“Deep summer is when laziness finds respectability.” - Sam Keen
“July is a blind date with summer.” - Hal Borland
July is one darn tough string of thirty days or so. If it wasn’t for large Georgia watermelons, ripe Rutger tomatoes, an occasional night fishing adventure and cold Appalachian trout streams, I’d flee to the mountains far west of here. Peaks that meet the clouds 12,000 feet or higher.
The first time a hard, sticky July got to me like that, the 14,000 foot peaks were obtained via the thumb. Free rides offered by interstate traveling Samaritans who more than likely took pity due to the size of our over loaded backpacks. My hiking companion had just survived his senior trip of 18 months in Southeast Asia, where he had formulated an extensive bucket list that included trout fishing in Wyoming’s Big Sky Country.
The second trip west was in an early 60’s vintage VW Beetle that ate points and plugs, which offset the fact that gasoline was much cheaper in that era.
The third road was covered in a new, from Laurence Doster, Mercury Capri, full of bird dogs and a new bride. That trip was pure magic. The Yellowstone and the Pelican rivers fed us wood fire fried trout almost every night.
There’s been other escapes from July with the overly expensive assistance of Delta and other odd jet owning carriers, but it’s never really been the same. The Great Plains are worth the drive. Especially with a clear night sky, or a sunrise over a golden field of wheat or sunflowers.
Snow on the distant Colorado eastern horizon of the Rockies at dawn in July is something special, even through a bug splattered windshield.
Gordon MacQuarrie, in 1951, described the feeling of such a view very well, albeit his view was of the Alaska range: “After breakfast the sun got out of bed too, and went right to work painting a drib of pink here and a dab of purple there until the mountains were smeared with magic colors. Artists do poorly trying to follow the changing hues in Alaska. Some have gained partial victories. Usually they wind up just like writing men; “If you don’t believe it, go see for yourself.”
But here in this part of our planet, July’s a sticky, wet cotton in your crack sort of heat.
By this month the hoe and the cranky garden tiller are abandoned. A deep state of laziness has settled over the plot where the groceries struggle to grow. The weeds have won again. The hands are calloused. The old hoe is idled. Cucumbers have become harder to find now and the bugs that thrive profoundly and profusely in the vegetables are no longer in imminent danger.
Oh there’s still a patrol or two for immigrant, invasive Jap beetles in the corn, but I’m not all that optimistic about this corn, or the okra, for that matter. The accompanying weeds appear to be fairly healthy. Why Jap beetles don’t eat weeds eludes me. The bush beans look a little weary after their fourth picking. Laziness isn’t really a strong enough word that can be applied here.
If you’ve ever been crotch deep in a cold East Tennessee Mountain trout stream in July, and suddenly shared it with a long, velvet tailed timber rattler, as this terrifying yet majestic reptile glides by, with it’s thirteen rattles and a button held high and dry, you may have asked yourself which one of you were the most shocked.
Why would a cold blooded reptile put itself through the agony of such a frigid bath and a bone chilling swim? What exactly compels an apex predator to risk temporary rigor mortis and why would crossing a cold stretch of water be imperative to a warmth loving creature?
The longer you stand frozen in fear midstream, the bigger this awesome reptile becomes. It doesn’t take all that long before, in your deluded and scrambled mind, the venomous snake in the water with you, morphs into a 14 foot, pig eating Anaconda.
Once you manage to disengage that frightening hallucination, It suddenly dawns on you that you’re sharing a cold steam with a freezing reptile that could easily confuse your immobile form as a good spot midstream, for a brief rest stop and a much needed warm-up.
This realization quickly blossoms a very moving thought, but you find yourself frozen in abject terror.
A nine foot, five weight fly rod is a fairly flimsy foil as defensive weapons go, when you’re crotch deep in a cold situation, that’s instantly become terrifyingly hot. July can do this.
Have you ever heard a strange commotion in your minnow bucket at night and found an evil looking, splotchy, fat brown snake in your boat? The hypnotic hiss of the Coleman’s glow and the sleepy focus on the rod tip, in the bug infested wait for the lethargic crappie to sip your drowning, squirming minnow, can easily lull you to sleep on any still July late night.
Even over the loud and steady drone of the tree frogs and an occasional hungry mosquito, a large reptile in the boat has a tendency to jolt you to Olympic gold medal levels of alert. No matter the size of the boat, there’s never been a boat constructed large enough when there’s a snake using your minnow bucket as a midnight snack.
No escape, the handgun is of little assistance here, but you immediately consider the utility one offers, until you instantly come to the harsh realization that shooting six holes in the aluminum hull is probably terribly hasty and completely redundant. You’re down to vicious hand to hand combat in this predicament. It’s suddenly an incredibly tiny boat.
The first cut of hay is in the barn. The second cut is now dependent on more than the dense and incipient humidity that July bathes us with. This month can be dry, it can be loud and wet, and at times, all electric. Harder to find the cucumbers now. Easier to find a cold mountain home of the brilliant little Brook Trout and a good spot to cool that round Georgia melon. July, in these mountains, the heat is somehow drier. It’s never a dry heat here, but it’s good enough.
Snow in these mountains? No chance, It’s July. Damn tough, July is.
WOMR Note; I don’t really care for long, fat, venomous reptiles all that much. The month is really immaterial, but when you’re fishing in their country, it just seems to get a bit crowded at times. If you’ve ever seen a grown pig swallowed by an Anaconda, you’ll probably understand. Good fishing!
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