.  I carefully aimed just behind the head of one and released the barbed arrow with the line attached.  It was a solid hit, but I saw the most unusual thing—I saw sparks fly when the arrow struck the gar.  I had to think about that for a moment, but only a moment, because the gar was quite unhappy about the arrow in its neck.  It began to thrash and churn the water.  It ran deep, then out before surfacing and turning back.  And I was just trying to hang on to my bow.

A reel on a bow is little more than a line holder designed to peel off line quickly as an arrow pulls against it in flight.  As a retrieving mechanism, it is almost worthless.  I grabbed the line with my hands and started pulling the big fish in manually.  Slowly I gained mastery over the gar, and eventually I pulled it up onto the bank where it thrashed around for more than an hour.

I tried to kill it more than once, but it refused to die.  I carried a small club for dispatching fish, and I whacked that gar’s head until the club broke.  Several men nearby were watching me, and one tried to help out by dropping a large rock on its head.  I think the big rock just revived the thing into more thrashing.  Finally, I dragged it about twenty-five feet back from the water and let it be.  Eventually it stopped thrashing, and I put a tape measure to it.

My tape was only six feet long, and the fish was a bit longer.  My two-piece measurement put the gar at seven feet ten inches long.  I removed my thrash broken arrow from the gar, and now I was faced with what to do with the fish.  I hadn’t thought far enough ahead to figure out what to do if I actually harvested a gar.

The man who dropped the rock on its head asked if I would give him part of the fish, and I told him if he wanted it, I would keep a small portion, and he could have the rest.  Problem solved.  We cleaned the gar, cut it up, and packed it into his car.  I put about a pound of it into my ice chest, and remembered my catfish.  By now it had been out of the water a little too long.

Well, a dog beat me to my catfish.  The last I saw of it, the fish was in the jaws of a big black lab trotting back to its owner who was fishing nearby.  Problem solved.  I hate to waste anything I kill.

I took the portion of gar home and cooked it up with a bit of lemon and pepper.  I can’t say it was good, but it wasn’t bad either.  It was just okay.  Over the next year or two before I quit bow hunting, I tried my hand at bow fishing a number of times.  Several times I had good shots at gar, but I passed them up.  I brought in a few catfish, and on one occasion a huge carp (tasty but bony).  When I sold my bow a few years later, the reel and fishing arrows went with it.  The man who bought it was anxious to try it out.  I hope he still enjoys it.

Grayling

I scheduled a business trip to Calgary, Canada, at either the best or worst time possible.  I forgot about the Stampede that occurs in July each year, and although I’m a Texan, I never really cared too much for a rodeo.  They could be a lot of fun to watch sometimes, but my life was more involved with the sport of fishing.  I had two and a half days of meetings to push out of the way, and when it was over I was ready to go anywhere else.  Cowboy and cowgirl wannabes were about to drive me insane.

When we wrapped up the final meeting, I told the district manager I was going to fly out a day early.  In fact, I was going to the hotel to get my things and catch the next plane out regardless of its destination.  He laughed and said he would like to join me.  When I got to the hotel, he had left a message for me to contact him immediately, which I did.  He suggested we take a couple of days and go fishing.

I had never fished in Canada before, and I wasn’t certain of the regulations, but he assured me that he would take care of everything, and for the most part he did.  Since I wasn’t a Canadian citizen, I had to have a special license, and I couldn’t fish without a guide.  Enter Mark.  Mark was Larry’s (the district manager) friend, and he was a licensed guide.  Since this was going to be a short trip, he knew just where to begin.

The Bow River flows through Calgary, and the upper reaches of it were not too far to the west.  We would drive there for just today and give Mark an opportunity to examine my abilities as a fisherman.  Tomorrow we would travel elsewhere.

We drove west for a while then turned onto a narrow side road.  The side road was drivable part of the way, and not drivable the rest of the way, but we managed to force his jeep there anyway.  The Bow River Valley was beautiful country, and the river itself was like a postcard.  I threw a small spinner into the water and watched two fish knock heads together as they jumped for it.  Several casts later I brought in a small brown trout, and over the next three or so hours I caught a few rainbows as well.  I was having fun, but the time came to return to Calgary.

The next morning we were on the road by the time the sun found us.  About three hours of travel to the north and west brought us to a lake where Mark had stored a boat for his guide business.  By mid-morning I landed a nice rainbow.  This one was a leaper.  It jumped and thrashed until I felt sorry for it, but I brought it in anyway.   After two or three of these fighters, I was ready to hunt for something different, and Larry brought us a fish that was to be the focus of our attention for the rest of the trip.  It was a grayling.

I had heard of grayling, but I had never seen one before now.  It was troutish, but it had a dorsal fin that reminded me of a Mohawk haircut.  The fish weighed about three pounds, and overall was a nice looking fish with a bad barber.  Mark knew where to find more of them.

We motored over to a large inlet where a wide shallow river was emptying into the lake, and there we began our search along the weed beds for this interesting fish.  We found them quickly enough, and for the rest of the day, we brought in and released nothing but grayling, each weighing from two to three pounds.  Mark told us these fish usually group in large schools, and although they move about, they are always found in this area in quantity.

We stayed the night in the cabin of one of Mark’s friends, and early the next morning we were fishing again.  The grayling fishing didn’t get old or boring to me.  These fish with the strange dorsal fin were not easy to catch, but they were in abundance, and it wasn’t until that evening as were preparing to drive back to Calgary that I realized I had forgotten all about the rodeo.

The rodeo.  Back in Calgary I was riding to the airport in the back seat of a taxi when I noticed a cowboy hat blowing down the street.  Not far behind ran a cowboy trying in vain to outguess the wind’s effect on his hat.  Then I noticed where the hat would normally sit on the cowboy’s head was a Mohawk haircut.  I didn’t try to explain to the taxi driver what it was that made me laugh, but I’ve never looked at a cowboy the same again.

Alaska

I’m confused.  I grew up learning that Texas is the biggest state, and there is nothing outside of Texas that is bigger or worth going to see.  Yet I know I saw things that weren’t in my Texas schoolbooks when I went fishing in Alaska. 

I flew to Juneau, Fairbanks, and then Anchorage for business meetings in August one year, and I know I spent more time in that airplane than it takes to cross Texas.  After the meetings were over I spent some time at a fishing lodge.  I saw whales, and I know Texas doesn’t have anything that big.  I caught fish that were sooooo big that…oops.  Well, it’s hard being a Texan or a fisherman without bragging, and it’s doubly hard when one is both a Texan and a fisherman.  Add to that the problem of being a Texan bragging about the size of something outside of Texas, and maybe you can understand my confusion.  But see them I did.  And catch them I did (well, maybe not the whale).

The trip was unusual in that I had more vacation time stored up than the company normally allowed, and I was in Alaska at the right time of year for fishing.  I had been to Alaska before on business trips, but either I didn’t have enough space in my schedule to go fishing, or it was just too darn cold for me.  I never enjoyed standing in water with chunks of ice the size of my car floating by.

In Anchorage I crossed paths with a lodge owner/outfitter who had flown into the city for some supplies or something.  We talked for a couple of hours about the fishing near his lodge, and I decided to go for it.  He put together a fishing package for me that he believed would turn a Texan into an Alaskan.  And he came close.

The first day we would fly to his lodge where I would get outfitted for the two trips I would take.  The first trip would be for halibut in the saltwater, the second trip would be for salmon or Dolly Varden on one of the rivers.  These trips would be four days each, and there would be a one-day break in between them.  A simple plan and the outfitter would fill in the details.

We tossed my things into his plane and I climbed into the co-pilot’s seat beside the outfitter.  As I buckled in my first thoughts were not about the dented pontoons.  My first thoughts were not about the rusty patches I saw on one of the wings and the tail.  I didn’t even think about the cracked windows.  My first thoughts concerned my entire life flashing before my eyes. 

It took a few tries to get the prop to turn over, and when it did, the noise from the engine was deafening, and the plane shuddered and shook like a California earthquake.  The outfitter handed me a set of earphones that helped eliminate the noise, and we could talk to each other through the attached microphone.  But I wasn’t listening, and I wasn’t talking.  I was trying to figure out how to open the plane’s door and jump before we were too high off the ground.

I didn’t figure out the door in time, and I must have given some indication of my intentions, because we took off rather abruptly.  Most airplanes taxi to the runway, and then begin a long takeoff.  We were airborne before reaching the runway.  Almost immediately we did a hard right and flew up into a cloudbank.  I didn’t see anything but gray for three long, long hours.

Ultimately we descended through the clouds to land the plane on an incredibly blue lake in a sea of luminous green trees.  We taxied up to a pier where someone lassoed a spike sticking out of the side of the plane, pulled us in, tied us up, and stood there grinning like he had caught the big one.  We tossed things out onto the pier where the grinning person loaded them onto a big wagon attached to a three-wheeled ATV.  And we walked to an amazing log-style building in the middle of nowhere.

I don’t know what it took to build that big house, not to mention the eight or ten large cabins lodged in the woods just steps from the lake, but somehow someone did it, and I was ready to take full advantage of the comforts I imagined were awaiting me.

I stepped into the main room of the big house and looked at the fireplace at each end, found a huge overstuffed leather chair and sat down.  It took about half an hour to realize I had gone from hell to heaven.  At least I would have to wait ten more days before I climbed back into that plane.  Uh-huh.

I traveled everywhere with at least one fishing rod, and this trip was no exception.  Drifuss, the outfitter, looked at my equipment and declared it fit to be used only on those weenie fish like they have in Texas.  It seemed to me this Alaskan had never been to Texas, so I just kept my mouth shut.  He said he would put together the proper gear for tomorrow’s fishing trip for halibut.  About an hour later he called me to go over the things he had gathered for my use.

First he provided me with the proper clothes.  After I tried on a few heavy jackets, thick pants, and heavy boots, then added a thick wool cap and big gloves, he was satisfied I would be warm.  Then he handed me a sixty-pound tackle box, and he followed it with a fishing pole as thick as my wrist.  It was about seven feet long and had rollers instead of guides.  The reel was made from two truck rims welded together, and had a telephone pole for a handle, and instead of monofilament, the reel was spooled with quarter-inch nylon rope.  Wait—that’s a Texan talking.  But it was bigger and heavier than anything I had ever seen before.

After everything was prepared, I had a dinner of some kind of a steak.  I didn’t know at the time what kind of steak it was, but I was certainly impressed by the size of the thing.  I once ate a 72-ounce steak at a place near Amarillo, Texas, and I admit it was more meat than I preferred to eat at one sitting.  However, this steak was much bigger.  I thought it was to be divided among the several men at the table, but each of the other men was also staring at something similar.  And that was only the beginning.  There was the giant potato, the onion rings, mac and cheese, rolls, gravy, pies, cake, and the list goes on.  Someone asked about a salad, but we found out that was the purpose of the onion rings.  The ketchup doubled as salad dressing.

Then off to bed.  Feathers.  It was a real feather bed.  Well, a real feather mattress, real feather pillow, and a real bearskin top cover.  The room had everything the best hotels could hope for in the realm of luxury.  I had doubts about ever leaving this room to go fishing.  My thoughts wandered toward living the rest of my life in this luxurious room.  My thoughts were transported to a level of ecstasy reserved for kings in palaces. I should have listened to my thoughts.  Mind you, the fishing was great, but that room…

Breakfast was on the table at five the next morning.  I had another steak (much smaller this time), biscuits the size of my plate, fried potatoes, and four different kinds of gravy.  There were stacks of pancakes, baked fish, ham, bacon, cheeses, gallons of orange and apple juice, and not a drop of coffee to be found.  WHAT???  NO COFFEE!?? NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOooo…  Apparently Drifuss was supposed to bring it back from Anchorage, but he brought me instead.  I got more than a few glares from the other men.

Drifuss instructed us to go out to the pier where our gear had already been loaded onto the boat.  Four of us headed to the pier to get in the boat, while the other three men just hung their heads and tried vainly to stifle the laughter.  Arriving at the end of the pier we looked around for the boat, but the only boat we saw was that plane.  We thought the boat may have been taken somewhere for more fuel or something, but Drifuss informed us that the boat we were getting on was indeed the plane.  NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOooo…

It was a scramble to get to the back seats where we could somewhat ignore what was happening around us.  But I was too slow and again I was sitting next to Drifuss in the co-pilot’s seat.  Until yesterday I had never landed on water, and it was actually fun, but taking off from water is another story, especially in this plane.  Again the prop didn’t want to turn over, and this time there were four men agreeing with it.  But Drifuss had the stronger will, and the plane began to roar and shake.  The water had some low waves, which added to the fun of our takeoff, and the plane was overloaded, which meant we made five or six tries up and down that lake before climbing into the air.  By then my life had quit flashing before my eyes.

About two hours later we landed on a glass smooth inlet from the ocean and taxied up to an old wharf where a strangely familiar man with a big grin lassoed the spike on the side of the plane.  We tossed things out onto the wharf where the grinning man loaded them onto a big wagon attached to a three-wheeled ATV.  We followed him about a hundred yards or so to a very nice fishing boat that would be our home for the next few days.  Within the hour we were at sea, and soon after that we heard the sound of a struggling plane overhead.  None of us even looked up.  We knew what that noise was about.

We were shown where we would bunk, given a few instructions, and told that meals would depend on what we could catch.  Meanwhile, there was always coffee in the galley.  I don’t know what the captain said after that, and I’m certain the other men knew as much as I did, because getting to the galley was far more important than anything else the captain had to say.  Five or six cups later, the captain resumed his short speech about safety and some other issues.

By early afternoon we were sitting on a perfectly smooth ocean preparing to drop our lines into the water for halibut.  Captain Rafe told us that the halibut are usually active here and to expect some good action, but the bottom where they live is many hundreds of yards down, so it will be a long slow tiring process of bringing them up.  Be prepared.

I dropped my line and watched as the line on the reel quickly disappeared.  About the time I thought I would run out of line, I reached the bottom.  The leather pads I had on my thumbs to slow the line speed were so hot from the friction, I thought my thumbs were cooked to well done.  Once the reel stopped spinning, I pulled off the leather pads, took up the slack, raised my weight a few feet from the bottom and waited.  And waited.

After half an hour one of the crewmembers suggested I jig the line a bit and see if it would stir up some action.  I tried it a few times and felt a small tug.  And I mean small.  At that distance I wasn’t certain of anything happening on the bottom.  I told the crewmember about the small tug, and he got excited.  “Pull it up!  Pull it up!”

I started cranking the line back onto the reel, and at first I didn’t really feel anything other than the 5-pound lead weight and the weight of the line, but soon I began to feel something all right.  It was my muscles.  What goes down must come up.  So I cranked.  I had reeled in about two hundred yards of line before I knew with certainty I had hooked a fish.  Now along with the lead weight and the weight of the line, I had the weight of a fish that didn’t have any desire to come to the surface and visit me.

I cranked for another hour.  By now even my hangnails were hurting.  I kept cranking in spite of the tears running down my face.  I lost feeling in my hands for a while from the pain.  I cranked another hour.  And another hour.  I thought I saw my life flash before my eyes for the third time in two days, but this time the flash was a fish.

Actually it was a big halibut I was seeing.  Captain Rafe and the crewmembers were prepared with large gaffs and a wench to bring it on board through an opening in the railing, and although it was a struggle, that fish landed on the deck of the boat.  They tied a rope around its tail and hoisted it up on a boom.  (I may not be using the proper terms here, but you get the idea).  It was bigger than me.  The scales on the boom stopped at 304 pounds.  And that was one ugly fish besides.  How could a fish be so dark on one side, so white on the other side, and have both eyes on the same side?

I tried to get to my bunk to lie down, but the deck was closer.  It wasn’t long before someone noticed me, and soon I was back in the galley with a crewmember helping me get some feeling back into my arms.  I rested there for almost an hour before moving about some, and when I returned to the deck, the big halibut was still hanging by its tail, and the men wanted pictures.  Photographs were taken, the fish was lowered into a freezer, and I was lowered onto my bunk.

The following morning I discovered I wasn’t the only one recovering.  One of the other men with my party had also hooked a halibut over three hundred pounds and, like me, was paying a big price for being out of shape.  We waited until the third day before fishing again, and this time we fished much shallower, and definitely not for halibut. 

It was on this third day a large Orca, or killer whale, surfaced near our boat.  The captain stopped the motor, and we floated and watched this magnificent creature and several members of its family play around us.  According to the captain, we were being treated to a rare display by these leviathans.  This isn’t their normal territory, but they do show up every two or three years, and when they do they like to show off for the boats in the area.

On the fourth day the whales were gone, and we quit fishing early to travel back to the wharf to meet up with our plane.  All four of us had caught halibut, but the two smartest men caught several smaller ones instead of one big one.  They kept their fish, but I gave mine to the crew, and they had it portioned out among them rather quickly.  Subsistence living is not easy, and every little bit helps.

Reluctantly we climbed back into the plane to go back to the lodge.  Again I was in the front, but this time it wasn’t so bad.  The plane was coaxed into starting, and we were in the air on the first attempt.  Still, there was this thing about my life flashing before my eyes, but I was used to it by now.

There was one day of down time back at the lodge before we went fishing for Dolly Varden.  The salmon run had just ended for all practical purposes, but the Dolly Varden were moving and Drifuss knew the place to take us.  I was afraid to ask if it involved a plane ride.  Of course it did.

We landed on a long narrow lake less than an hour away from the lodge where three of us this time were dropped off along with the grinning man who was to be our guide and cook.  He had us wait by the edge of the lake while he disappeared into the woods for a while, and when he returned it was with a three-wheeled ATV with a wagon behind it.  We loaded up the gear onto the wagon and followed him up a small trail to a cabin.  A nice cabin.  Very nice.

It was built for up to ten people, basically two groups of four plus a guide for each group.  And it was well apportioned.  Quickly we settled into our individual rooms, and prepared to go fishing—right after lunch.

I’ll stop calling him the grinning man.  His name was Smiley.  Really.  Actually it was his last name, but he used it as his handle.  And he could cook.  It seems that he should have been a chef somewhere, but here he was cooking and guiding in Alaska.  He slapped together a quick lunch that I would have called a full dinner anywhere else.  Then he gave us some instructions about fishing in competition with the bears.  And a .357.

The bears weren’t usually a problem in this area, he told us, but don’t trust them to just wave “hello” and go their way.  They are actually rather shy, and the bears will normally go somewhere else if they hear you coming, so make noise, it won’t scare the fish away.  To help with the noise, each of us was given a three-wheeled ATV to use, although we couldn’t travel very far with them.  About a mile or so in each direction the lake became a stream again, either inflowing or outflowing, and the ATV would be of little use beyond that point.  It was on those streams where we would be fishing.  Today we were going past the inlet to the lake to Smiley’s favorite place on the stream.

When we arrived at the place where the stream flowed into the lake, I couldn’t tell the difference.  The stream was as wide as the lake, and I will admit it was much wider than any river I had seen in Texas.  But we traveled on and soon I could begin to see riffles and rocks visible in the water.  Gravel bars were making their appearance here and there, and smaller streams were flowing into the main stream every fifty yards or so.  Soon we came to a small falls with a gravel bar just above it.  Here Smiley began to send us out in separate directions.

I was a spin fisherman in those days, and so were the other men with me.  None of us were into fly-fishing at that time, but in later discussions with these men, we all agreed that this was the place to fly fish.  And we caught Dolly Varden until we were absolutely exhausted—not halibut exhausted, but exhausted nonetheless.

That night at the mini-lodge, we had steaks for dinner again.  This time we asked what they were, and were told caribou this time around.  Sometimes they had elk, sometimes deer, sometimes moose, sometimes caribou, but mostly they had beef like everyone else.  I didn’t care; it was all good.

Breakfast was fish, and I assume it was Dolly Varden, but I don’t remember asking.  Along with it was unlimited bacon, ham, biscuits the size of…, but you’ve heard this before.  Needless to say, I was in a state of glutinous euphoria.  The thing I couldn’t understand was how Smiley stayed so thin.  Some people have all the luck.

The second day we traveled down the lake past the outlet, this time the change was very defined, to a long series of gravel bars and riffles where we spread out again to fish.  All day long a chorus of “Hello Dolly” could be heard by any passersby, if there were any, as we caught and released more fish than I believed possible.  And day three was the same. Wow…wow.

Fishing this area was a magical time for me, and I didn’t want to leave, but all things come to an end, it was time to go face the plane.  On day four we fished the banks of the lake waiting for the plane to arrive, and the fishing was just as great.  Then we heard the plane.  God help us.

Back at the main lodge that evening we were having another incredible dinner, this time with coffee, when we heard the sound of a plane arriving at the lodge.  Not Drifuss’s plane, a real plane.  We all walked out to see who had arrived, and all of us were looking at the new plane with our tongues hanging out.  It was beautiful, and it was everything Drifuss’s plane was not.  And we wanted to fly in it.

The man taxied up to the pier, stepped down a ladder onto the pontoon and tossed a rope to Smiley.  He climbed onto the pier, exchanged keys with Drifuss, and then climbed into the old plane.  It took some patience to move the prop, but soon he was airborne, and we were looking at Drifuss.

“Oh, that old thing?  It was a loaner while mine was being tuned up.  I’m glad it’s gone.  Every time I get in it my life flashes before my eyes.”

Decades have passed since that trip, but I ran into Drifuss at a fishing show in southern California recently, and we reminisced about that old plane.  It was the only thing that kept this Texan from becoming an Alaskan.