Getting old is nothing new. With age comes the inevitable slowing down, physical ailments, and in some cases, increased responsibilities. Walter Arnold was feeling it in the 1950’s. He still got around great, but the responsibility part was grinding on him. Working on a farm to pay the bills sapped much of his time and energy, and his backwoods trapline was getting neglected.
There’s something about new blood that is incredibly energizing, and it’s why the mentor-mentee relationship works so well in different aspects of life. A young person comes in with lots of energy and vitality, and unbounded ambition. The old timer has lost most of this, but he has the experience and resources the youngster can benefit greatly from.
So it was with Arnold and Paul. A young man, fresh out of the military, had a dream to trap full time for a season. Arnold had a cabin, a line, and the gear, but not the energy or time. So they teamed up, and it worked out well. In fact, as you’ll see later on in the story, it worked out incredibly well.
Me and Paul
First Published in Fur-Fish-Game May 1956 and June 1956
Walter Arnold
The Request
It was back in January of 1953 that I received a letter from a young man in Pennsylvania. He was now back home after four years in the Army, including his share of service in Korea. He wrote that it was his desire, before he settled down, to spend a fall and winter running a trapline back in the wilderness of Maine, and he wondered if I could be of aid to him in locating some place in the tall timber.
Needless to say, I have received many similar letters during the past thirty-five years, but there is little I can do about it. There are many wilderness trappers who change their trapping grounds from year to year, and I am in no position to tell anyone where there will be no trappers next season. My advice for anyone who wishes to go to some other state and locate a trapline is for him to go to that state during the summer, work at jobs here and there and do some prospecting. When a locality is found that seems promising, find out if there are other trappers working it, or planning to do so that season, and try to make sure not to get mixed up into some venture of strife and battle where no one makes a dollar.
I was impressed with this particular letter and wished there was something I could do to help out. However, I was about to write my customary answer when an idea hit me. I sat down and wrote that it was possible I could be of aid, but first there were more things I wished to know, and I asked him ten or a dozen questions and also for references. A reply was soon received and I liked the way my questions were answered. Matters he knew about he told me, and regarding those he was not familiar with he was frank and made no wild claims. I checked his references and soon learned he was highly thought of in his community. It was then I decided I could do something for this Paul Stubbs, Jr. of White Haven, Pennsylvania.
My answer was that I knew of a nice, comfortable trapping camp equipped with all necessities, except food. There were dishes, bedding, a new cook stove, saws, axes, a great many traps, canoes and miles of trapline, all this tucked away many miles back in the wilderness where he would see moose and deer, and his chances of getting bear and bobcat were excellent. On these grounds he would find mink, muskrat, beaver, white weasels, a few coon and fox and a chance of also picking up an otter. There were also fisher there, but protected. I did not at this time tell him this was my own trapping outfit and trapline.
It’s like this. I was working on a farm down here in southern Maine and there seemed to be work to do the year around, my own as well as farm work. I did manage to get away for two or three days now and then, and of course went direct to camp, sometimes to do a bit of hunting and set up two or three traps, but not enough to hold my trapline for very long at the rate I was using it. As I write these lines it seems that I now have my work arranged so I can take more time off during the trapping season and get back to pinching the toes of more animals. In fact, I did spend quite a bit of time at camp this fall.
At the time Paul wrote to me I had been having a great deal of sickness in my family, and being set back in my work I realized I would have little time left for trapping during the ‘53-54 season. After an exchange or two of letters I finally told him that it was my own camp outfit I had in mind, and my idea was to take him on as a partner. He would be doing most of the work and of course would be entitled to most of the money received from the trapline. It would be a case where I could not be with him but a small part of the time, and I would expect only a small percent of the profits. We worked out a setup which was satisfactory to both of us, with Paul doing most of the work and me furnishing the equipment and trapline.
I also suggested that if he were really serious about becoming a resident of Maine, it would be to his advantage to come into the state during the early summer and work around here and gain residence, then all he would have to do about licenses would be to take out a resident license. A resident trapping license would be $10, and a hunting license $2. At that time a nonresident trapping license was $200 and the hunting license was $20, and the sad part is that all licenses expire the last day of December. If he were to operate under a nonresident status he would pay out around $440 for licenses to trap the first full season. Incidentally, if one carries a firearm on the trapline he is supposed to have a hunting license.
The lady who owns the farm here had already taken an interest in this correspondence, and suggested that we ask Paul to come here to the farm, do whatever he felt he should to pay for his keep during the summer, and work at any jobs he wished to in the town. This was all arranged, and we even spoke to a friend nearby who owns two big greenhouses. He said he could find some work for Paul.
Paul Shows Up
It was around midnight on the third of July that I was awakened by someone at the door, and soon Paul was introducing himself. In a day or so he was accepted as a member of the household by everyone, including the cat and dogs and all the livestock. He was soon milking the cow as well as I, and understood all other farm work. The part time job at the greenhouse gave him some extra spending money and everything seemed to work out fine for all concerned.
My family was still living at my old home in Willimantic, a few miles north of Guilford, and every ten days or two weeks I would drive up. It was not long before I took Paul along on one of these trips and we spent a day or so fishing. We caught some white perch, and on a trip back to a small pond landed some big smallmouth bass. We did not get back into camp that trip, but I was able to point out the mountains to the north, and showed him the locality of the Promised Land.
In to Camp
Finally the day came when we drove up to my home and then had my daughter, Elaine, go along with us to Greenville. Dick Folsom, who has the Folsom Flying Service there, flew us into my camp. Elaine brought my car back down home as Paul and I planned to walk out so he would learn something about the 14 mile trip through the woods.
We spent three or four days in going over some of my trapping trails so that he would learn about the country and where my traps were hidden. Naturally, we were looking for signs of fur, and one day as we came upon an old beaver flowage we were just in time to see three otter swimming and playing around the old beaver house. “Yi-yi,” Paul said. It was a pretty sight, but I told him then not to get his hopes up as the chances were by the time the season opened they would have moved out and off our trapping grounds. Now that is something I never did get figured out. For fifty years I have been working that locality, and down through the years I have found that during the last of October or the first of November the otter move out. Why they do not really winter there I am not sure. Now and then soe may make sort of a flying trip up through there, and if all traps are in working order one may get caught, but they just do not settle down and winter there. What I told Paul was true. He is a good trapper but did not take an otter during the season. No one can take fur that is not on the trapline.
On this trip we took time out to do a bit of fishing and caught a few trout. What we catch there are not hatchery stocked. We fried up some of these in salt pork fat, which most old woodsmen know is best, and did we feast upon them! We also held back some to take home with us.
The morning came when we started out over the mountains, or “The Hump”, as we sometimes call it, on the long trail toward home. I had done no work on this trail for a couple of years so we took time out and cleaned out brush here and there, made new blazes in blind spots and finally reached the first of the old lumber roads that eventually brings one out to Willimantic. We put in a long day, but we enjoyed every minute of it.
Moving Supplies and Prospecting
I believe it was October 20th that we left the farm down here to go up and move supplies into camp, do some more prospecting and get everything straightened out so Paul would be ready to get right down to business at the start of the season. We drove up home, and the following morning Paul hit the long trail for camp loaded down with traps to distribute along the way at places he would select to make sets when the season opened. I drove to Greenville with food and other supplies and Dick flew me to the camp door, or within fifteen feet of it. I cut wood and did other work around camp, and just before dark Paul pulled in.
During the next few days I took him over more of the trails and we also spent some time in cutting out a new trail that would save three or four miles of travel in getting into a certain locality. We set up a couple of bear traps and a few bobcat sets, moved one of the canoes up into a big bog where there were muskrat and really got a lot of things in shape so that on opening day he would be ready to start stringing steel in earnest.
Crazy Moose
Before I came out, we had one interesting experience. We were following an old logging road when we came to a fair sized brook and halted to find the best place to cross. The bridge had long since rotted and washed away. I glanced across the brook and down the old road, and there stood a huge bull moose with a large set of antlers. Now to me this was not unusual. I have seen a great many moose during my life as I have always trapped and guided in moose country. We watched the old fellow for a while and he watched right back at us. After a while I began to realize this moose was different from all the other moose I had met up with, with just one exception. Many of them will stand a minute or so and look you over, maybe take a few steps toward you before making up their minds it really is a man, and then take off, slow at first, but gradually picking up speed. This old fellow wanted to use the road. With his antlers it was much easier traveling, and it was plain to me that he did not want to turn back. He wanted to use the part of the road we had just covered.
Now with the exception of mistaking a man for a deer and shooting him down, the one thing I would dislike most to shoot in the woods would be a moose in self defense. A fellow just could not report it. If he did he might run into trouble with the law like others have done. Furthermore, way back in the woods a man could not begin to eat all the meat even though he were willing to take a chance in an attempt to save it that way. It would really be a total loss of a magnificent animal and hundreds of pounds of good meat. I was brought up with the understanding that we should not take the lives of any animals in the woods unless we had use for them. For instance, I was brought up to take what trout I could make use of, not a pack basket full where a few would be eaten and the rest thrown away. Many, many times I have taken just a few trout and quit when they were still taking bait or fly. I have seen those who do not do that.
We had my old .30-30 Winchester with us, and I know there is no animal in North America that can stand up before that gun when it is handled by someone who knows how to shoot. I have no real fear of moose or any other animal when I have that gun, and I was not afraid of that moose, but as he kept standing there and eyeing us I wondered if we had not gotten ourselves into a place where we might have to take drastic measures to get out. I remembered a former experience, so I took the axe and stepped up to a big hardwood tree and started hammering the tree with heavy wallops, using the back of the axe. The big fellow did not like the sound of this. It was more noise than he could make, and after a few moment he slowly turned and started back down the old road. I was relieved to see him go as his attitude was quite different from all the other bull moose I have met.
Well, I have mentioned an exception, so I might as well tell about it. One winter when there was very deep and light snow, I suddenly realized there was something behind me. I jumped around, and charging me about 75 feet away was a bull moose. I had no gun, so I did the next best thing and threw a big bluff. I jumped back toward him and let a yell out of me. I had on five foot snowshoes, so there was no going up a tree. It stopped him. He was a surly fellow, and he brustled up and from way down deep in his lungs came out something like an angry grunt or roar. That gave me courage and I hammered a tree with my light axe and made more noise, and made out I was coming after him.
I got the moose turned and finally he took off. Needless to say, I came close to needing a clean suit of underwear before it was over. I checked up and found that moose had left his yard and had plowed down through the deep snow all of forty rods to get behind me. I was gathering spruce gum from the few big timber spruce that were mixed in with the big hardwood growth. I know two other woodsmen who had experiences with this moose, but got out of it without shooting him. And then finally one summer he was found shot at the edge of a pond and no meat taken from him. I am positive it was the same moose. Probably he got too frisky with someone who did not understand how to handle him, and they laid him away. Just as well, too, as I am certain if I had tried running away from him the day I saw him he would have run me down in jig time and trampled me into the snow.
Trapping Preparation
Well, getting back to the trip, the day came when I left but Paul still had many things to do. There were many traps to clean up and color, wood to cut, more prospecting to do, more bear and bobcat sets to make. In fact, he was busy as a bee right up to the opening day, and after it became legal, he started putting in sets as fast as possible.
I have lost or misplaced my diary that I was keeping that summer and early fall, so I must rely on memory for dates and other information during the period. I believe it was around the third of November when I once again drove up from the farm, arriving there around 1 P.M. Paul was on his way out over the long trail from camp, making sets on the way, and he pulled in around 2 o’clock. He was jubilant. The day before he had come upon a lot of torn up bushes and many other disturbances near the bear set close to camp. He soon found that the trap was gone and then discovered this was the cause of all the commotion. He followed the trail of an eight foot clog to the end and there was Mr. Bear, all tangled up in the top of a big blown down hardwood tree. He put an end to the old bruin with his .38 Special revolver and then managed to carry and drag the animal to camp. He soon had him cleaned out and hung up in our old game tree in front of the camp. After he had told us all about it, I said, “We still have time to drive to Greenville, fly into camp and pick up the bear, return to Greenville with it and get business started toward the $15 bounty. Then we can get him back to the house and hung up, and some out of state hunter will come along and buy him.”
Away we rattled in the station wagon over the rough roads to Greenville. Andy, one of the pilots, was just in from a trip and took us aboard and we were soon at camp. The bear was hanging up in the old game tree, the fur clean and try. Andy looked him over and remarked, “It’s too bad to get him wet on the pontoon. I think we can get him into the plane and still all get in ourselves.” I remember that I suggested we put the bear in the rear seat, let Paul sit in front with Andy, and I ride back on the hood. Andy didn’t call my bluff, so we finally got the bear piled up in the rear seat and Paul crawled in on top of his prize. Andy and I were soon seated and we took off. A twelve minute flight brought us down at the dock, and we put the bear in the car and were on our way to see Mac, the warden. We arrived home a little after dusk. A few days later a hunter from one of the nearby hunting camps came up and went away with his bear at a price which was satisfactory to all concerned.
A Hunting Trip
At 2:30 A.M. on November 11th, an out of state friend and I left the farm and headed for Greenville. My friend wished to do a bit of deer hunting. In due time we arrived. The planes were so busy we had to wait our turn, but we finally got to the camp, landing around 8:30. Paul was awaiting us with a fine breakfast which we devoured like starving wolves. As we came in, we noticed that Paul had a good sized doe hanging up in the old game tree. As he planned to take part of it out home to the other end of his trapline, I suggested that while the plane was right there we load the deer in. Paul could go back with Andy, put the deer in my car, get it tagged in Greenville, and proceed home. He could skin out the deer, pack up some meat to bring back, return to Greenville and fly back to camp that afternoon. That’s what he did.
Walt and I ate breakfast, washed up the dishes, unpacked our baskets and got ourselves settled. Then we got into one of the canoes and paddled across the pond. I knew there were some deer over in the section where Paul and I had cut through the new trail. Walt and I hunted there that day. We saw signs of some big deer, but I soon learned that it was not a good place to hunt, as there were not many places where one could see very far. In fact, most of it was so thick that one would almost have to step on a deer’s tail to see him. It was a nice day and we enjoyed being out, but we never saw a deer. Before the day was over, I made three bobcat sets, just in case one of those animals should start following our trail.
That evening we were all together again and really packed away a big supper of boiled potatoes, venison liver, bacon, hot muffins, and for dessert, muffins and molasses. It had been a long day and I was pooped. I hit the bunk after camp work was done. Paul and Walt sat up and played penny ante until well into the night. You just can’t tucker out these young fellows!
On the morning of the 12th, Walt and I went down to a different locality. I knew there were deer down there and lots of open growth where we could see game at a distance. I left Walt at a place where I knew deer crossed and told him to hang around there and keep his eyes and ears open. I circled way down around and then came back in nearly a mile below him, and really went to hunting myself, as I too wanted a deer. I soon found in the leaves what looked like a steaming hot trail where a couple or more deer were working up through. I hunted hard and kept my eyes open, but it was very noisy. The deer heard me before I ever got close to the, and they took off up toward Walt. It was not long before I heard some shooting, and going up found that Walt had brought down a doe. After she was cleaned out we dragged her down to the shore of the pond and I then went back up to camp, about a mile away, and got the canoe. At one o’clock, we were at camp with the deer hanging up in the old game tree.
We were just finishing lunch when we heard Paul banging away with his .38 Special over across the pond. Knowing that he already had his deer, we wondered just what he was after now. We got into the canoe and paddled over and soon located him. He had stepped out onto a bog just in time to see a big bobcat taking off, and he had opened up on Mr. Cat. He had nicked him and drew just a bit of blood, but evidently nothing serious. He did not get the cat, but I thought it pretty good shooting to even nick him with a revolver.
Trapping Hard
Paul was working the trapline for all it was worth and was still bringing in a few muskrat, although some of the grounds were already frozen over. The real trapping season on muskrat is very short up in that cold country. The grounds are all iced over long before the open season comes to an end, yet the ice seldom becomes safe to work on and make under-ice sets during November. If one is fortunate enough to have three or four days of good muskrat weather at the start of the season, he must take the bulk of his muskrat right then and there, up in the wilderness. Paul had been prepared and had gone right after them, and took around 50, which was excellent for the amount of ‘rat grounds available. He was also taking mink and other furs.
I wanted a deer and hunted hard during the rest of my stay, but somehow I always managed to get to the right place at the wrong time. The last forenoon I was still full of courage and felt I was going to connect. I did work close to a big deer and jumped him, but never did get a shot at the slippery cuss. This was one of the few seasons when I failed to get my deer. We all ate dinner at camp that day, and at one o’clock Paul slipped on his pack and started out over the mountain trail to tend to the fourteen mile trapline out through to Willimantic. He must have pulled in home very late that night. Our plane was late in coming for us, but finally arrived. We soon had the deer lashed to a pontoon, got aboard ourselves, and a little after four, rose from the waters of the pond and headed west. In due time we had the deer in our car, went to the state inspection station, got a seal put on, and then drove home.
I will long remember that drive. Traveling was good, and after we got downstate and on the main highway, where feeder roads from various sections of the state were sending in their traffic, the road was full of cars going the same way as us. We met but few cars. Almost all of them were out of state, and it seemed like every car had game lashed to it. I think the safest way to drive in heavy traffic is to find out what the average speed is and take up a safe position behind some car and go along with what the average speed is. I started to do that and finally reached 60. We passed no one, but car after car went shooting out around us and some on yellow lines. I told Walt, “I know we are holding up traffic, but I’ll be damned if I will go any faster. This is out of all reason.” There was some wild driving that night, and Maine was fast belching itself empty of what had been really a full house during the holiday. Cars by the thousands and tons and tons of deer and other game must have gone out across the Maine border that night, and they were losing no time in doing it. I concluded that deer hunting in Maine was really a big and hustling business.
I did want to get up to camp again during the fall, but was far too busy on the farm and with my mail order work. Paul tried to come out at about the same time I would be making trips up home, so at least we had a chance to talk things over now and then. I think it was twelve mink he picked up. He did not try for fox as they were not worthwhile. He did take, in mink and bobcat sets, a couple of ‘coon. After December 1st he put in a few weasel sets along the trail and gathered in fifteen or twenty of these clean white pelts. On one of my trips up home, Paul was there with a big female bobcat. The females do not run as large as the old Toms, but he had one that weighed 30 pounds – the kind that many call 50 or 60 pound ‘cats. He had taken this in the bear trap that had caught the bear, and this kitty had dragged the big, eight foot hardwood clog along the trail for quite a distance. They are powerful. A little later he took a smaller ‘cat in another bear set. You never can tell what will happen in trapping. We both had made special sets for bobcats, yet both catches were made in bear traps. However, that did not affect the $15 bounty. As for bear, I do not think he saw any more signs after taking this one. It was not a beechnut year.
Elaine, my daughter, has always been interested in trapping, and helped to skin, flesh and stretch some of the pelts. In fact, some of our best handled beaver pelts later in the winter were some she had taken over and cleaned up and stretched. I remember one time, I don’t think she was ten years old, I was over at camp and she found a big raccoon beside the road that had been killed by a car. She dragged it home, skinned it, fleshed and stretched the pelt, and when I got home there it was, all taken care of. It was hers to do what she wanted to, and later she put a Sears Roebuck tag on it and shipped it away. I think she received $3.25 for it.
Prepping for Beaver Season
On December 29th I again drove up and the next morning Elaine went with me to Greenville and then brought the car back home. The plane evidently was now ‘’winter sports” minded, as it had on skis. In a short time it was skiing lightly on the soft snow up the pond and came to a stop at the camp landing. Pau was awaiting me and ready with a trapper’s breakfast fit for a king. Around noon we went prospecting for beaver. Paul had already checked on some places. We went over the hill and hit Mountain Brook and went down that carefully and located one colony. We looked over two small ponds where we found nothing. During the day we prepared a set for bobcat which never did pay dividends. Returning to camp we got supper, ate, did up the dishes and then I started work on a pair of snowshoe harnesses for Paul’s snowshoes.
On the 31st, we cut wood, did other work, finished the snowshoe straps, ate an early lunch and then lit out down the pond to look over a couple of places neither of us had checked that fall. We were about three fourths of the way down the pond when I noticed in the left hand corner a big bunch of something the shape of a tremendous deer. Of course I knew there weren’t any deer that size around there. I paid no more attention to it, and we were traveling along when suddenly Paul exclaimed, “Look! There’s a big deer over there.”
I said, “Yes, it does look like a deer but it is probably a winter beech blended in with something else. There is no deer as large as that around here.”
“Well, I saw it move, anyway,” replied Paul.
I took more notice then, and we were also working closer and where we had a clearer view. Sure enough, it was a buck and I think the father of all buck deer. I ain’t kidding, he was as large as a small horse. It was closed season now and we had no gun, but we decided to see if we could walk along and get within rifle range of him. We did just that, and stood there looking at the big fellow for some time, plenty of time to have taken a dozen shots at him. What I wouldn’t have given for that chance back in early November. Well, that’s the way luck runs.
Back when I was following long traplines every day throughout the deer season, I have gone over halfway through the season before getting any deer. Of course when you are running long traplines you have no time to stand around and look for deer, but sooner or later you will run into one just right and get him. Then again, I have shot my deer right on the start of the season. In either case, after I got my deer and then left my gun at home and started to carry a light axe instead, I would be seeing deer all the time. Once you don’t want them, the woods are full of them. How do they know? Speaking of the axe, I love to roam the woods with an axe in my hand instead of a rifle. It comes in handy a hundred times a day.
Getting back to our trip down the pond, we finally came to the outlet and then took to the woods. We went to Camp Pond, which we had checked early in the fall, but sometimes beaver come in late. There were no signs there. We went through to South Pond and up on a spring brook outlet, but there were no fresh signs anywhere. Then on down to Sawyer Pond we went and there we found a nice little house which could be housing a pair or even four beaver. Knowing that we would be back there again, we took time out and prepared a nice winter set for bobcat, a place where Paul could put in the first beaver carcass if he were lucky enough to take one or more from that colony. Dusk found us brushing the snow from our feet and legs in front of the camp door. The temperature was now down to zero. The old cook stove was soon puffing like a locomotive going up Benson Grade, and before long we were filling up the inner men with cold roast turkey, hot baked beans from our new bean pot, and hot biscuits. We were two happy and well fed trappers as we crawled into our bunks that night. The next day at noon the beaver season would open.
Beaver Trapping Begins
January first. “Yi-yi! This is it!” exclaimed Paul as we left the camp at 9:30. We had yet to obtain our bait, but knew just where to go find it. We headed for Big Bog and halfway there came to my old bait gathering place. We downed a big poplar about ten inches on the stump. It had a beautiful top of bait branches, and we worked all these up into bait sticks. We loaded our baskets and all the rest we piled up right there, a supply that would last for some time to come.
We had timed everything right, and arrived at Big Bog at just about noon. Time for a quick lunch and hot tea, and then before we realized it we were chopping ice, cutting poles and putting in sets. We were forced to put in quite a bit of extra ice-cutting before locating suitable places for sets. There were many big rocks and old logs under the ice, but in the end we had in three good sets.
We now pointed our tracks toward camp over the different route than we had come. In due time, we arrived at what we call Skeet’s Dam. This beaver dam must be all of three hundred feet long. It was an old colony, but we figured there was only a pair of beaver wintering there. We located two nice places and soon had down two nice pole sets. We were off again, and finally arrived at a small colony about a quarter mile from camp. The first set went in quickly, then we chased around and cut small holes here and there before locating anything that looked like a suitable place. In fact, as I remember now it seemed like the best looking place for a set we had seen that day. I say this because I don’t think a beaver ever as much as nibbled a bait there for the winter. One cannot always tell what will be the best set. The house at this colony was back on a marsh, and I have found that in many instances it has been a tricky business trying to find the right places to make sets around houses back on a floating marsh. After all, we have to stay 25 feet away from the houses.
It was after dark when we dragged our tired carcasses into camp. Tired but happy, as my old partner Bill Gourley would say. It had been cold all day, but in no time flat we had the stove loaded to the coves and soon the camp was warm as toast. We polished off the rest of the beans along with some hamburg and hot muffins. For dessert, it was the usual hot muffins and molasses chased down with strong tea from old tin cups. There was no one there to rock us to sleep that night, and we didn’t care a whoop either – it just wasn’t necessary.
The next morning we finally located the mercury down at the ten below mark, and the camp is in the warmest part of the whole valley, too. Fine weather in which to keep busy and not perspire. Before the season opened, we had mapped out the colonies we would cover each day, but we never lived up to those plans. Somehow we ran into unforeseen obstacles at nearly every colony. This day was no exception. We headed for Sawyer Pond, and after what was probably a four mile hike, we soon had ice chips flying in all directions. We wanted to put in one ‘small brush’ set, so I spent at least half an hour back in the woods hunting out the kind of moosewood top that looked right to me. We got in a brush set and a poplar wood set and then worked our way up around the inlet where there was some open water. I know we fooled away an hour and a half right there trying to figure out some way to get in an open water set so a beaver could not get tangles up in brush or up onto land and get out. It was one grand mess of rocks, brush, sunken logs and what not. We finally gave up and decided sometime to bring down a big 415-X to put in there. Not many beaver escape from this trap if caught by the hind foot. We never did get to put a set there, and it is probably just as well.
After leaving Sawyer we came back up the trail for a mile or more and then broke through to what we call ‘Cat Pond’, and in a marsh near this pond was a nice colony. Brother, did we work there! We cut through the ice and felt around with a long stick. There were trunks of old trees, old logs, hassocks, and rocks. We finally got in two sets that looked okay. One of them was, and paid off with profits before the season was over. The other was a nightmare. We put in a long, hard day and only set up two colonies, and it was dark when we opened up the blessed camp door that night. The weather was now moderating and it looked like a storm was in the making.
After we kicked the blankets off the next morning and poked our heads out the camp door, we found it had snowed a bit during the night – possible an inch. It was now warming up, and before the day was over we were sprinkled with a light rain. After a quick breakfast we hustled over to Mountain Brook. There had been beaver at that place a year or so before and I knew the conditions. Everything worked out to our advantage, and soon we had in three sets. Then we did a bit more checking for any hidden colony down in the Hell Hole, set up a bobcat set, and were back at camp for lunch.
After packing away a hasty lunch, we took off for the Big Bog, and when we opened up the holes we found all traps smiling up at u with open faces. However, this is not as cheerful as it sounds. I think we had estimated there were two beaver there, and as far as I know they are still there. We did not take one for the season. Even before we made the sets they knew what our intentions were and touched nothing for the season that was put down for them, not even tempting baits poked down through small holes with no traps around. If all beaver were like those, under-ice trappers would all go out of business fast. They had had toes pinched, and they knew how trappers made a living. If only we could have had some open water trapping on them we could have shown them a thing or two. The sets at Skeet’s Dam had also refused to pay dividends, and nothing had been disturbed around the sets at the colony on the marsh near camp. This last colony also proved to be a tough one, but before the season ended Paul proved to be the better man and outwitted the largest beaver we took during the season.
We had found six colonies and now had them all set up. On the morning of the 4th we soon had our legs in high gear. We found ourselves headed for home with the 14 miles of wilderness trail slipping under our feet and to our rear, the last of it sliding under our boots around noon. That evening my car was eating up the 147 miles back down state to the farm.
It had been Paul’s intention to return to camp the next day, but a friend of mine who does some guiding for hunters dropped in that evening after I had left, and told Paul about a colony of beaver he had found during the hunting season that probably no other trappers knew about. It was several miles from home but was on open territory for beaver. The next day Paul went into the woods, found the brook and followed it up, and eventually found the beaver. He put in some sets, and before the season ended, took the two beaver living there. In view of the fact he could travel two and a half miles of his own trail that he had to keep broken out anyway, it was really worthwhile.
The beaver were slow in starting to take bait, and as there were no chances for open water sets to make easy catches, he did not start taking the flat tails very fast. I think a couple were about all he got the first trip. Although there had been ice-making weather through most of November and December, the inlets and outlets of the flowages had not sealed over until very late, which enabled the beaver to cut and drag nice fresh green wood to their feed piles under the ice. By the time the season opened they had just as fresh bait in storage as we could put down for them. In localities where beaver have been trapped hard over a period of years, there are always a few smart ones. That is why they are there. I have always believed that one smart boss beaver in a colony will do a lot to keep the rest of his family from fooling around sets.
Where’s Paul?
On the 15th of January I drove up home again. Paul was supposed to be out that day. He had always been on schedule and usually arrived by mid-afternoon. He did not come in. I realized there had been quite a fall of snow since he had gone in, and there were miles of rugged trail breaking – hard work when traveling alone and breaking trail every inch of the way. Darkness came and he did not appear, but that meant nothing because the last six miles was a good open woods road which one could easily follow day or night. I got to thinking of the many times I had broken out through alone, and how that last two miles had always been a heart breaker, especially Quarry Hill. I have broken trail all day, and when I reached that hill I would count 50 steps, lean over and loosen my pack to rest my shoulders and rest. Then I would push through 50 more steps and rest again, and keep this up for over half a mile. Many times I prayed that when I reached that hill I would discover someone else had broken trail for some reason or other, but I guess I really never did.
At seven o’clock, hours after dark, Elaine and I took our snowshoes and went down the town road, then fastened on the webs and started breaking trail up the old road. We broke out two and a half miles, including Quarry Hill, but did not meet Paul. I then began to feel that he had been detained for some reason, possibly sick at camp. We returned home, and at daybreak the next morning I was in Greenville. I pounded around and woke up Dick, and he was soon warming up the plane. In a very short time we dropped down by the camp. Paul was at camp and just getting up. Somewhere he had picked up one of those virus bugs and had not been well for several days. The day he was supposed to come out was the peak of the ailment, and he knew enough to realize he was in no condition to try it. We shifted those plans quickly. It wasn’t over an hour later that we were back home and sitting down to breakfast. Before leaving for the farm I told him to forget about the traps and take it easy for a few days. I guess he did take it easy that day, but he was gradually coming out of it and the next morning was out plowing around in the snow again.
Checking Beaver Traps
On the 24th I again drove up and met Paul at home, and on the 25th we drove to Greenville, found a place to put the car in a heated garage, and then Andy took us over the many ponds and mountains and soon sat us down alongside our wilderness home. We immediately hit the trail for ‘Cat Pond. No luck. We now crossed back and up to Mountain Brook. We opened one hole and pulled out a yearling, and from another set we dragged out a fine 70 inch beaver. We took a few pictures, rebaited the sets, and then, each cramming a beaver into our baskets, moosed back to camp with our loads. We started supper, ate, skinned out the beaver and then got the fleshing board and did a cleanup job on the big pelt. After that it was time to hit the boughs.
We were up bright and early the next morning and walked down the pond, fastened on our snowshoes and went on down to Sawyer. We made no money there. Paul had already taken one from this colony. We pulled up the sets and replaced the old baits with fresh ones, and before long were on our way back up the mountain, headed for ‘Cat Pond. As we came onto the dam, a big beaver scurried out of the woods and splashed into a small opening of open water at the outlet. A moment later he appeared again with just his head poked out from under the ice, and there he lay watching us. We watched him for a couple of minutes, and finally he submerged and did not appear again. We could have popped him off with one of our revolvers but did not, for two reasons. First, I am sure it is not legal, and second, it would have been very easy for the animal to have kicked himself back under the heavy ice before he died, where we would have difficulty finding him. I have never tried shooting beaver out of traps, but I have had experiences with otter and know that I have killed two in deep water which I never could find. Never again will I try shooting an otter unless the animal is in shallow water or out on the land.
After watching the beaver, we went up to the sets. The first held nothing, but all the bait was gone. The next set produced a blanket beaver, which made us feel a lot better. Paul told me that the bait being gone at the other set was not unusual – it had occurred several times. I knew something must be wrong somewhere, so we cut out a larger opening at the set and started to probe with a small pole. We soon located a big hassock in front of the set and a big log close by, which made it nearly impossible for a beaver to approach the set from the front. We remodeled the set and thought we had it so the animal could approach from the front. Whether we did have it that way or not I don’t know, as the set never did produce results and the baits were stolen again. The next trip Paul went down the brook and did some ice cutting, and got in a set that looked good to him. It was. He took a big beaver from it the following trip, probably the one we had seen in the open water.
We returned to camp and then went on up and looked at sets to the west. There was nothing that looked like cash profits there. At the Marsh sets there was not a tooth mark on a bait, and there had not been for the winter. We pulled up the sets and rebaited with the best we had, but nothing ever came of it. We knew there were one or two very wise beaver there. Ate in February, after a rain and thaw, Paul found a place over near the woods where a beaver had broken a hole up through the shell ice, and looking down into the hole, discovered there was sort of a natural runway in there with a bit of water in it. He hustled down to camp and came back with a 415-X and concealed it in the runway. The next morning he had the largest beaver we got for the season.
A Good Season, for Many Reasons
The two trips I have mentioned are the only ones I made during the beaver season, but Paul carried on like a professional and pelted fourteen. During the last week after thaws produced some open water where it was legal to make sets, he found two very small beaver alive, which he turned loose as he figured their pelts would scarcely pay for the $2 tagging fee.
It seems that during the fall and winter Paul and Elaine had taken a liking for each other, and in June there was a wedding. Paul took over a steady job at the greenhouse here, and they set up housekeeping. There is now a healthy youngster called Rod, who has all the qualifications of becoming one of Maine’s future trappers, and has a dad who can teach him all the tricks. Yup, they started calling me Gramp last Easter Day.