I was always enthralled with Grandpa’s stories of the “old days.” Once we were cleaning out one of the grain bins in the barn when I discovered a wide board, with a gentle rounded point, hanging on the wall. I asked Grandpa about it, and he said it was a stretching board used to dry out animal hides. His response peaked my interest, which brought on more questions about the subject of trapping. Grandpa said he used to trap animals for their fur. He said when he was a boy, coon or skunk hides brought fifty cents while fox or bobcat pelts would bring a dollar or more. When he and his brother Molden were young, they ran a string of traps up on the mountain and up in Spencer Hollow. He said things in this area looked different when he was a kid. There were many more trees, and thick underbrush was just about everywhere. Animals were plentiful in such an ideal environment. It was really wild and woolly up in Spencer Hollow and up there you could find just about any kind of wild animal including bobcats and probably a mountain lion or two. Listening to him tell about those exciting times sent my imagination into double-time.

After that day, I continued to ask questions about how to trap different animals. Grandpa was very patient and always responded positively to the many questions that I asked pertaining to the science of trapping. He told me how to look for “rabbit runs” and how to look for places where animals might bed down or where they might pass through a hole in a fence. To hear him tell it, there were all kinds of “signs” out there and all a young trapper like myself had to do was go out there and look for the signs like a real hunter or trapper. It sounded to me like a fellow could make a lot of money trapping. That’s what I would do!

I made it know that all I wanted for Christmas were steel jump-traps. I wanted nothing else. In time, I got six traps. Immediately my overactive imagination went to work. I pictured myself walking to the mountain and on to Spencer Hollow with my trusty twenty-two rifle and my string of traps hanging over my shoulder. I could hardly wait for cold weather that brought on the “trapping season.”

My first trapping experience was not like I had imagined. One morning I headed toward the mountain. When I got to the tank at the southeast end of the mountain, I decided to use my first trapping technique. Grandpa said if you covered the round trigger on a trap with tin foil and place it at the water’s edge you would probably catch a coon. The reasoning behind this technique was that the foil would reflect light from the full moon and a raccoon, being a very curious creature, would probably grab the bright object in the water and that would spring the trap. I set the trap, staked it out, and walked away knowing I would catch a big coon. I walked to the backside of the pasture toward Spencer Hollow knowing full well that I was going after “big game.” At the back side of the mountain pasture, four property-line fences converge at a common point. At that particular spot there was a lot of underbrush, and it was even a bit dark where I tried to get through the fence. It was a bit spooky in there! I sat there a few minutes gathering courage to continue on to Spencer Hollow. As I sat there I thought, “I’m not all that sure where Spencer Hollow really is.” My active imagination and now the doubt as to where I was headed did not speed me on my way. Every time I started to crawl through the fence, something kept me there. The unfamiliar country looked wild and woolly just like Grandpa said it was. Maybe I should get someone to go with me. “Nah! There’s nothing to be afraid of!” I put my rifle through the fence and then my traps. A barbed wire tore my coat as I crawled through. I gathered up my rifle and traps and boldly set forth on my journey. As I walked toward the hollow I had a horrible thought. “If I’m having this much trouble mustering up the courage to go to Spencer Hollow in the first place, how on God’s green earth will I get the courage to check my traps after setting them out? If I set them out…I’ll have to come back and check them everyday.” Grandpa said a trapper had to check the traps everyday because it’s cruel to trap an animal and let it suffer and die in a trap for no reason. I had not thought about that. I didn't think I could do it! As I walked I purposely talked myself out of going on up to Spencer Hollow. I had walked about a quarter of a mile into what I thought unfriendly territory. I suddenly got the urge to stop. I ran back to familiar ground as fast as I could with rifle, traps, and chains clanging and ringing around my shoulders every step of the way. I felt completely safe as soon as I got back through the fence.

When I walked by the tank, I stopped and looked at the trap I had just set. I visualized a raccoon jumping and playing in the water as coons do. I once had a pet coon. Her name was Squeaky. Now who would want to catch Squeaky in a steel trap? Fond memories of Squeaky made me take the trap up and take it home with me. I didn’t need money at the expense of Squeaky. I don’t guess I was cut out to be a trapper. When you look at trapping, you’d have to agree it is a rather cruel sport or profession. I had heard that a fox would chew off its own leg to get out of a trap. That thought gave me a different perspective on trapping.

Now there I was with a string of jump traps and no heart to use them. They hung on a nail in the tractor shed for a year or so, and then one time I decided to set a trap in a rabbit run in the briars in the lane east of the house. The very first time, I caught a little cottontail rabbit. His big brown sad eyes made me cry after I saw what I had done. I guess I wasn’t tough enough to be a trapper.

When I was older, there was a skunk getting chickens at night. Grandpa and I set one of the traps west of the house between the old green building and a fence post. Grandpa had seen a skunk come and go through that narrow passage. We checked the trap before bed, and sure enough we caught him. Having a skunk in a steel trap can really be a problem. As we carefully and quietly approached the prey, Grandpa said, “Be sure you shoot him in the head so he won’t spray.” Well, I missed, and we really had a mess on our hands. We had skunk smell all over the hill for days. As it turned out, my days as a trapper were over. It was far more fun fantasizing about being a trapper than actually being one. Over the years I saw my traps hanging on a nail in the tractor shed as a reminder of my trapping days. In time, the traps disappeared, and maybe it’s best they did.

JMW/August 1998

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