The alarm jangled me out of bed; I swung my feet and touched them down on the icy floor. I ambled my way into the kitchen, and put on a pot of coffee. I stared out the window, and noticed Jack Frost had left one of his masterpieces on the panes. The newly fallen snow glittered in the dim starlight. I poured a cup of coffee strong enough to carve, dang must be the good stuff, I thought. I walked into the backroom and uncased my shotgun. The pungent smell of Hoppe's and WD-20 permeated the air. I slid back the action to check the chamber I knew was empty, better safe than sorry, I always say. I shrugged into the heavy overalls and put three shells into my pocket. I shouldn't need more, I hoped. I opened the backdoor and stepped out into the new snow. The stars above looked like diamond dust spread across the black velvet of the night sky. I still had twenty minutes or so to get to my stand before first light. My feet cast up tiny mute explosions in the newly fallen powder. I quickly walked down the old logging trail, passing the ancient hemlocks that stood like silent sentinels, watching me as I passed. I trudged through the snowy field and into the creek bed on the far side. The creek though covered in its winterine shroud of snow and ice still burbled contentedly. I could hear it faintly as I stopped to catch my breath.
The sun was just bloodying the eastern horizon as I got into my stand. I quickly set up the speaker and unroll the wire of the electronic call. I hunkered down against a huge old oak, and waited for enough light to see clearly. Finally the pale winter sun illuminated the scene enough that I could see clearly all around me. I pressed play on the caller, and the plaintive squeals of a dying rabbit, raped the still morning air. I scanned the surrounding countryside looking for a red fox eager to get an easy breakfast. After a few minutes I noticed movement on a brushy hillside to my north. A blood red dot was moving in on my position at an amazing clip. As it got nearer I could see it was a huge red fox decked out in his best winter coat. I slowly swung the shotgun off my knees and onto my shoulder, so as not to alarm him. He pulled to a stop at about 20 yards away, looking over the area. I placed the bead of my shotgun on his chest, and started to pull the trigger. I had gotten the trigger about half squeezed, when he disappeared like a magicians handkerchief. Gone, no trace, no noise, just some footprints in the snow, almost as if he had been real. He pulled a vanishing act that would make David Copperfield green with envy. I turned off the call and rolled up the wire, looking at where he had been.
As I started on my back trail to the house, I started thinking of that fox; was I upset he got away? Well maybe part of me was he had a beautiful coat that was red as blood. I was out of work and that was twenty-five bucks I could have used badly. Still another part was glad he got away, it means he and I might just cross paths again someday. If we cross paths again, maybe I'll let him get away, just for old times sake. Return to top
I remember the early fall days of October as my brother and I were sent out on “walnut patrol”, to gather walnuts for dying the traps. Dad and Pop would have the entire collection of traps spread out on a sheet of plywood that was placed on two sawhorses.
I can still see them standing in the field under the big walnut tree. They each had a small file, two screwdrivers and a wrench. They would file the pan notches square and level, then adjust the pan tension to their liking-making sure the pans set flat and level, before they were tossed in the dying pot. I can still smell the odor of the dye and to this day it is one of the smells of fall to me. After the traps were done dying they were hung up to dry, while the wax was put on to melt. I can still hear the crackling of the wax pot as the traps were placed in it. Then they were hung up to dry; even the coon traps were dyed and waxed.
The Old Man who I always called “Pop” (it seemed everyone else did to) was my paternal Grandfather. He was an ornery, opinionated, gruff, outspoken old cuss. It was at his house my first memories of trapping occur. I was 4 or younger (I have a good memory of my youth) and in the basement watching Pop do something with traps. I remember it was snowing like the devil outside, and my Dad had gone to check Pop’s fox traps for him. Dad came in the basement door carrying 2 beautiful red foxes dusted in snow. Pop told my Dad he had overly dispatched the foxes (Pop always had something to say).
I remember spending the weekend at my Grandparents house during trapping season, waiting for Pop to get done running his lines so I could go with him down the woods behind the house. I was to little to be able to keep up with him on the big lines yet, so I had to wait. He’d come in and go to the bathroom then sit and have 2 cups of coffee. Then when he was done we would put our boots and coats on and head off into the woods. I remember some lessons he taught me back then. We used to walk down an abandoned railroad track to get to the sets. I always walked to close behind him and got smacked with branches and briars, he told me to make sure I walked at least 4 ties behind him and that way I wouldn’t get hit with branches.
I remember asking the questions kids ask, like “Why is the set there?” “Where do coons sleep?” and stuff like that. Sometimes he would answer my questions and other times he would just grunt. It seemed if I made my question specific to trapping I could get an answer. He told me he made the set there because two streams came together, and that way any coons following either stream had a chance of getting caught. He showed me how to make cubbies using flat stones in the creek. (One of those cubbies is still there, it just needs to be remade.) He showed me how to read coon and fox track on the sand bars. I can still see him in his trapping outfit, a blue stocking cap, a dirty, smelly battered hunting coat and only one of his numerous “golfing sweaters”. (He called them that because they had at least eighteen holes in them.) Pop never wore gloves while trapping coon handling the rotten fish he loved to use for bait (maybe this coincides with his high opossum catches) and the lure with his bare hands, leaving him with a unique odor during trapping season. However if his jacket and coat were slightly odorous, his vehicles were obnoxious. He had an old blue station wagon he used for trapping, and he kept a five-gallon bucket of rotten fish on the floor in the back seat. Oh man did that car ever reek! We used to joke about when the car was taken to the junkyard and crushed up that the block of metal would still smell like fish.
Two of the biggest lesson I learned from Pop were “seeing ain’t noticing” and “observe don’t just look”. The “seeing ain’t noticing” lesson took place on a small stream. We got out and looked under the bridge, there was another trap there (this being during the fur boom, at least 2 trappers worked around this bridge). As Pop had trapped this creek for the better part of 20 years he was not about to let the other beat him out. “ Where can we put our sets, they seem to have covered the best spots’ I said to him. He looked at me and sort of smiled, “Seeing ain’t noticing,” he said. He then went on to point out to me the sand bar that ran just under the water out and around the bridge and upstream. “Notice anything different about that sandbar?” he asked. “Not really, except it seems to have bumps going through it” I said. “Right, but those bumps are where coon have been walking on the sandbar, also notice the sediment is slightly removed from the bar itself” he told me. We quickly put walkthrough sets on both sides of the bridge at the edges of the sand bar, rigged to drowning wire to hide the catches.
We were trapping about a mile from the house one morning when we stopped at a small creek and started looking for coon sign, I couldn’t find any as the banks were thick with leaves. Pop asked me if I had found anything, and I told him I had not. He asked if I had looked inside the culvert itself I said I had, and he quickly told me I must be blind. I asked what he meant, and he showed me, that inside the culvert about 2 feet were coon tracks. I had missed them because I was in hurry and looking not observing. He also pointed out to me the leaves on one side of the culvert were slightly disturbed, showing were coons had been going through them to get into the culvert. “Looking ain’t observing, you need to pay attention to your surroundings, notice the slight imprint a ½ a track a overturned rock anything that could show a animal has been through”, he quietly told me. I have since become an observer more than a looker, and it really helps find slight sign especially mink.
I could write a book on the memories I have or running trap with Pop but will just hit three very good ones.
One of the best memories I have or running traps with him was a certain set we had at a culvert. I used to hop out and give the thumbs up if we had something or get back in if we didn’t. We caught so many coons (12 seemingly 1 or 2 every weekend) in that one set, that Pop used to just hand me the pistol and tell me to go take care of things while he waited in the truck. That was a big deal to a 11 year old kid, I not only got to shoot his pistol, but also remake the set as well. It wasn’t anything special, just a coon trail coming out of the culvert on one side, (because the other was deep), narrowed down with a small hole in the bank above the trap with lure and bait. I guess the coon population was up that year and they all used that path.
Another great memory I have is why to use a good dry hardwood drag for coon. I was about 7 or 8 and Pop and I went down to check a coon set. When we got there we could see the usual carnage a coon leaves when caught. I quickly saw that the coon had gnawed Pop’s drag down to a mere pencil. Pop hurriedly dispatched the coon and we observed the drag. It appeared that another few minutes and the coon would have gotten free. Pop tugged on the wire and it broke through the gnawed area with ease.
The last memory I mention was a crossing log set Pop had on a local stream. (I have tried crossing logs; all I ever caught were squirrels!) Pop loved them and used them whenever and wherever he found them. I remember we were checking sets before I had to go to school; I got to the log and saw the trap was missing and the wire was leading into the water below. “Pop we got something,” I yelled back to him as I started pulling up the wire. Imagine our surprise when I got the wire up and it held a drowned red fox. Pop was as surprised as I was. I’ve never seen anything like that again.
Pop stopped trapping when I was 16 due to injuries, although he still trapped any critters that tried to eat his chickens. He was always ready to give advice and criticism. “If I told you, that you were doing a good job you wouldn’t try to do a better job,” he’d always say. I can still hear his voice when my partner and I would roll up at the end of the day and throw our catch on the front porch for inspection. He would always be sitting in the living room and could hear when we threw out catch on the porch. He’d come out look at our catch and say “That it?” It used to drive Arnold crazy, when we roll up with 2 foxes a couple coon and a grinner or two and Pop would come out and say “That it?” “What does he want from us?” Arnold would mutter half cursing under his breath. I had to explain that was Pop’s way of saying we were doing good.
It finally took a season of 49 coons in 2 weeks for him to say we were good coon trappers. It took 78 foxes in 6 weeks before he paid me the greatest compliment he ever gave me. “You could write a book, with your methods” he said. I damn near cried because he meant it, and he was telling me that in his eyes I was as good as he and my Dad ever were and probably a tad better.
I can still recall Arnold saying one year “The saddest day of my life will be when we pull up and throw our catch on the porch and Pop doesn’t come out and say “That it?” and I wholeheartedly agreed. That day came on November 2th 1998 one day after his 74th birthday.
His funeral was on Saturday morning, I made sure to stick his blue hat in the coffin with him (I know he’d want it). Then after the service and the cemetery I went and got my hip boots on grabbed my traps and headed out. Some people probably asked how I could do that, heck I’m sure Pop would have wanted me to.
Sometimes in my mind I can still hear him say, “That it?” nope, not by a long shot Old Man, not by a long shot. Return to top
My Grandfather had a good friend by the name of Ralph. Ralph was a big time coon hunter and had an exceptional well-trained young Walker named Buck. Ralph was up Pop's (my Grandfather) house one night while I was there tuning my traps and getting ready for the season. We all started talking and Ralph asked if my partner or I had ever been coon hunting. Arnold said he had gone once or twice upstate (the mountains of Pa.) with a friend of his. I told him I had never gone but did want to go. We made a deal with Ralph we would take him and his son trapping with us if they took us out coon hunting. He agreed and told us to meet him Sat night at 9pm at Pop's to go coon hunting.
We met him at Pop's and we all piled into his truck. Since it was only late October we decided to just run the dog for practice and some personal enjoyment. (Although the season was open, we knew the pelts would be very blue. It was a good night, the first coon hole dup in a den tree. We took Buck gave him some water and moved down about ½ mile and let him go again. After 14 min he barked treed. Another danged den tree! After getting buck off the tree and calming him down we went about ½ way around the field to another woodlot. After only 4 min Buck barked treed, this time we saw the coon way up in a huge oak tree. As we were headed back to the truck Buck treed another coon in a crab apple tree, the lil fella was quite scared. All in all we had a good time listening to the hound music and watching a good dog work.
Arnold, Ralph and his son all went out coon hunting later in the season. I was unable to go, but told them to have fun. As it was the middle of November this was a real hunt. From what I understand they had good success early on getting 2 coons by midnight and having some hole up in den trees. Now the farm they were hunting on has very big woods scattered throughout, however on the far side of one of the woods is a very upscale neighborhood. Now of course the next coon they hit runs straight for the rich folks. Ralph was cursing under his breath hoping the coon wouldn't make it to the neighborhood.
Crashing through the brush they could hear Buck barking treed right at the edge of the ritzy houses. Ralph was praying Buck was still in the woods, but he wasn't. Arnold, Ralph and his son got to see Buck dancing under a nice maple tree in someone's backyard. Now if it's not bad enough that this is a upscale neighborhood and the dog is making a racket under this tree there is also a motion detection light. Now here's the situation, it's 1 am, they're now trespassing in some guy backyard, the dog barking his head off, and now the yards lit up like Christmas. Ralph standing just inside the wood line yelling as softly at Buck as he can to come on. Bucks looking at Ralph like "Hey I got the coon right there can't you see him?" Ralph's on the point of breaking down, yelling at Buck to come on. Buck was barking and jumping at the tree, because he can see the coon out on a limb. Finally Ralph had to go and drag Buck back into the woods by the collar. Buck kept on fighting him trying to get loose, he didn't understand why Ralph wasn't shooting the coon. Arnold meantime is having a fit of laughter at the whole scene. All I can say is they were lucky the homeowner was either away or a very sound sleeper. Return to top
BANG!!!!……You're not DEAD!
by Jeni DiSalvo
I married him in spite of his hobby. A classic Bambi-ist, I have trouble dealing with the idea of the big, gentle man I love roaming the woods killing trapped creatures. But, the contradiction works for Michael, and I love him. I threw prejudice aside and tried to find some aspect of his hobby that I could enjoy with him-perhaps hiking through the woods with the kids.
The first day of trapping season found the DiSalvos gathered in the front yard at dawn. The unusually warm fall day allowed us to wear tee shirts; but, the boys, eleven and eight, were too excited about wearing their new camouflage clothes. Their four-year-old sister stood pouting by the car until they finally gave in and allowed her the privilege of wearing a camo hat. Four months pregnant, I was lucky to find a pair of jeans that still fit-forget the camo! The boys had to ride in the truck with their new dad with my daughter and I following in the comfort of the family mini-van. Being a former girl scout, I had packed sandwiches, snacks, drinks and lotions (I'm also a Mary Kay consultant and won't leave home without it!). "Got enough food?" he asked as he rolled his eyes. "You've never dealt with three hungry kids when you're in the middle of a cornfield." "You expect to feed them a five course dinner in the middle of a trapping line?" "Not necessarily. But, I can always tell them that once they get back to the car they can get something to eat," I reasoned. "That usually holds them off for a few more minutes. But, they won't buy it if they didn't see me haul it all out to the car." Our first stop was a farm (later anointed "the 'possum farm") just a few miles south of our home. Our caravan rolled into the farmyard and the DiSalvos bailed out in full camouflage regalia. Michael began handing the boys buckets loaded with trapping materials (I refused to look too closely at the contents) and, of course, Teagan had to carry something if her brothers did. I carried the most important items of the trip-camera and camcorder. Properly loaded with trapping gear, we trudged off across the rolling hills of the central Iowa farm. Up and down the hills, through tall weeds, along the edges of harvested cornfields, and along trickling streams we walked carrying buckets, stakes and smelly concoctions that were designed to attract the poor critters Michael was targeting. Teagan chattered constantly, as most four-year-olds do. "Can I carry the buckets now?" "Daddy, why does the 'coon need bait?" "Can I have a fox coat like the one in the book? Can I wear it to church this week?" "Do 'possums eat squirrels? Cuz, I like squirrels and I don't want the 'possums to eat them." "What noise does a 'coon make?" "Does a rabbit run faster than a 'coon?" "Why do we catch 'possums?" After the first fifty questions, or so, Michael resorted to answering her with grunts and "Ask your Mamma." Through some sixth sense known only to trappers, Michael selected the ideal spots to place his sets. He told the boys that he selected these trap locations based on points of interest, commonly traveled paths (what exactly qualifies a path as "commonly traveled"? Or, for that matter, what qualifies it as a path?), and topographic features. On these ideal spots, he knelt and placed the device and carefully covered it with a precise mixture of dry dirt (he even used what looked like a flour sifter), grass and a twig or two from the surrounding area. Each step of the process was accompanied by a long discussion with the boys on the reason and exact method of setting the trap. I found myself wondering why the boys found it so fascinating to listen to a discussion of setting a trap for a raccoon, but could hardly stand still when I tried to give them directions for warming a can of spagetti-o's in the microwave. "Put this little pile of twigs on this edge to get their attention," Michael explained. Something a little different will make them want to investigate." "Why that side?" Jamison asked. A long explanation of the topographic features around the set and the curious nature of animals followed. The procedure was repeated until the buckets of traps were empty and the children were drooping. We had covered four farms and what seemed like hundreds of acres of pastures, cornfields and timber. There was no fighting about who got to ride with daddy in the truck--each child fell into a predestined seat and rode home in exhausted silence. Supper was quickly made and quickly eaten without discussion; and, for once, there was no argument about an early bedtime.
The group was more subdued the second day of trapping season. The only family member who had enough energy to dance her way out to the car was Teagan. The camo clothes were all dirty from the day before; so, the boys wore sweat pants. I packed only pop-tarts and a few drink boxes. Even Michael lifted the trapping supplies with tired arms. The dirt yard at the possum farm rolled dust as we shut off the engines. They boys waited for Michael to lift out the trapping buckets, and Teagan tried to carry the gun before her daddy caught her. I wadded up my cherry pop tart wrapper and tossed it in the back of Michael's truck before shaking off the residue of morning sickness and trudging after the parade of critter catchers. The first three traps were empty. The kids were disappointed, and I think I could see frustration creeping into Michael's shoulders. We rounded the hill along the rocky creek and Teagan gave a squeal. Jamison stopped dead in his tracks, but I couldn't tell if it was apprehension or just plain shock. The fourth trap held an enormous raccoon. I felt the rock in my stomach grow and get heavier as I watched the poor frightened creature struggle against the metal jaws of the trap. Pulling away from Michael's approach, it jerked on the chain that held the trap to a stake deep in the dry dirt. Then, he changed his tone. A deep growl erupted from his rounded belly as he lunged at Clayton, my oldest son, who had been brave enough to try for a closer look at the catch. I lost a couple ounces of pity for the 'coon as I screeched at Clayton. "Get away from that thing!" "It's not going anywhere," he argued. What is it about eleven-year-old boys that makes them offer argument for any comment a parent makes? "I don't care if he's blind, deaf and has four broken legs! You need to get away from it." Didn't he realize that I'm the mother and I'm always right--even when I'm wrong? He took one small step away from the frustrated package of growls and hisses. "I wouldn't let him get that close to me." Always the last word-kids! Michael loaded a bullet into the rifle and gestured the kids away from the raccoon. I felt sick. I reached down and turned Teagan around so she couldn't see the "dispatch." I turned around myself and put down the camera and camcorder so I could plug my ears. Gazing off to a hilltop to the south, I tried to forget what was happening behind my back. BANG! I jumped a little when the gunshot sounded. I jumped again when a small brown package immediately dropped at my feet and lay there twitching. What the heck? The squirrel twitched for several heartbeats. I gasped. Then, he jumped up and shot up the ravine to the top of the hill. As we watched, the poor creature seemed to take mental stock. Toes, legs, back, neck and head. All intact. No blood. No pain. No gunshots. What the heck? The DiSalvo family burst into laughter. I have never seen such embarrassment as we did when that squirrel looked down the hill at us laughing at him. Poor squirrel will probably count himself as one that got away.
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A Shot in the Dark
The first year Arnold and I went up to the mountains (1992) we had a pretty good trip. It was fun to have a chance of catching mink and coyotes (these were sadly lacking in SE Pa.). Arnold was not having as good of a time as I was. This is because he lived in the mountains for 2 years and had a very young daughter up there. (I won't bore you with details, but will say the woman he had the child with wasn't very pleasant, and after his daughter was born, she threw him out of the house. Arnold moved back down to SE Pa., while his daughter and her mother stayed in the mountains. He did talk her into moving down with him, but that lasted about 2 months and she moved back upstate.)So when we were upstate Arnold main objective was to spend time with his daughter. His ex's family welcomed him back like a long lost brother, even offering to let us stay with them. After 4 days of trapping and spending time with his daughter Arnolds mood was fairly grim, I tried everything I knew to cheer him up, even to the point of skinning a whole days catch by myself so he could go and see his daughter soon and stay longer. (I should have picked a different day; we had caught 8 coons, 2 rats, 2 foxes and a mink.)
Two days later Arnold's mood had not improved at all he seemed bordering on depression. Driving back from his ex's to our cabin (24 min trip), a chance to make him cheer up occurred. We were driving along a steep mountain road when in the headlights we could see something white in the middle of the road. At first I thought it was a bag or something, but we could see that it moving. Arnold slowed to a stop, and we could see it was a almost solid white skunk eating road kill. I grabbed my pistol and started loading it; Arnold asked what I was doing. I told him I wanted that skunk, as I had never seen one like it. He told me that as soon as I got close the skunk would take off for home and mother. I knew he was right, so I slowly cracked my door and eased out. I lined up the skunk as best I could (it was about 20 feet away) and cranked off 2 shots, nothing, nada zilch. I moved up to the front of the truck and fired off 2 more times. The skunk deciding he'd had enough to eat and the noise I was making was distracting him departed hell bent for leather. I knew I wasn't going to get that skunk, but decided I might be able to cheer up Arnold. So when the skunk took off I took off right behind him, firing the whole time.
Why the skunk didn't spray me I'll never know, all he did was speed up, and I kept on his tail firing as I went. Finally he got into the bushes on the side of the road and I ran out of ammo. I turned back and looked at the truck, Arnold was laughing so hard he was crying.
I may have looked like a madman running down the road chasing a skunk firing my pistol as fast as I could, but it sure cheered him up. Return to top
How to Fall down a Mountain (The Easy Way)
One year when my trapping partner Arnold and I were in the mountains, we decided to try some predator calling. We walked up on top of this mountain in the middle of nowhere. Following an old logging road it took us about an hour to climb to the top of it. We got to the top, and took a breather. Arnold started calling on a mouth-blown call, since we didn't have an electronic one. After about an hour or so of this we decided to call it quits (no pun intended). We started walking down the logging road, back towards the bottom.
I was walking along the edge next to the drop-off. It was about 240 or 200 feet down a 74-degree slope to the bottom. I was just walking along, minding my own business, when the road collapsed under my feet! Now keep in mind I still had my shotgun in my hand at the time. I shot down the slope, picking up speed as I went. I held my shotgun up as high as I could, to make sure it didn't get damaged. I think I stunted a few trees, with the wealth and variety of profanity I was using. I dislodged dirt, rocks, logs and other assorted things in my downward trip. (Arnold later told me all he could see and hear was a cloud of dust, with a shotgun sticking out of it, and a lot of swearing.) When I finally came to rest at the bottom of the mountainside amongst the boulders and logs and the dust settled, Arnold yelled down "HEY ARE YOU ALRIGHT?????" I yelled back that I was. I heard him say "OH GOOD." Then floating down the mountainside I heard the sounds of uproarious laughter.
After fighting my way back up the side of the mountain (THEY TEND TO BE EASIER TO FALL DOWN THAN CLIMB UP) I find my buddy on his back. His face red as a beet, tears rolling down his cheeks, and having trouble breathing. I looked down at him; he looked up at me and just burst into laughter. It took him a good ten minutes of calming down before he could walk without laughing every two steps. He kept saying, "AHHHHHH $@%*@ @%*$%! Stupid son of a $^%%^@ AHHHHH", (and imitating me falling down the mountain) and laughing his ass off. There's nothing worse than a 280 lbs. gorilla that thinks falling down a mountain is funny. Return to top
The Monster
The Darlington Valley of Delaware county Pennsylvania has a record of strange incidents and occurrences. Many people have reported seeing strange things lurking in the seemingly ever-present mist of early morning and evening. More people have reported the hearing horrible cries, screams and roars coming from the dark woods. So bad were the sounds some people vowed never to again return to the valley.
As a side note, a very close friend of my Fathers and his girlfriend had an experience neither of them ever forgot. Melvin Mallesly and his girlfriend (I can't recall his girlfriends name) were um, ah parking down in the valley late one night. As usually happens they were rather involved in what they were doing, when suddenly behind their car "The Monster" let loose with its audio assortment of mayhem. Even before the sounds faded away Melvin had the car started and was laying a trail of rubber out of the valley. Melvin was a good ole boy, born and raised as a hunter and trapper, so he knew the sounds of the woods. He told my Father that this was no animal he'd ever heard. My Father and his friends being young (20's) punks, of course teased the man unmercifully, calling it Melvin's Monster. Well it frightened him so badly he never went back into the valley, and his girlfriend moved to Florida. No one believed poor Melvin or his girlfriend. Stories of "The Monster" continued for years afterward up till this day even.
I had heard the stories of the "Darlington Monster" as a child from both my Father (who didn't believe a word of it) and my Mother (who always said there is something evil in that valley.) I decided that it was probably just animals making noises and citified people couldn't explain them and therefore were scared of what they heard. Foxes screaming, coons barking and growling, and numerous owl cries can unnerve the unknowing. Little did I know I would get a front row seat with the legend itself.
It was Thanksgiving Day 1992 when my partner Arnold and I had our encounter with "The Monster". It was very early in the morning around 2 am or so when this event took place. Arnold and I were walking up the valley checking our coon sets, talking to each other as we usually did. It was as dark as midnight in a mineshaft, as there was no moon and heavy clouds. This part of the valley is extremely thick, with multi-flora rose and honeysuckle everywhere, even in the daylight you can only see about 20 feet due to the walls of vegetation, and the only way through is a single deer path.
We were walking along guided by our trusty $1.24 flashlight we picked up at a gas station, its dim sickly yellow light barely illuminating our chosen path. Suddenly it front of us this thing lets out this sound. It started with a rumble like distant thunder, rose up to a howling shriek like banshee with a toothache and tapered off to a mad dog howl. It was so loud it reverberated off our chest and we could feel it on our faces. Arnold and I both looked at each other and said, "WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT??????". If you think this was inappropriate language, all I can say is you weren't there! We drew our pistols and loaded them so fast, we could have taken, Butch, Sundance , and The Kid down. This is all the more amazing considering the pistols were in snap down holsters and the bullets were in our pockets. We tried shining the light around but that did nothing constructive for our heart rates. Arnold then suggested we should slowly move off to the right to our other sets out in the field. You can believe me when I say this was met with less enthusiasm than "The Charge of the Light Brigade", they were only riding into the Valley of Death, I thought I was already there. I informed Arnold I liked the tree I was backed up against and daylight was only 1 1/2hrs. away or so. Arnold did coerce me into following him by starting off toward the field with the flashlight in one hand and a fully loaded and cocked pistol in the other. I sure as hell wasn't going to sit there in the dark by myself. I followed along right behind him, with my pistol fully loaded and cocked as well. To say we covered the 200 yards for where we met the monster to the edge of the field where our sets were carefully is a masterpiece of understatement. We were so slow and careful you'd thought we were tiptoeing through a minefield. Thank God no deer broke through the brush or rabbit scampered through the dry leaves, otherwise there would have been a sleet of lead laid down. We finally made it to the field edge without any more surprises. After checking our sets we had to re-enter the valley to get back to the truck. It was just light enough to see when we marched back into the valley. On the far side we heard the noise again. We continued back to the truck and got the hell out of there. Did this experience change us? Well yes and no, we were back checking traps the next day in the same valley, but now we had fully loaded pistols in unsnapped holsters.
Arnold and I have talked about this incident many times since then. We know what we heard, and no I can't tell you what it sounded like exactly, because I've never heard anything even remotely resembling it. Arnold and I between us have over 60 years of experience in the woods, from southern Virginia swamps to New York mountaintops, we have been to them all. We firmly agree it was no animal that walks the woods (to many sound variations in a short time), or human (no way a person could make those noises).
So you may ask what was it then? Well we believe it was a demon or other restless spirit, the whole valley is known to be a Indian burial ground. All I can say is if I never hear it again it'll be to soon. Return to top
Arnold and I had some sets on a quarry face about half way up.(There is a small ridge about 20 feet across full of brush and brambles).To get to these sets required walking up a 74 degree slope full of loose and stationary rocks. One day while checking a few sets Arnold and I had on the quarry, Arnold informed me that he had caught a coon. I told him that was well and good, "Kill it so we can get off this God-forsaken cliff", I said.
He followed the drag mark down the cliff face. I was almost to him when he informed me that there was a problem. "What's the problem?", I asked. "Well it seems that the coon has drug the trap and drag into that cave there", he said as he pointed at a small opening in the cliff. "You're shitting me?", I asked hopefully. "Nope", he replied. I looked in the cave mouth and could see the drag (a 14lb. cement block) resting on the floor of the cave. I didn't see the coon however, Arnold said he couldn't see it either. We decided that the coon had escaped the trap. We decided to come back later after checking the rest of our sets in the area. SO we checked the rest of our sets, and climbed back up the god-forsaken cliff face again. Arnold said, "I'll go in and get the trap". I was like "yeah right", there was no way on God's green earth that he was going to fit through the small opening. I informed him that he would never fit. He said "Your right!", and thrust the flashlight into my hand. I had to take my jacket off in order to fit into the opening myself.
Since I had just come from a bright sunny day into a dark ass cave, I couldn't see a damn thing. The flashlight I had was bad at it's best, it would only light up about 2 feet in front of you in a dull yellowish light. So I'm standing there in the cave, which was large when I got into it (I could almost stand). I started shining the light around and around. Arnold finally yelled "IT'S ON YOUR LEFT." I looked to the left and saw the block, I grabbed the block and pulled on the wire, thinking the coon was long since gone (BAD BAD IDEA). The wire suddenly jerked back into a little cut in the wall of the cave, with loud growling coming from it. I asked Arnold to give me the rifle, so I could dispatch the coon. Pay no mind to the fact that Arnold insists I screamed, "GIMMEEEEEE THE RIFLE!!!!!!!!!!", in a scratchy shrieking voice. He's prone to exaggerate, plus it's my story and I'll tell it anyway I want. Arnold did give me the rifle, and I found the coon and dispatched it. The coon had the chain and wire all snagged up in cracks in the cave floor. I didn't know that at the time however. I finally got the wire and chain all unsnagged and took the dead coon from the trap. When I climbed out of the cave, I was blinded by the sunlight and my ears were ringing (firing a rifle inside a cave doesn't do much for you), and my heart rate was up. I informed Arnold that he had better lose some weight. "Why?", he asked. I told him, "Because if another $%^@~*$ coon of yours goes into a cave your going in after it." He laughed, and so did I. We headed down the cliff and back to the truck, hell we still had more sets to check. Return to top
Out on a Limb
During the same trip I went down the mountain, this incident occurred. I had finished checking my coon sets and headed back to the truck. I got to the truck and Arnold wasn't there yet. I wondered where he was, as he usually beat me to the truck. Then down the creek heard a muffled report of his pistol. Oh good, I thought he got a coon. Then bang, bang, bang, bangbangbang bang bang. I was thinking, what the hell is going on? I yelled down stream to Arnold, and he yelled back, "GIT DOWN HERE". I rushed downstream as fast as I could through thickets and over logs. Finally I found Arnold standing under a very large pine tree.
"What the hell is going on!?!?!?" I asked as I wheezed for breath and pulled some briars from my hands. "Look up", he said. I looked, and there about 20 feet off the ground was a big coon out on this limb. I asked him, "What happened?". He explained that he had come downstream and saw the coon in the trap. He yelled, "Hello ole brer!!", at which the coon took off for home and mother. Arnold had gotten the coon up the tree by imitating a dog barking. Now Arnold isn't exactly what you would call little. So I volunteered to go get the coon. I thought it would be an interesting picture of the coon in the tree. (Boy what a bad idea). I climbed up even with the coon,(it was about 10 feet out on the branch). I took the camera out of my pocket and yelled down to Arnold, "I hope this teaches you to stop using light drags (on his traps). "Drags,??? Whatdya mean? He isn't even in a trap anymore", he yelled up to me. "WHAT THE HELL DO YOU MEAN HE'S NOT IN A TRAP ANYMORE!!!" I calmly asked him. "When I said hello to him he pulled out of the trap and took off, the trap is still about 40 yards upstream", he replied.
I suddenly decided that pictures were not such a good idea. I quickly put the camera away and grabbed my pistol. Well by this time the coon had enough, and bailed out of the tree. "GIT 'EMMMMMMMMM", I yelled from my perch. When the coon reached the ground. Arnold came in a delivered the coup de grace. I climbed down out of the tree and asked, "Now why didn't you tell me the coon wasn't in a trap???". "You didn't ask me", he replied. Didn't ask he says, yeah right, I know why he didn't tell me, because I wouldn't have went!, and he damn well knew it! Return to top
Strange Catches and Occurrences
Ok, this isn't a story so much as just a run down of strange catches and/or occurrences on the trapline.
Muskrats
My Grandfather and Father both have caught muskrats by the tail in feed bed sets.
Arnold and Pop both caught doubles on rats in the same trap.
Pop used to tell me of a certain pool on the creek where he always caught black rats with about 1" of the tail being white.
Raccoons
I once caught a coon with a bone growth on its back leg, it looked as though it had been broken and healed in a big lump.
Arnold once caught a coon that appeared to be suffering from some debilitating disease, its paws were all turned in and crooked and it couldn't keep its head up.
I've caught drowned coons in beaver sets several times. (Kind of disappointing pulling up a coon instead of a beaver.)
Caught a coon in a foothold and then in a conibears. SNAP! WHACK! Man that coon had a bad day.
Caught a coon in a snare that pulled the stake somehow and got tangled in a barbwire fence. It wrapped itself all up in that fence and was stuck on the top wire. Even after I dispatched him I had to cut the snare into about 10 pieces to get him off the wire.
Once caught a coon up in the mountains that had five or six porcupine quills in his hind leg. His foot was growing at an odd angle due to the quills.
Arnold once had a coon killed by a porcupine. He figures the coon and porky got to the set at the same time, the coon got caught and started to fight the trap, and the porky got scared and whacked him. Arnold says there were 24-20 quills in the chest alone.
Foxes
I once caught a fox with a deformed eye; it was only about half open. It wasn't gummed shut or anything, because when I skinned it out the one eyehole was much smaller than the other.
Arnold once caught a fox with a tumor like protrusion on it's face. It was about 1 ½" long by ½" wide and was solid black.
Each member of my family has caught foxes with white feet and/or partial white legs.
Arnold caught 2 piebald foxes years ago. He said they looked like beagles.
Pop used to have a certain farm that he trapped that had foxes with short tails. The tails were about 6" shorter than other foxes tails.
I have caught numerous foxes with bent tails. The tails would have a 24-degree or more bend in them. Seemed like an old injury to the tail made the bones grow a different way.
I once caught a very big old smart fox by the elbow.
Arnold once caught a fox by a front and hind leg. He said he couldn't tell what he'd caught till he was right up on top of it, because it was more or less laying on it's side.
We've all caught foxes by both front feet now and again. Pop is the only person I know who has caught a fox by both hind feet. It was a female fox just so you know.
Arnold also once caught a fox by its testicles. How he did that I'll never know. It was dead from shock I guess when he got there.
Opossums
My father once caught an opossum by three legs and its tail, now explain that one.
Arnold once caught the same opossum for 2 days in a row. Finally he decided to end his misery and added the opossum to the fur shed. Getting caught 2 times in the same set displays opossum's intelligence.
Ok, here gluttony gone awry. My Father and Grandfather used to have a carcass pile outside the basement door all during trapping season. One day they noticed something was eating at the carcasses. Pop put in a set, and bingo the next day there was a fat ole grinner in it. Talk about not knowing when to quit.
Strange catches
Arnold and I were once running a muskrat line along a section of creek from my johnboat. When we were getting ready to go one day Arnold noticed the water was muddy near one of our sets. He pulled up the coni and it held a very small snapping turtle right by the neck. We snapped a picture of it and released it unharmed except for a stiff neck.
On the same line we also caught a catfish out of a muskrat den. Arnold filleted it and ate it.
Pop once caught a rabbit out of an underwater muskrat den.
Dad once caught a frog in a #1 longspring set for coons.
Arnold once caught a snake in a 110-coni set for muskrats. He's very scared of snakes so when he saw what it was he slung it over his shoulder into a very deep pool.
Arnold caught a double on field mice in a #0 set on a crossing log.
I caught a mink in a foothold and a coni this past year.
Arnold once caught a sucker in a coon set.
Arnold also caught a groundhog in a coon set one November. Heck I didn't even know groundhogs liked fish!
I caught a groundhog once in the middle of January when it was 14-degrees for the high. He had died of exposure when we found him the next morning. I still have no idea what the hell it was doing out in that weather at that time of the year. Return to top
The Great Boar Hunt
as told to the author
One day while sitting at the local Sportsman's club. Arnold, my cousin Frank Snow, and another good friend Donald Chatin, decided in a half drunken stupor that they wanted to hunt wild boar.
They all went home and got some gear, called the hunting lodge upstate and made arrangements for a weekend hunt. Then they all crammed into Frank's old beat-up truck and headed off on a 6 hour trip to the mountains. I say crammed, because Arnold is around 270-290 lbs. with arms as big as most people's legs. Donald is not quite so big but still stands a good 6 feet tall and weighs around 240, plus he has hands as big as slabs of 2x12. Frank is bigger than Arnold, enough said.
Now, they were half kicked in the ass when they left, and they laid in a good supply of beer and Wild Turkey for the trip . By the time they got to the hunting lodge they were all drunk as skunks. Arnold and Frank were the most drunk, as Donald had been driving. They checked in at the lodge so as to be ready for the next morning. They checked into the hotel in town and got one room (I don't know why but just one room). Donald went down to the front desk to leave a wake up call.
Donald says he was looking forward to going to the bar next door and starting some trouble. He figured with Arnold on one side and Frank on the other he could do whatever he damned well pleased. Well unfortunately for him Frank and Arnold had passed out on the floor. Donald looked at the two drunken bums, said, "Hell with it!", and went to the bar. Donald was just enjoying his 2nd or 2rd beer when the manager of the hotel called. "Your friends are fighting up in your room", the poor man was screaming. Donald jumped up and raced to his room across the street. What the hell are those idiots doing???, he wondered. People were standing in the hall when he arrived. Donald opened the door, expecting to see the room in a shambles. Instead what he saw was Arnold and Frank asleep on the floor snoring fit to beat the band. He left and went back to the bar, figuring he needed more to drink if he was going to get any sleep.
The next day when they woke up, they opened a new bottle of Wild Turkey and headed to the hunting lodge. They had just about finished the bottle when they got there, and it was only a 14 minute ride.
(DISCLAIMER: This in no way, shape, or form advocates the use of alcohol while hunting.)
I wonder what their poor guides face looked like when he saw those three drunken gorillas. Arnold being the sensible one had taken his 20/20 rifle to hunt with. Donald and Frank both were using their new 22 magnums. They were wandering through the woods, taking turns drinking out of the 2nd bottle.
Then Frank spotted a hog. The guide started to say something, but it was to late. "BOOOOOOOMMMM!!!!!!, went Frank's 22. The boar paid no mind to the wound and took off, so did Frank. The guide screamed, "FFFFFRRRRRAAAAANNNNNKKKKKK!!!!!!!" Frank paid him no mind. The boar stopped to look back and Frank shot again, "BBBBBOOOOMMMMM!!!!!!" sounded the 22 again. The boar still paid no mind and took off. So did Frank, so did the guide "FFFFFRRRRRAAAAAANNNNNKKKKKK!!!!!" Now the boar was running along the mountainside with Frank in hot pursuit, shooting when he got a chance. The guide was beet red and starting to go hoarse from screaming. Arnold and Donald were holding on to trees to stop from falling on the ground, they were laughing so hard. Finally the boar stopped and leaned against a tree and was breathing it's last. Frank ran up to it, thought it looked like it twitched and fired again, "BBBBOOOOOOMMMMM!!!!!" Frank looked at the guide and gave him a big grin. By now the guide was hoarse, his face was blood red and his blood pressure was through he roof. He just stood there panting with a maniacal look in his eyes. For the rest of the hunt, the mate of the boar Frank had shot chased him all over the mountain (he only had one tag so he couldn't carry a gun).
Arnold admits to having the boar in his sights more than once, but didn't shoot. He said, "It was more fun to watch that big dummy run for his life with the boar in hot pursuit." Eventually all of them got their boar.
( It was last reported that the guide had to receive some psychiatric help. It is doubted that he will recover.)
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Trapping the Forgotten American Heritage
My friend Mel once asked me “Mike why do you trap?” To which I replied,
“I don’t know how not to trap. I have trapped for as long as I can remember and
probably before that!” I then started thinking about why I trap. My mind
drifted back to my youth spent trapping with my Father and Grandfather.
I remembered as a young child running traplines with my Dad and Grandfather
(Pop). I also remembered the names of other trappers who trapped in the same
areas that we did. Men like Arnold Favinger the raccoon and fox trapper from
up in Lenni, Bob Currey the raccoon trapper who let my Father trap foxes on
his farm, and Jack Murphy, the long lining trapper who would catch three to
five hundred raccoons a season.
Back then you could go into any of the numerous small grocery stores similar
to, Ahearns, or the Frogtown Country Store or into any local bar like Martins,
Eddie’s, or The Hilltop and ask the name of a local trapper and get three or
four responses. People would not only tell you, whom you were looking for, but
also what they could catch, and where to find them. Now you’d be lucky to find
anyone who knew a trapper at all, let alone where to find them and what animals
they specialize in.
To me it is a sin to let this great American heritage fade away like a wisp of
smoke. Think of all of the great outdoorsmen and adventurers of the old west
that were trappers. Men like Jim Bridger, who helped map out the Oregon Trail,
as well as many overland stage routes, and Kit Carson, the famous Indian scout
who knew the desert southwest like the back of his hand. These men and others
to numerous to name helped map out and settle this country. Their in depth
knowledge of the land and waters is what guided them through the wilderness.
They had no maps or atlases, all they had to go on what their own knowledge of
the land and what they could gather from other trappers and hunters. By running
their trapline in the wilderness they came to know and love the land, much
like trappers today.
In this day and age it is hard to find a trapper, unless you belong to a
trapping organization such as the National Trapper Association. America has
more outdoorsmen per capita than probably any country in the world, but only
a small handful of those are trappers. Trappers not only have to defend
themselves against the anti trappers, but sometimes even against other
outdoorsmen, like hunters as well. Trappers have long had their back to
the wall, between ever increasing cost of equipment and gas, lowering fur
prices, and the ever present antis, some trappers have hung it up and quit.
Traps now gather dust in old barns, outbuildings, and musty basements.
My generation was just old enough to catch the tail end of the great fur boom,
when fur prices were high and everyone seemed to trap. The boom lasted till I
was about twelve and then the fur prices dropped, and dropped and dropped, till
by the time I graduated high school, you could hardly give wild fur away. My
brothers and sister and their generation never got to experience the type of
things I did. Trapping taught me so many things about life and the wild world
that I don’t know what I would have done without it.
I learned planning and preparation from watching my Dad and Pop. Every year
before the opening day of trapping season, you could find us in the field
under the big walnut tree. There would be a large cauldron of water and walnuts
boiling over a wood fire (we later went to gas) to dye the trap in. The
walnuts were personally gather by my brother Matthew and I by either picking
them up off the ground, or shooting them off the branches with our BB guns.
The traps were arranged in piles on the battered sheet of plywood that Dad and
Pop had supported on sawhorses every year. Dad would check the pan tension on
this one while Pop was checking the springs on other. Only after careful
inspection were the traps put in the dye to obtain the proper shade of black.
When the traps were dyed properly, they were removed from the cauldron and
allowed to dry on a rack. Then Pop would put the wax on to melt. After the wax
was melted the traps were dipped in, till they stopped crackling and popping.
Then they were removed and allowed to dry. Pop and Dad did this many weeks
before the season so that when the season opened they would be ready.
I learned about truth, honesty, and fair play from two different instances I
can remember. One morning while checking traps with my Dad, we came to a small
creek, and I could see there had been a catch made. “Hey Dad you got a coon”
I yelled to him. He walked up the creek, looked at the coon and said “Son that
coon isn’t in my trap; my set is up around the bend.” He walked back downstream,
and I looked longingly at the coon, knowing it was worth 35-40 dollars. Dad
later explained to me that he hated when someone stole his traps or fur and
how he despised thieves and would never be counted among them.
One cold November morning I was checking traps with Pop, down in the Darlington
Valley. As we were walking down the train tracks we could see three people in
the distance. They saw us and waved and we met about halfway down. It was
Arnold Favinger, Jack Bonny, and a young kid. “Morning Charlie” Arnold said to
Pop. “Morning Arnold, morning Jack” Pop replied. (All local trappers pretty
much knew each other back in those days.) “Say, Charlie did you shoot one of
my coons yesterday, down under the trestle?” Arnold asked. “Yes I did, it was
only held by one toe and I didn’t want it to escape on you” Pop replied.
“I appreciate it, but was wondering why a thief would shoot my coon, and then
leave it for me?” Arnold said laughingly. Arnold later told me when he and I
trapped together that he never feared losing a trap or an animal when he and
Pop trapped the same area. Pop unwittingly showed me fair play, and how to
establish and honest reputation for yourself.
I also learned that you have to take responsibility. I can remember one year
my Dad hurt his foot at work and could barely walk, but he made sure his fox
sets got checked every single morning, even if it took him twice as long. I can
remember Pop driving through a blizzard to pull his traps just so they would
not be operating when he would not be able to reach them.
I learned a few things about honor as well from trapping. I can remember every
December 23rd we would either pull or snap all of our traps. “Nothing should
die on Christmas” Dad once said to me. I still carry this tradition with my
children; all traps are sprung or pulled on Christmas Eve.
Another thing I can remember is a single set of fox tracks on a frosty trestle
bridge. I saw them many times as Pop and I walked over that bridge to check
his sets. “Why don’t you ever try to catch that fox Pop?” I asked. He just
looked at me grinned slightly and said “Someday you’ll know why” and continued
on down the tracks. Later I did know why neither he nor Arnold, nor Jack ever
tried to try to catch the fox that left the tracks on the trestle. I wish I
could tell you but it is something you have to discover for yourself.
I was taught a lesson in respect every year. Although Pop and Dad had been
trapping some of their farms for a decade or more, they still stopped by the
farmhouse in early October to renew permissions with the farmer. It also gave
them a chance to ask questions on where the farmer had seen foxes or coons, get
to know the dogs again, and find out if any areas were off limits. The farmers
appreciated that we stopped to ask permission and talk again and that we did
not take their permission or land for granted.
The greatest thing trapping has taught me, is appreciation and knowledge of the
outdoors. I can readily look at a field, creek, pond, river, or woods and know
where to look to find whatever animal I am searching for. I have learned how
to read just a small piece of track, or identify a single strand of hair I may
find in a fence or tree and determine what left it. I now know that no matter
how much I know about trapping and animals, that there is always something new
to learn. Every fall I am still amazed at the myriad of colors of the woods,
the bright burning reds of the maples, the glimmering yellow of the oaks and
beeches, blazing through the valleys like an arboreal forest fire. I love to
listen to the slow, soft murmuring of the mink stream, which sounds like a
distant conversation I can’t quite make out. I chuckle on days when hunters
look outside and decide the weather is just too nasty to venture forth, and
I am out tending my traps. I love to walk in the falling snow, and hear it
sizzle past my ears, and marvel at how the rest of the world seems to have
been silenced by the beauty of the snow covered woods. I’ve seen sunrises so
beautiful that they are beyond my power to describe. And, even though I have
witnessed more sunrises I can remember I still on occasion stop my truck and
watch the spectacle of it again.
Trappers are out in the woods and water every day of the three to four month
trapping season. They spend hours in and around their location, and know it
better than any hunter of fisherman ever could. Trappers know every bump,
rock, pool and sandbar on the creeks they trap. They know every saddle, draw,
cow/deer path, and trail on the lands they trap. They know a foxes bark from
a coons, and can tell you how far away a coyote is just by hearing the howl.
Trappers are among the most observant people in the world. Because they have
to be, in order to be any good at their sport they have to be. I had always
just taken my powers of outdoor observation for granted, but my children
helped to bring this trait to my attention,. My daughter Teagan (8) walks
through our neighborhood and woods like a modern day Osa Johnson (famous
woman African explorer). She amazes her friends by pointing out to them rabbits
and squirrels, which they cannot see. She also identifies bird songs, squirrel
barks or tracks in the snow to her amazed friends. When her class goes on and
ECO- trip (an outside field trip) the teacher and students call her the
“resident expert” in identifying animal tracks, droppings, sign, and calls.
My son Jamison (12) says on field trips he sees many different animals, but
for some reason none of his friends can see them. “I keep saying it’s right
there, just to the left of that tuft of switch grass” he tells me. And, his
friends can’t see the tuft of grass let alone the pheasant that just strutted
by it.
Trapping is one of the few sports every member of the family can enjoy and
participate in. No matter how old or young everyone can be a part of trapping.
My youngest daughter Charly (3) helps Teagan and Jamison collect the walnuts
to dye the traps with (much like I used to). The older kids run traps with me
on weekend and days they off of school. They are learning to develop the
skills to pick their own location, and the ability to read the tracks and other
signs. They tough it out despite the sub zero temperatures, the wet feet, the
snapped finger, just to catch something. The smile on their faces when they do
make a catch is incredible. Even Pop when he had long quit trapping still
participated. Most days he’d have me and my partner show him the catch, then
heckle us for not catching enough, and ask where we got which animals and in
what kind of set. Even when he was losing his battle with dementia and
Parkinson’s Disease and didn’t know me from the imaginary people he saw,
when I said trapping, a light came to his eyes and they seemed to clear, and
for the briefest of moments he knew me, and we talked about trapping. It was
the last conversation I ever had with him, and I’m glad it was on trapping.
I hate to see this heritage die a slow death, so I try to keep it alive in my
children, and hopefully my grandchildren (when I have some). Someday I’ll be
just a shadow following my children on their trapline, much like I feel I am
followed on mine at times. When that time comes maybe I’ll meet up with Pop
and we’ll try to catch that trestle fox.
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