More Trapper John

          I teased you last time with more on Trapper John but my everyday jibber-jabber ran onto 22 pages when printed with all of the pictures and I thought that was quite enough for one week. So, this week we’re not going to take a chance of running out of room and we’ll start with More Trapper John. 

John, on his way to check his traps, stopped by to show me another method of trapping beavers. “This is what they call a ten-foot drowning cable.”

I wasn’t sure I’d heard right. “Drowning?” I repeated. “As in…” being trapped underwater, was the thought formed in my head but never uttered. John seemed to understand and didn’t make me spit it out.

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

He went on to explain how it works. “Now, the way they come is with this S hook on here. Most people would attach this to their trap but I don’t. I put a quick link on it so I can switch out traps if I need to; say the pan gets broken or the jaws get popped out. When a beaver gets caught, he’ll swim down the cable,” John slid the chain down the cable to demonstrate, “and when he tries to come back up, he can’t.” John pulled back on the chain and the drowning lock locked into place.

Calling it a drowning cable is very apropos.

“Which is more humane?” I asked. Although I thought I already knew the answer, sometimes you like to hear what someone else has to say.

“The killer traps, which is what I like. But there are situations where you can’t use ‘em. If you’re doing animal control trapping, say the beaver is flooding somebody’s farm fields and he can’t make his living, he’ll hire a trapper or ask a trapper to come in and trap the beavers. The beavers get smart really fast. They’re not a dumb animal. Then you have to switch over and use a different kind of trap like a foot-hold trap, a cable-restraint, or a snare.”

“What’s the difference between a cable-restraint and a snare?” In my mind it seemed like it was the same thing. Not so.

“A cable-restraint is made so it only closes so far and doesn’t necessarily kill an animal. A snare is made to close completely. Snares are a last resort. I don’t think you have to be certified to use a snare but a cable-restraint you do.”

John had been busy winding the drowning cable back up while we chatted. “I just got these the other day and I was on my way out to check my traps and thought you might like to see one.”

I was interested but didn’t say so. My mind focused on the other part of what he said. “How often do you have to check your traps?”

“Every thirty-six hours by law. I check mine every day unless the weather is preventing me from getting to my traps. I was there yesterday and couldn’t find one of my traps because there’s so much snow, so I actually have my snowshoes and my…” John paused as he tried to remember if he put his snowshoes in the car. “Yeah, I got snowshoes…”

I laughed.

“And I have a snow shovel in the trunk. I should be able to make it out there today. I haven’t caught anything since I saw you but that’s just the way beaver trapping is. They don’t move every day. When they do, a lot of times they come out of the lodge, grab something off their feed bed, then go right back in.”

“They stay in where it’s warm,” I said.

“Right. And they can’t see well under the ice. With all the snow on it, it’s dark. I’ve cut holes in the ice and have to cover my head up to see a few inches into the water to see if my trap was sprung. Yesterday I couldn’t tell so I turned my hatchet around, stuck it in the hole, felt around for the jaws and I felt ‘em. It was still set.”

“So, how many beavers are out here?” I wanted to know. I never see any!

“Out here at the Game Commission building…” John counted, “Two… four…”

I wondered how he was counting. Had he seen them? Or knowing beavers and their behaviors, was he counting lodges or dens? I’ll have to ask him sometime.

“There’s at least ten to twelve beavers out here.”

“Cool. And they keep building a dam and the Game Commission keeps knocking it out, don’t they.”

“Sometimes,” John agreed. “They had a dam right off the road years ago that was taller than my head.”

“Wow!”

“Yeah, it was insane! It was one of the tallest dams I’ve ever seen in my life and I only caught one beaver out of there that year. Back then you were allowed to set right on the dam or the lodge so I put one at the lodge and it took two days before I caught one but it was like a 49-pound beaver.”

We talked about trapping season. “It opens mid-December. January, February is mating season.”

“They don’t want you to catch a mama beaver and leave the babies stranded, do they?”

“When a beaver is born it already knows everything it needs to know. They pretty much take care of themselves.”

A flash of the book Clan of the Cave Bear came to my mind. In the book the Clan, the Neanderthals, were born with all the memories of their ancestors. The men knew all the men stuff and the women knew all the women stuff.

“They live in family groups?” I asked.

“It’ll be the parents and the young of the year in the main lodge. Then you may have a secondary lodge or a bank den where the two-year-olds’ll stay. Then the spring they turn three they’re forced out. They go out on their own and set up housekeeping somewhere else. They go overland, they go up and down creeks. Otters do the same thing —” and then John remembered, “— that otters back out here again.”

“I didn’t even know we had otters!” I told him.

“I was looking at my last set and you could see where he was going up and down the ice.” John could read the signs in the snow. “He’d been there for a couple of days. He came over the dam, on top of the snow, and right between the support sticks for my killer trap. They stick up above the ice. I’m glad he didn’t go under the ice.”

John and I started talking about sizing your traps. “A one-and-a-half or a number two coil spring is the all-around best trap for anything. You can catch beaver with ‘em — by the front foot,” he clarified. “You can put a second set of beefer springs on ‘em and it’ll hold a coyote. That’s why they use traps like this because coyotes are very strong, so are beavers and otter.”

“So, you have to stake ‘em down good or you’ll lose your trap.”

“Right. I use rebar stakes that are eighteen inches long for my coyotes.”

“And you also have to check ‘em or they’ll chew their foot off.”

“No, they don’t… they don’t intentionally chew their foot. That’s a misconception. Try this. Put a rubber band around your finger and put it on snug and wait for a minute or two.”

I could see it in my head. The end of my finger, purple, swollen, and hard. I have brothers. It was one of them that showed the rest of us this neat ‘trick’.

“Then bite on the end of your finger,” John finished.

It seems like we maybe even did that when I was a kid. “You don’t feel it.”

John clarified. “You don’t feel it as much. Same thing happens with an animal. They get caught in a trap, they’re not chewing on their foot per se, they’re chewing on the trap. In the process they end up chewing on their toes underneath the jaws. They’re not gonna chew above the jaws because they can feel that.”

“Then they end up getting free.”

“Right. And this is the other problem with people who don’t know what they’re doing with trapping. They use a trap that’s too big for the animal. The animal comes along and steps in it and the trap’s so powerful it breaks the bones in the leg — those bones are like razors! As the animal moves around trying to get away those bones end up cutting the meat and connective tissues and the animal gets away. That’s why I stress and strive for as much perfection with trapping as possible and especially for that reason.”

“You don’t want to make an animal suffer,” I said.

“Right. And that’s why I’m so anal on checking ’em every day. Most people do. The state does allow you a little leeway, it’s 36 hours. And the other thing is, you catch an animal and say it’s alive, its buddy comes along and sees that and he’ll put two and two together eventually and he’ll avoid the set. I’ve seen it happen so many times. You pinch an animal or it steps on the dog…” John bent down and picked up a part of the trap. “This is the dog. The dog goes in and catches the pan.

If an animal comes along and steps on the very edge of the trap and catches the pan just enough for that trap to fire, it’s not gonna catch him but he’ll be smarter, he’ll know it’s there. Fox and coon are especially well known for this; if they feel something move around under their feet, they’ll dig around the edges of it and get under it. And when you get a trap-wise fox, they’ll intentionally dig underneath the trap and flip it over. My dad’s had fox take a crap right on top of a trap.”

I laughed as the vision materialized in my head. “Take that!”

“If you would try your normal fox trapping now with a dirt hole, your traps would freeze down and I’ve had it happen where the fox was walking all over the trap. I ended up having to set the trap so light a bare dusting of dirt would set it off. It took me two weeks to catch him and he was the only one I got that year so I ended up having it tanned.”

“Nice!”

“Animals are smart. People just don’t give ’em enough credit.”

          “We had a mama fox feed her kits with all of our kittens one year. We had a dozen kittens and by the time she was done we didn’t have any. She just kept coming back and coming back until she got ‘em all,” I told John. “Since then, we’ve had all of our cats fixed. No more kittens.”

          “Yep. Coyotes are known to go into someone’s yard — this is how smart they are — they’ll go into the yard, grab a dog’s chain and drag the dog out of its coop and the other pack members’ll descend on him and kill’im.”

          “They don’t do it to be mean. They’re just feeding themselves.”

          “Right. It’s just another animal to them. They don’t know the difference between a wild animal and someone’s pet. An animal’s an animal and if they can catch it, kill it, and eat it, they’re going to.”

          Our conversation took a bit of a darker turn here as John told me stories of just how vicious coyotes can be and I’ll spare you the pictures you’d create in your head if I were to tell you.

          John left and I went back to working on the final edit of Trapper John and getting it posted. Once done, I sent John the link to his story and he was pleased.

“I'm thrilled that I could share my knowledge with someone who has never been trapping. Your interest surprised me. It made my day when you told me that you were going to write about me. Thank you for making me part of your blog.”

One of the most interesting comments I received for Trapper John came from that beautiful West Virginia friend of mine.

“I loved your blog story and I have a confession — I have a crush on Trapper John!!!  First one I've had in years.  I’m so jealous that you got to meet him.”

I had a lot of fun with Trish’s long-distance crush. “I told John you had a crush on him.” Then I told her how to find him on Facebook. “Are you going to look him up?”

“I think I'm better off with just the crush!!” She is way too practical.

Then we got into a discussion on John’s age. “How old do you think he is?” I asked.

“Late 30's,” Trish guessed.

I know how old Trish is. “Too young for you?”

I’d expected her to give a flat-out yep. “Maybe,” came her reply.

 “You cougar, you!” There’s no accounting for crushes!

And her response made me laugh right out loud.

“I'm old, not dead!!”

          That very afternoon Trapper John got a beaver! He sent me a picture, which I was pleased to see. It’s a very nicely composed photograph and John gave me permission to use it. But I’m thinking, he could’ve stopped by and shown it to me!

          Just about then a car pulls in the driveway and it’s John! The first words out of my mouth were not, “Hi John!” or any other polite greeting. Instead, I said, “Listen! When you told me you got one today, I was going to give you hell for not stopping and showing it to me!” I grinned. “And here you are!”

          “Yeah, well I got this over on Spring Hill.”

          That means that John went out of his way to show it to me.

          “I thought you might like to see how these traps actually work. It’s just like a big mouse trap. It catches ‘em behind the head and snaps their neck.”

          “And they die quickly,” I state the obvious.

          “Yeah. That’s one of the reasons I like these traps so much.”

          “How do the feet feel?” I wanted to see what he felt like and touched him.

          “Leathery.”

          “They’ve got toenails…” I don’t know guys. I don’t know why I said that. Of course, they have toenails!

          “Mm-huh.”

          But John didn’t laugh at me for saying such a silly thing. Instead, he turned it into a teaching moment.

“Now these toenails right here are split and they’re split for a reason. That’s how they groom themselves; they clean their fur.”

“How old do you think he was?”

          “This is a two-year-old.”

          “And you can tell…” I left the question hang.

          “By the weight. A two-year old weighs in the mid-twenties, like twenty-five pounds, a three-year old’s like thirty-five pounds, and then anything four years and better you’re talking forty pounds plus.”

          I see John had sticks wired to the trap. Don’t laugh when you hear what I asked next. “So, what are the sticks there?”

          “This?” And he touched them. “This is bait.”

          I felt like an idiot. “Oh!”

          “You put these on the trap and set it near the feed bed and when they check it out, they catch on the trigger wire and set the trap off.”

          “Do they stink?” was my next question.

          “They have a musky odor that’s not unpleasant. Anyway, I’d better get going. It’s getting late. I’ll get this skinned and drop off the skull in a day or two.”

          “Thank you!” I’m excited to have a beaver skull.

          The next time I see Trapper John was when he brought me the skull. He came walking up carrying a plastic bag.

“Here’s your beaver skull,” John said handing me a plastic freezer bag.

It had eyeballs and everything! Yuck. “What would it smell like if I cooked him?” That was a question I’d been pondering and decided it probably wouldn’t be much different from cooking any other hunk of meat.

          “I don’t know.”

          “I’ve got wire cages around my apple trees. I’ll probably just drop it in there and let the ants eat it.”

          “Good idea.”

          “Thank you for this!”

          “Absolutely!”

          “How big did he come out to be?”

          “When I stretched him, he was about 47 to 50 inches.”

          “Do you have drying frames you put him on?” I’m not real sure where this question came from. I’d not been thinking about the process at all.

          “Most people use a four-by-four sheet of plywood. You use nails and kind of go around and make it into a round or oval. Most guys will flesh it out when it’s on the board or use a fleshing beam and scrap it. Right now I just skin ‘em, roll the hide up, stick it in a bag, and put it in the freezer.”

          “Do they make wire frames to stretch ‘em on?” After Miss Rosie read Trapper John, she told me that her father used to trap too. Then, my beautiful friend Joanie bought Rosie’s old family homestead and a couple of years ago I helped to clean up a couple of old sheds. One of the things I’d saved from the trash were wire frames. I had no idea at the time what they were for but I brought them home anyway.

          “Yep.”

          “I think I might have some.” Then I felt the need to explain how I came by them. “Miss Rosie’s father used to trap and my friend lives in their old house and when they cleaned out the shed, they were going to throw them away. I saved ‘em just because they were wire. I wonder if that’s what they are.”

          “If they’re like an oval shape, that’s probably what it is.”

          “They’re not oval, they’re rectangle.”

          “Rectangle?”

John sounded incredulous and I doubted myself. “Maybe they were for something else.”

          “They make things like that to store hides,” and he started to describe it to me.

          “If I showed you one would you know?”

          “Yep!”

          John waited while I went and got a few of them.

          “Are they something to do with…”

          “Nope,” John said after taking one. “A beaver stretcher will actually be round or oval in shape. I don’t know what these are.” He looked it over. “They’re made to be adjustable...”

          “Wanna take ‘em?”

          “Yeah. My stepdad might know or my uncles.”   

          “I’ve got more. If you can figure out what they are or have a use for them, you can have them. Just let me know.”

          Besides bringing me my skull, Trapper John brought me a surprise. “I brought this,” he said pulling a small jar from his pocket.

         “Is that the…” I trailed off but John picked up my thread.

          “Beaver lure. Castor and oil.”

          “Does it smell bad?” I wanted to know.

          “No, actually I find it a pleasant odor in light doses.”  

          John unscrewed the top. Had he offered it to me first, I might’ve hesitated. But he smelled it first and that gave me courage.

          I should’ve paid attention when John said light doses. I took a big ole honkin’ sniff and it was strong but not entirely unpleasant.

           “Oh my!” I said, a little surprised. “That’s not bad.” It did have some nice undertones. “I bet they can make perfume out of that.”

          “They do with skunk essence. And the reason they do is because of the way it travels in the air.”

“Attract them females!”

“Yep. With beaver lure, you make a set, you put a little beaver lure out, then the beavers come and investigate. They’re very territorial.”

“Did you make that?” I wanted to know.

“No. My dad actually got this for me.”

“But can you make it?”

“Oh, yeah. With the castor and oil sacs that I harvest from the beavers.”

“Does it take a lot?” I was wondering if it was like maple syrup. You need gallons and gallons of sap to make a little syrup.

“No. There might be a little alcohol or something like that in it.”

“To keep it from…” I let my question trail again.

“Jelling and freezing.”

“Now what do you do with that? Do you smear it on part of your trap or your bait or what do you do with it?”

“If I’m using like a leg-hold trap, I might smear a little on the top of the stake that I pound into the ground. Beavers pick up a pile of mud and sticks and deposit it on the bank then squirt the oil and castor on it and they call that a scent mound. The beavers do this as a way of marking their territory. I don’t do that, that’s just extra work. I try to be as quick as possible. Less disturbance, the less chance of tipping them off. I’ll just smear it on a stick and set it on the ground right behind the trap.”

“Have you ever felt bad about something you’ve trapped?”

“Yeah. Many years ago, I caught a fisher and two otters. I turned the one otter into the Game Commission and the other I let lose. The fisher we let lose but I still felt bad about catching it. I thought at first I was going to have to destroy him. He looked like he was injured but when I got close, I was able to use a choker on him and get him out of the trap. I held him down and looked at his paw. It was red but other than that it looked fine. So, I let him go and he took off like a bat outta hell, acted like he didn’t have a care in the world.”

I remembered  we once had a cat with a mangled front paw. We guessed she’d been caught in a trap. But she got around just fine. “An injured paw is something he could recover from on his own.”

“Easily, as long as they take care of it,” John agreed.

“Peg! Wait!” you say. “What’s a fisher?”

I already knew that a fisher is like a weasel but I Googled it for you.

 According to the Defenders of Wildlife website: Fishers are elusive, forest-dwelling members of the weasel family with long, slim bodies, short legs, rounded ears and bushy tails. Fishers are larger and darker than martens and have thick fur. Fishers are agile, swift and excellent climbers, with the ability to turn their back feet nearly 180 degrees allowing them to climb head-first down trees. Despite their name, fishers do not hunt or eat fish, but have a varied diet consisting mostly of small to mid-sized mammals including squirrels, wood rats and hares. Rampant loss of forest habitat due to aggressive logging of the past remains a problem, and unsustainable logging continues to impact fisher habitat today. Abnormally large, severe fires and poisoning by rodenticide used in illegal marijuana growing operations on public lands also contribute to the decline of this rare and charismatic critter.

I thought another fact about fishers was interesting. They’re the second largest member of the weasel family; only the river otter is larger. The picture, by the way, is from the internet.

When I sat down to write More Trapper John, I realized I should’ve taken a picture of John’s handsome face to kick my letter blog off with and despite having seen him three different times, I didn’t have one. I got on the email and asked John for a selfie and he sent me two. The one at the beginning of this letter blog has a rattlesnake skin in the background. “I hunt rattlesnakes too!” he told me.

I bet you went back and looked at the picture again.

And this is the other one which I had not intended to use. But since I have the room, I decided to share it.

Although John thanked me for writing a story about him, it’s us, you and me, that owe him a debt of gratitude. Not only for his interesting stories but for the education too.

And with that, let’s call…

“Peg! Wait! Wait-wait! What about your normal jibber-jabber and pictures?” you ask.

You’re right. My normal jibber-jabber and pictures are missing this week. Writing More Trapper John has used up my space and most of my weekend writing time — but I’m not sad about that. We’ll just view this as an opportunity to create an extra letter blog.

Oh! Don’t groan! I hear some of you groan! And I hear some of you cheer.

Let’s call this one done!