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Confessions of the Hired Spatula: Outfitter Stories, Recipes, A Proper Lampooning
by Deborah L. Carlton; co-published with Water Tiger Arts
222 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #01-0148; ISBN 1-55212-748-6; US$21.50, C$26.95, EUR18.00, £12.50
This first book by author Carlton is a collection of vignettes and humorous anecdotes relating the adventures of an Eastern neophyte who becomes a camp cook in the US Rockies. Recipes and illustrations throughout.
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About the book About the author Sample excerpt Catalogue info
About the BookConfessions of the Hired Spatula is the first book by author, Deborah
Carlton and brings us some of the artwork and writings gathered over the
past eight years. The writings are mostly humorous anecdotes of
experiences as a neophyte backcountry cook. The cover art is from her
larger oil canvases of places where she has travelled. The interior line
drawings were created especially to accompany these stories and there
are recipes learned from cooking under the most grueling of
circumstances; under canvas tents on gas stoves of questionable vintage,
on campfires in extreme cold or hot weather, with biting pests, no
running water and often little sleep each night. Yet Deborah finds such
humor that the reader will laugh out loud, and the circumstances are so
unusual and interesting that this book will become a treasure to return
to over and again. Related websites: D. R. Schrader Custom Saddles. Fine hand-crafted custom saddles for horses and mules. |
About the AuthorDeborah Lynne Carlton is a native Mainer, from a long line of Mainers. She attended first a Business college, then a Fine Arts college majoring in Silversmithing, minoring in Painting, and was a freelance painter for several years. A recession in Maine caused her return to work as a legal secrtary; eventually inducing a life re-evaluation after computer work caused serious (though not permanent) deterioration to her eyesight. With never a thought of leaving Maine, she soon became seized with the urgent desire to paint the great outdoors. Wide open plains, elusive rivers, red rock canyons and indigo mountains became her subjects as she left home for the first time in 1993 to begin a journey of remote and scenic destinations that continues to this day. Please contact the auhor at: watertiger89@verizon.net |
Sample Excerpt
I wish I had written things down way back when it was all
happening. Seems I have forgotten so much, but I do recall some funny
moments here and there. Especially one quirky mule that I believe
warrants its own paragraph in history. Just utter its name, and any of
the fellows will set to sputtering story after story - all ending in
frustration, or maybe laughter now that so much time has passed. Time
does indeed make the misery seem milder. Introducing Wulfie the Wonder
Mule.
It is doubtful that his origins are noted in any prestigious registry
of mule history, yet without doubt, Wulfie has left his mark on any
number of impressionable young wranglers, be it their egos or their
behinds. Wulfie is what we call an "orangutan" - something that conducts
itself without reason, and without warning. I am somewhat shy to confess
that I did at some point begin to understand his intentions, which I
would never have admitted at the time. To think like a mule is to be
compared to one. I prefer to spare myself that comparison.
Firstly, like most any mule, Wulfie did what Wulfie wanted to do -
and very little else. Just try and lead him down to the game hanging
tree and pack a few elk quarters on him and you will soon know what I
mean. Though I felt sorry for the wrangler charged with this duty, the
spectacle of it was of such exceptional entertainment that I rarely
missed the opportunity to observe - from a safe distance. How they ever
got him packed is a matter of luck and persistence. Perhaps the Mule
Deity was smiling down upon their sorry souls, or perhaps Wulfie was
just funnin' with them. Nonetheless, packing game on Wulfie was nearly
akin to giving birth - for which the greater percent of mankind is duly
unprepared.
Another favorite game of Wulfie's I call "Flip the
Packhorse." There was a certain pack bridge, spanning maybe 30 feet, on
the North Fork Buffalo Valley trail. Of all the pack bridges on this
trail, Wulfie never offered to cause trouble on any but this particular
one. And OH did he cause trouble. The boys were accustomed to placing
Wulfie on the tail end of the pack string, where Wulfie was content to
let his contemporaries pull him along for the ride. But come to this
bridge he would wait until the entire string was positioned on it
(leaving only himself on land) then plant his feet firm. As the bridge
had a noticeable angle where it met solid ground, Wulfie's antic had the
disastrous effect of pulling the horses directly preceding him off
balance, thereby sending them ass over teakettle into the deep ditch
below, and usually upon their backs.
There is nothing so frightening to a wrangler as the sight of Shamus
Henry's fully packed horse on its back, 10 feet below a narrow bridge
with a bunch of pack animals above. Immediately all hands bale off, pack
ropes cut (a major infraction in of itself) to free the unfortunate
animal before it suffocates. This, followed by a good hour of
reassembling one's shit before any further progress is made down the
trail, if you're LUCKY. Wulfie just stands there looking innocent, and
Wulfie is no fool for he never tries this when Shamus Henry is in
company. But soon as Boss leaves the boys in charge (which was often),
you could bet money he would be turning the world upside down again.
Course, mules are not the only things known to be stubborn in the
hills. There is a certain Texan whose logic about parallels a mule, and
he was just as likely to plant his own feet firmly in the ground - so to
speak. One day we were riding the trail with full pack strings and a
bunch of guests. As we approached this bridge, I knew with complete
certainty that Wulfie would pull his usual stunt. Meanwhile, the World
Famous Texan had assigned me to bringing up the rear (alternately known
as "picking up the pieces"), which put me at least eight horses behind
Wulfie. I suggested that if I were to ride right up on Wulfie's tail, I
might succeed in moving him across the bridge? Naturally Mr. Will would
not hear of it, and told me to "just stay back there like he tole' me to
do." If ever I had a mind to disobey, it would have been at that moment.
But I didn't, and true to form, Wulfie did his thing dislodging not one
but two horses off the bridge this time. One minute we were riding
peaceably through this magnificent wilderness, next thing all hell
breaks loose, everyone shouting, horses scattered through the trees and
guests milling about confused - it was a pitiful sight. Alas, there was
nothing I could do, 'cept to say, "I told ya so," which I did. And look
upon the whole scene with disgust, which I did.
If ever it happened again that year, nobody admitted it and Shamus
Henry was none the wiser. But if I were to keep score, I would say the
half-breed jackass was at least three points ahead of the dimwitted
Texan, and looking smarter all the time. Besides which, as neatly as
Shamus Henry could ride that Texan, I am quite certain that no one ever
rode Wulfie.
MULE BISCUITS*
In honor of Wulfie, here are some biscuits with a kick -
2 C. flour
3/4 tsp. soda
1/2 tsp. salt
1/4
C. shortening
1/4 C. vinegar
1/2 C. milk
Cut
shortening into dry ingredients, add milk/vinegar, and mix until just
moistened. Pat dough about half an inch thick onto a floured surface,
cut and bake at 450°F degrees for 12 min.
* Another old family favorite from my mother, who has been known to possess a little piss and vinegar herself.
