As trappers, we often have the privilege of spending time in the footsteps of our ancestors, seeing the mark they have made on the forests and fields many decades ago. Fellow trapper Justin Leavitt put together some thoughts while setting up his trapline in Vermont. I thought you guys would enjoy, so he kindly agreed to share it with you. Thanks Justin!
Today I drove out to the line to lay a fisher box. My line this year should prove to be a challenge in a good way. No roads on a long portion this year so I got a drag sled, oiled up the snowshoes, and smiled at the opportunity to run my line like the old timers did. Leaning up an old log, I wired my box down and went on the hunt for some pine boughs, spruce, cedar or anything I could find to better make my local resident fisher feel at home in a Conibear 220.
I walked down the rocky ledge-faced hill and noticed an old can. I picked it up and could barely read the letters: P E N Z I L. Interesting. Several letters were rusted over but then figured out it was an oil can. I could now make out the image of an old red bell lying beneath the word “Pennzoil.” Looking down, I clearly realized the old farm owner’s choice of quality lubricants, as they were many scattered all down the hill. Old bottles, pottery shards, a tea kettle, and iron statues standing tall, proud of their age, embedded in the vines.
I was standing on the last layer of a previous generation’s way of storing things they no longer need or want: the farm dump. I soon forgot what I had originally come over the fence for, clearly distracted by gramp’s discarded treasures. I began sifting through the pieces of someone’s past life. I could not fight the curiosity, using my boot as a trowel, exhuming the layers, and realizing they truly represent many generations of hard labor, sweat and tears.
I felt like a detective looking for something, but I did not know what. And then, it found me. One of the young cows was interested in what I was doing and observed me from the top of the hill, baying as he urinated in the root covered soil. I was looking at him and he back at me almost as if he had found something cool and was about to point his hoof in the correct direction. But then he didn’t have to.
The sun broke through the clouds just for a split second but it was enough to illuminate a silver circle less than a foot down the ledge from my pissing admirer’s bark colored foot. I climbed up a ways, and patted the young bulls head stub. He closed his eyes in ecstasy and I firmly scratched his head all the while not taking my eyes off the ring of reflection beneath his feet. I bent down to pick it up and he nuzzled me like an old floppy eared hound dog leaving his wet nose to lubricate my shoulder.
I (or we, however you see it) had found something peculiar. The handle was gone, as was the bamboo that it used to present, but there was a spinning reel in my hand. Not just any fishing reel, but a very old and ornate one. You know, back in the day when people actually built quality and designed something that would stand the test of time. Well this one had. Looking at the reel part of the spinner I could see words etched in a nickel coated piece of art, both practical and beautiful all at once.
“Featherlight”. And on the back a patent date. 10-14-96. I thought to myself well shit, that was yesterday, of course if yesterday was more than 100 years ago. It was apparent that the date was implying 1896. To me that was a very interesting feeling to know that here I am on the 15th day of October in the year 2018 carrying on the tradition of our ancestors on a trapline. Standing on the same soil, standing in the same field, standing in the same dump they created, and now getting licked by a cow. I’m sure it’s not the first time a cow has licked a man in a wool coat standing here. It just made me think of a simpler time before the hubbub of today. No damn cell phones, no technology, no interruptions. Just the land and a man getting accosted by livestock. I almost began to cry at that thought. I was missing a simpler time when nature was your provider, not just something to look at and take photos of. I stood there realizing that like this generation of treasures I’m standing on, I too am the last of a simpler generation.
I turned 41 this month, so maybe the reminiscing is just completely due to my aging mind and body, or maybe we really have lost something. A connection with the earth that we will ever get back. A dependence upon the land that was vital for survival. Then I remembered why I was here. To find branches to cover my fisher box. A smile came to my face as I realized I was carrying on that tradition, and it hadn’t yet been lost to today’s progressive society. I guess my biggest fear is that someday it very well may be, lost.
-Justin V Leavitt
Vermont Trapper
October, 15 2018
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