“Do I have to wear pants?” Ellen whined.
I fought
back a laugh, “Yes, you have to wear pants.”
“And snow
pants?” she continued as she started pulling her boots on before putting on
pants or snow pants.
In Ellen’s
defense, she already had long john bottoms on, but the weather was not exactly
no pants weather. I had gotten partially
ready so that once Ellen was good to go, I could quickly slip out the door with
her. However, with her mom’s help we had
not gotten very far in getting her ready for the great outdoors. I was in my long johns (top and bottom),
jeans, t-shirt, wool sweater, snow pants, wool socks and mukluks working with a
daughter who was at sometimes wet noodle passive and at other moments actively
attacking us while we tried to force her snow pants on. A drop of sweat formed on my temple.
“What coat
are we going to put on her?” Myra asked.
“I can grab my parka for her upstairs.”
“Let’s grab
Romay’s purple parka for her,” I suggested.
Meanwhile,
Ellen was wet noodle passive and laying on the floor.
Romay’s
parka was from when she had been in elementary school, and though it was very
small for Romay, was a full-length dress for Ellen. Made out of Tuscany lamb skin, wolverine, and
beaver, it would be much warmer than Ellen’s normal winter coat. It is a pullover style and would not allow
any wind in.
As we began
to slip it over Ellen’s head, she transitioned from a wet noodle to a cat
avoiding the bath tub. With a little bit
of logic, some bribery, and a lot of brute force, we got it over her head, her
arms in the right arm holes, and mittens on her hands. She resembled Ralphie’s little brother from A Christmas
Story, albeit much cuter.
“I want to
go outside,” now that she could feel the overwhelming heat retaining qualities
of the fur parka, “I’m sweating!”
We were all
sweating.
I threw on
my hunting parka with ten pounds of trapping gear stored in various pockets
throughout (lure, bait, trapping wire, pliers, kitchen sink…), grabbed my seal
skin hat and mitts and followed a little girl out on the porch where she
stalled. It was -20, and she was in a comfortable
spot requiring no action on her part to regulate her temperature and no desire
to move forward on her own.
“Come on
Bub,” I coaxed from behind, “we need to start the snow machine.”
“I want to
hold you,” came her muffled answer from behind wolverine ruff and smart wool
neck warmer.
What was
another thirty pounds thrown on top of all the extra weight I was wearing?
Down at the
machine, I began by stripping off my parka, lowering the zipper on my sweater,
and putting my hat and mitts on the seat.
When we bought our machine 16 years ago, we couldn’t afford a model with
factory installed electric start. It was
something I always meant to add later on, but now I had developed enough of a
relationship with the motor to know the workout I was about to go through in
starting a machine that had sat dormant in -30 for two days. It took three pulls to loosen the cold
pistons within the cylinders, three pulls to get gas going through the fuel
pump, three pulls to get spark going to the plugs, another three just to cough
a little white smoke from the exhaust, and another three for it to sputter and
run rough at full choke.
I looked
back to see Ellen lying flat out in the sled as I walked back to break the
track free from the ice. My sweat was
beginning to freeze as I pulled my parka back on, lifted Ellen onto the snow
machine seat, and then slid on behind her.
“I can see
her socks showing under her snow pants,” Myra called out.
She had
been on her way to coach basketball practice and was checking on the final
details before we left. She ran back
into the house for a blanket to wrap around the little girl’s feet. It was -20, but with wind chill it was
somewhere around -38.
“I thought
these snow pants were going to be too big all this winter, and we still have at
least three months to go,” Myra commented while basically tucking Ellen in.
All that
could now be seen of Ellen were the whites of her eyes as we headed east out of
town. Our “trap line” is not all that
far out. It is set away from where people
walk their dogs or where a stray from town might wander into a trap, but is
also set close enough that a three-year-old can accompany me while checking
them.
We bounced
our way through tussocks and drift wood around a few ponds and a slough where
the first fox traps were set. Ellen
rides a snow machine very much like a sack of potatoes and so I generally drive
with one arm to steer and work the throttle and the other to keep her from
bashing her head against the handlebars when we go over bumps.
“Well,
nothing in the first one,” I commented as we passed a stump with a trap chained to
it.
“Where,”
she asked after we were ten feet beyond it.
“Back
there,” I responded.
“I want to
see.”
“There is
nothing in it.”
“I want to
see.”
And so, I
hit the kill switch and we walked back to the trap. Flash back twelve years to me lecturing Romay
on being careful around sets: not spitting, not dripping sweat, not breathing,
not thinking about things that stink and insert a three-year-old into that
equation.
“I sink so
we need to add more pee on it,” she says in her expert opinion.
I pulled
the bottle of promix from my parka pocket and shot a potent dose of red fox urine
and whatever else goes into it to make it a “promix.”
“That’s good,”
and she turned to waddle back toward the machine where she waited for me to
lift her back up onto her position.
Two more
empty traps and an empty snare, and Ellen and I finally made it into an area I
had not driven yet to look for more places to set. We skirted the willows looking for breaks
where predators were evidently crossing through. Rabbit tracks played witness to what must
have been a rabbit party, but no places really volunteered themselves as
opportune spots to make the next foothold or snare location.
We turned a
corner and climbed a small knoll where we came across fresh lynx and fox tracks
mixed in with the rabbit sign.
“Wow, look
at all the tracks,” Ellen pointed out.
I didn’t
know how it was possible for her to see anything through the half inch slit of
an opening in her hood, hat, and neck warmer.
“Those are
rabbit, but those there are fox and lynx,” I said while pointing out the
difference.
I hit the
kill switch and got off the machine to look for a good place to anchor a trap
that would be visible to lynx or would catch a fox’s eye as it ran past.
“I sink so
we should set a trap,” Ellen said drawing out her sentence for the sake of
dramatic emphasis.
“I think you’re
right,” I agreed, “where do you think we should put it?”
“Behind
those trees,” she said without pointing.
“Which
trees,” I asked honestly looking for her input.
“Those
trees behind that mountain,” she said pointing to a large hill a couple miles distant.
All of a
sudden, I felt like I was trapping with Winnie the Pooh.
“I sink I’m
getting cold, Dad,” she then said.
At -38 wind
chill, when my three-year-old trapping partner says she’s cold, I take it as a
good time to head for home. I tucked her
into her position with her blanket, and made sure her hat and neck warmer were
secure as I got back onto the machine.
She went back to her sack of potato riding style, and at one point, her
head slouched forward indicating that she must have been comfortable enough to
sneak a little nap in.
We didn’t
see any animals at all (humans included) on our short little ride, but as the
sun set over the ocean just past town, I knew it was a worthwhile trip. At home, very much awake Ellen sat bundled up
on the couch, wrapped in a blanket and holding a cup of hot chocolate.
“So, are
you Dad’s little trapper now?” I asked.
“No… I’m Mom’s
little trapper.”
Yeah, it
was worth the trip.
 |
| Bub in her older sister's parka ready for the trapline |
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