Gooseberry Pie

He stood there at the waters edge, the big pole in his hands with the line and bobber out in the lake 50 or 60 feet. A woodchuck tail hung from the brim of his hat. This boy, the fisherman, stood a tall 2 1/2 feet as he concentrated on the bobber that every little bit would duck under the surface. Presently he gave the pole a jerk and reeled in on the line. It was jumping up and down, the bobber running here and there. The woodchuck tail flopped in time with the action and effort of bringing in that fighting underwater denizen. No hollering or yelling, this fisherman was too busy getting it to shore, which was serious business and he meant to be successful.

His older brother, Mike, sat on a big log not far away, watching the action. He wasn't inclined to nor attracted by the same interests. He would rather sit and enjoy the beauty of this little lake and surrounding mountain land with the tall trees and green meadows. One of them was some past his 4th birthday and the other was not yet 6. They were best of friends, but the younger always looked for the adventuresome things to do with his brother trailing along for backup.

That morning their 14 year old brother had shot the woodchuck with his .22 rifle. When Mike and Randy saw the lifeless little body their tender hearts caused tears of sorrow to roll from their sad little eyes, but when they were told that it's tail could be tied to Randal's hat like Daniel Boone they were somewhat appeased.

With Randy's fishes and those that the other kids caught we had plenty for a big fish feast at dinner time. Mom and Grandma did the cooking while Dad tended the fire and shoveled hot coals where ever they were needed. The cool mountain air with smells of pine and sage whetted our appetites and gave special flavor to the fish

We had made camp the day before on a little rise where many years before a sawmill had been. Only the low frame of one wall now stood. Even most of the sawdust had disappeared and green grass grew over it all. Our beds, all in a row, lay to the south of the old wooden framework. A big canvas was stretched up and over, protecting the head of the beds on the north and extending beyond the full length about 8 or 10 feet. We had cut balsam limbs for mattresses, which amounted to quite a big job as there were eight beds to go down. Mike and Randy shared one of the sleeping bags, but we put Grandma in the middle and got only the smaller, softer branches to cushion her. She was then in her 67th year, alone for 20 years since Grandpa had died. The east, south and west of the shelter was open, and the morning sun rays would reach in to waken the sleepers when it tipped over the top of a distant mountain ridge. Usually Dad had a fire blazing by then, but it was good sleeping for another 45 minutes or so.

Sometimes the fishermen got up early so we could eat fish for breakfast or maybe just eggs and hot-cakes. The smoke from the campfire curled lazily upward on the quiet of the still morning air. A place of beauty and peace, not often to be enjoyed by this family.

A shallow swale lay to the west of camp where ripe gooseberries hung on thorny stems. Grandma in her wide brimmed hat, with pail in hand was soon busy plucking the ingredients for dutch oven gooseberry pies and cobblers. Cathy helped a lot and Linda, too. Judy and I picked for awhile. When Mike and Randy found out how sour they were their interest was taken up by the little patches of small, but sweet strawberries. These they searched for and picked diligently.. No pail was needed for the strawberries as they went directly into their mouths.

Clay and Darrell were away from camp at the time, riding Smoky and Lightenin. There was a lot of nice country to be explored horseback with .22 rifles hung in saddle scabbard in case of need. That evening for supper we ate more mountain trout from the lake and tart, sweet gooseberry cobbler, mmm!

That night about 2 AM I woke to the patter of rain on the tarp above us. The lightening flashed, with thunder crashing as rain fell in torrents for a little while, but fortunately we were right on the crest of a little hill so all the water ran away from our camp. Before morning the storm moved east-ward, leaving the land washed clean and fresh. The sun rose over the top of a big cloud bank in the far east, but the morning was soon drying off in the warm sunshine.

Most of us lost our enthusiasm for fishing after a couple of days, but not Randy, he went back to the lake a time or two each day. I helped him dig worms and chase grasshoppers. We had our old jeep with us on that trip so we could explore all the little roads and flat country as we drove around through the quakin asp groves. South of camp a mile or so was a large beaver dam and lake where fishing was pretty good. All this country Clay and Darrell had ridden across and fished the creeks and ponds and hunted for small game so we had duck to eat and young porcupine, maybe rabbit or woodchuck.

When the week had gone by, Clay and Darrell packed old black Shorty and headed off by themselves. I had to help drive the outfits home. Then I returned to fetch the boys and horses a couple of days later. A fun time, long to be remembered.