I’m nostalgic when it comes to the outdoors. An old trapper’s cabin, log driving dam, or even a pile of rusted metal in the middle of the woods really catches my attention. With so little information about who left them there, a creative imagination can run wild. Just think about the stories that could be told. Think of the folks living in the woods back in those days, the things they did and the hardships they endured. Interestingly enough, Walter Arnold was the nostalgic type too. He wrote this article in the 1930’s, remembering some lines on the wall of an old trapper’s cabin. We don’t have the privilege of seeing many of those old cabins today, but we do have Arnold’s writings. In this article, he talks about the hardships on the trapline, as well as the occasional highs that make it all worth it.
“Out of the Past”
First published in the June 1933 issue of Fur-Fish-Game magazine.
It was a dozen or fifteen years ago in a small, recently vacated trapper’s cabin, that I noticed a few lines of poetry tacked up on the wall. I was aware that it was neither the work of a Longfellow or a Whittier, but nevertheless in those few crude lines there was a world of truth. I do not recall the lines now, but do remember that they dwelt almost wholly upon the thorny side of the trapper’s life. The poem ended with these two lines:
“But we forget it all,
When we make a big haul.”
Quite a bit of truth is wrapped up in those two lines, and that is one of the reasons I believe most of us trappers are so confounded crazy about this occupation that lured Kit Carson, David Crockett, Daniel Boone and other famous, historic characters into the woods, because we seldom seem to notice the hardships and unpleasant incidents we are forced to endure. Somehow we manage to get over or by them, and then they are either forgotten, or as time rubs off the rough edges and mellows the memory, we treat these past experiences in more of a humorous manner. What we like to remember are those pleasant times or exciting moments with which each day is filled, bringing joy to our hearts, and let our troubles and hardships fade away into the misty past, like a ship sailing away into the fog.
It is not necessary, however, to brush up the old memory but very little to bring back recollections of many unpleasant occurrences which we have played a major part in, such as…..well, here is one:
The Frozen Sapling
The place is on the slopes of a mountain. The day is bitter cold with the temperature well below zero. A driving wind is freezing all before it, and small bushes are frozen as hard as nails. Small birch, maple and hazel are in abundance. One of these bushes (there is always one or more waiting to get in its treacherous work) is strained back. Something is touched somewhere that releases it, and then, SWISH!, it comes cutting through the air, and always (there is never a miss) slashes across a half frozen face blue with the cold. Ye gods! Let’s not continue with this subject. Let’s find something with less sting to it.
Thumb in the Trap
As I allow my mind to drift back into the past I can recall something about a boy and a trap. The trap, a No. 1 ½ Blake & Lamb, was setting at the water’s edge on a steep clay bank that sloped off into the dark, forbidding pool of the brook. The boy worked his way carefully down the bank to the set and then attempted to place a piece of fresh bait into the hole behind the trap, when zip!, a thumb had strayed a bit too close to the pan of the trap and was now firmly gripped between the cutting jaw of this small but powerful trap. Well, who wouldn’t jump a bit from this sudden turn in affairs? But of course jumping was not the proper thing to do on this sloping clay bank, and the boy’s feet immediately started toward the bottom of the brook. Well, that was all right – the lad could swim – but then there was that chain attached to a stake and fastened firmly into the bank! A painful yank on the thumb and progress was halted. Nothing to do now but work back up to the bank, if possible. This was accomplished after slipping back several times, always resulting in the same painful jerk on the thumb. The trap was about to be opened and the thumb released when the now wet clay gave way again, and back into the brook went the boy. There were more desperate attempts made to reach a position from which the trap could be released up on the bank, now becoming more slippery each moment, but each attempt ended with the same painful jerk and twist on the thumb. Finally the boy grasped the trap with his free hand, and bracing his feet the best he could against the slippery bank gave a mighty tug and out flew the stake and chain and the boy went floundering backwards out into the cold waters of the brook again. He made his way down the brook and crawled out on a level shore and removed the trap, and I can say for a fact that lad has never had the desire to set any more traps on sloping clay banks at the water’s edge since that day.
Floods
The first flood to catch me right in the middle of a trapping season took place over some twenty years ago. Naturally this is one event that stands out as a landmark in the happenings of the past. I was trapping and doing very well for a youngster when along came the flood. I awoke one morning to find it raining. It continued to rain all day and night. The next morning I awoke to find the rain still pattering down on the roof of my camp. I was getting weary of being confined to the camp, so decided that rain or no rain I was going to do something that day. I pulled on my knapsack and started for home, thinking I would pack in a load of provisions. I had at that time a well made and durable foot bridge across Ship Pond Stream. It had stood up well for a couple of years against spring freshets. I crossed this bridge on the way home. Arriving home about noon I ate dinner there, and then filled up the pack with provisions and started back to camp.
The rain had now let up but the water was rising fast. This fact was well established when I saw the foot bridge, the water was up on the bridge part, and when I reached the last set of stringers little waves were dancing over them. As I started to cross this last span my weight was a little too much. The stringers sagged a bit deeper into the water, and the swift current started sweeping them off the horses. The water was very fast here, and I realized that I must step lively and did so. The end next to shore had swung off and was rapidly swinging out. I ran as far as I could and jumped. I managed, without an inch to spare, to grab into some alders. (As the old driver would call it, an “alder grab”). I pulled myself out of the water and reached the bank in safety. I did not think much about the matter at that time, but since have wondered just what would have been the outcome if I had missed those alders and had gone down stream in those racing waters with my heavy pack on and a new rifle in my hands.
The next day I started over my trap line. Three out of the five ponds were flooded well back into the woods. I had plenty of traps all through this low ground. I waded and floundered around in cold water all day and reached camp long after dark, putting in one of my hardest days on the trap line, and was compensated by finding a brown weasel in one of my traps, for which I received the handsome sum of three cents. And yet I trap!
Cold Water
The only excuse I have to offer along with the following narrative is that this event took place quite some years ago, or as I might say, back in my youthful days, at a time when a fellow is full of hustle and ambition, but with judgment none too good.
One January day, as I was snowshoeing over my trap line, I noticed that an otter had made a trip down through the Buttermilk ponds. After looking the outlet of Second Buttermilk over, I came to the conclusion that I could make a sure fire set there. I returned the next day with a weak-springed bear trap. I proceeded to make the set by lopping down a few alders into the outlet from both shores, the tops coming together over some quiet shallow water on a gravel bar. I got things ready, undressed my feet, and got into the water. I trimmed out a narrow runway through the tops, and there I placed the bear trap under about five inches of water. I wired the trap chain to a log bedded into the bottom, and then beat it to for shore. It was not a cold day for this time of year, probably 25 above zero, but nevertheless my hands and feet were quite numb with the cold when I got out of the water. I soon had my feet dressed, and getting into the snowshoes I started swinging down the trail in a lively gait, and in short time was well warmed up.
I visited this set several times and found it “setting pretty”, but one day during the month of February, with temperature ranging well below zero, I was disappointed to find a black duck in the trap. “A black duck!” I hear you exclaim. Yes, a black duck. There is open water at the outlet of nearly all ponds and lakes, and in fast water in the streams, and a few of these black ducks remain with us all winter. I had no use for the duck, but as long as it remained in the trap there was no chance of catching Mr. Otter, so I did about the only thing I could do. Back in the bushes about 30 feet from the set, I dug away the snow and built a good fire. I made a good trail out to the water. I then undressed my feet and put on an old pair of socks I had in my pack for spares, and went out and got into the water. The water itself did not seem very cold as it was so much warmer than the air, but I knew that I would feel the cold as soon as any wet part of my body became exposed to the air. I worked fast. I opened up the trap and got the duck out, and soon had the trap set and in place again. The job was done mighty quickly, too. I scrambled ashore in for the fire. There was no feeling in my hands and feet, but I managed to get dry stockings and moccasins on without freezing either my hands or feet. I got onto my snowshoes and hit the trail. It was a long time before I got a good circulation work up in my hands and feet, and when they did start to warm up how they did ache. I vowed then and there that in the future my winter trapping would be done with my clothes on. No, I did not catch the otter. That was the only trip he made through that section during the winter.
The Pebble
There are 1,001 little joy killers, and most trappers have met up with the majority of them. For instance, most all of us have encountered the troublesome pebble, which when given an opportunity, will invariably work its way in between the jaws of the trap and into such a position that it will prevent the jaws from closing firmly onto the foot of the animal that springs the trap. Trappers on the whole have erupted a vast amount of fire and blue smoke over this insignificant looking little pebble.
The Shrew
There’s also that little animal, the shrew, that will start eating its way through the hide and into the carcass of a mink, weasel, or other small furbearer, before the animal is scarcely through kicking. The majority of winter trappers can, with mingled oaths, truthfully tell of the depredations committed by this miniature wolverine along their trapline.
Knots
There is another unimportant looking cuss that we never think of, yet it has collected its toll from nearly every one of us. That is the sharp, dry, hard knot which in a menacing manner juts out from the side of a tree. With mended and ragged clothes you will pass 1,000 times and never know it is there. But just you put on a new shirt or pair of trousers, or even a new pair of stockings, and zowie!, you are caught and ripped the first time you pass.
The Lowly Nontarget
Other moments when we feel like shaking a fist in the air and bursting forth in an excessive flow of language, which is neither fair nor proper to print here, are the times we find non-target animals in our traps, and telltale tracks in the snow prove to us without a shadow of a doubt that valuable furbearers have visited the set since they were blocked by those pests.
Forgetful Trapper
Some evening as your weary legs are bringing you back to camp after a hard day on the trapline, did it ever occur to you, all of a sudden, at that last water set for fox, miles away, your trowel was still standing up in the spring near the bait sod with the handle reeking in human scent? That, brother, is one of the times that you will pay yourself some very high compliments.
Nasty Mice
Then there are the mice that are forever getting into the flour, rice, rolled oats and other foods, leaving many black oats behind them. Where’s the old time hunter or trapper who at some time or other has not met up with this combination and either had to eat it or go hungry? My partner and I arrived at a camp late one evening, and by that time we had gathered wood and got in the water for night, it was quite dark. About all the food in the camp was a bag of rolled oats hanging up so that mice could not get into them. In the semi darkness we cooked a big dish full of these oats, and as we started eating them we discovered they were full of black oats. We soon found that the mice had made their way down the string from the rafter the bag was hung from, and had eaten a hole through the bag and had been feasting in there. We were hungry and tired, and soon decided that satisfying the inner man was most important, so I picked out what black oats we found handy and ate our supper. I sure would like to have a penny for every black oat that has been eaten. No one likes them either.
Messy Snow
There are times that we like the snow, and then again there are times that we do not. Not long ago I was snowshoeing over my trail right after a snowfall of about 8 inches of dry, light snow. The trees were heavily loaded, as the wind had not yet blown the snow off the boughs bending under the loads they were holding up. On going down the hill I was forced to climb over a fallen tree. As I jumped off of it one of my snowshoes caught on a small knot and partly tripped me before letting go. This started me headlong down the hill. I of course lost my balance and sprawled up against a good-sized fir tree. My hat flew off and rolled down the hill, and as I started to rise, woosh!, the whole tree load of light snow came tumbling down, and it seemed to me that at least 2 quarts of the dry cold snow went sliding down my back. I seldom travel with my shirt buttoned up around my neck, so there was plenty of room. I do not make a practice of talking to myself, but I must confess that while I was unwinding my legs and snowshoes in getting out of that tangle I uttered a few sounds which I will not attempt to interpret just now.
The Lunch Trick
What a brotherly feeling you harbor toward your trapping partner when you see him with your lunch can, and as you suppose, filling in full of good things for you to eat when it comes noon and you are far back in the woods. But after putting in a very strenuous forenoon and developing an appetite like you never had before, what a different feeling comes stealing over you when, opening up your lunch can, you discover with dismay that honest partner did not put up your lunch for you after all. Then how about ten days later, you put up a fine lunch for yourself when at noon, miles away in the woods, you discover that in the dim candlelight in the early morning you have put your lunch can in to your partner’s pack, which looks very much like your own. Then, after struggling through the rest of the day, you arrive at camp after dark, weak and weary, and partner, grinning ear to ear, starts rambling on about what a wonderful dinner he had and how long it took him to eat it! I say there are times when that brotherly feeling nearly disappears. It is then those two crude lines come to our rescue:
“But we forget it all,
When we make a big haul”.
Find this stuff interesting? I’m working on a book covering the works of Walter Arnold, the legendary trapper from the Maine woods. Stay tuned, and contact me at [email protected] to reserve a copy!
Leave a Reply