It's great to live off the land, especially when that land has a grocery store on it.
Yet there are those summer days when the garden produces and the fish bite. Time to enjoy fine dining on what you catch and grow.
Our first home-grown feast here at the shack-ri-la was a festive occasion. Imagine our delight when we peeked at the garden and, lo and behold, spied the first ripe tomato. Not huge, but round and bright red. Nice of the deer to leave us at least one.
If that wasn't excitement enough, there in a tangle of vines was the first juicy cucumber. The summer's first live-off-the-land meal was shaping up. Now if we just had some fish.
Turned out my pal Dwayne needed some fish to treat his sister who was flying in for a visit. Dark and early the next morning we were off to the White River to catch a mess of trout.
Last year she arrived two days after we'd been fishing. Dwayne fixed his sis a fine dinner of grilled rainbow trout that she thoroughly enjoyed.
When they set the date for this year's visit, her first question was, "You guys been trout fishing yet?" Our mission this fishing trip was to catch enough for another back yard feast.
We launched the boat at Houseman Access, seven miles downstream from Beaver Dam. The 25-horsepower outboard pushed us upstream through the fog and mist that shrouds the White River most summer dawns. The White is a beautiful place to fish any time, but so nice and cool when it's hot.
Honey hole No. 1 was our first stop at a big bend in the river about a mile above Houseman Access. Last year we caught trout here right away with small black or brown jigs. This trip we managed to pry one 12-inch trout out of the honey hole in an hour.
"Hope your sister isn't a big eater," I teased.
We worked our way upstream to a second hot spot above Spider Creek. Another trout or two went into the ice chest, but fishing was slow. By now it was 10 a.m. and the prime early morning hours were over. If his sister wanted fish, looked like they might have to drive to Long John Silver's.
Things changed in a hurry. The hotter the morning grew, the better the catching. Dwayne started slaying them with his small black and green jig. Before noon, we had two, five-fish limits of rainbow trout on ice.
We cleaned Dwayne's fish to leave them whole for grilling. Field dressing them, you might say, just removing the innards and gills but leaving the heads on. When the eyes turn white you know they're done, sort of like the pop-up thing on a turkey.
I'd always field dressed my trout, too, and grilled them. This time I embarked on a grand cooking experiment. I fileted my trout as if they were crappie. I'd fry 'em up instead of grilling.
Back at the shack, I fired up the Fry Daddy and coated the trout filets in the usual breading I like for crappie. Each piece of trout emerged from the canola oil golden brown, like they ought to be on the cover of Southern Living.
I sliced my first ripe tomato, then the cucumber and put some crispy trout filets on the plate. Such a delicious meal. Dessert was the feeling of accomplishment knowing I'd grown my own veggies and caught my own fish.
I felt pretty darned smug living off the land, at least for one meal.
Flip Putthoff can be reached at [email protected]
Sports on 07/02/2018