February Trapline Tail

A day on the trapline always starts with a hearty breakfast; perfectly browned, crispy hash browns topped with a pair of over easy eggs, a couple of thick cut, strongly smoked bacon strips, and heavily buttered toast made from homemade sourdough, cinnamon-raisin bread. Every part of the meal is fried up in several 30-year-old, cast iron skillets on our 6-month-old, battery-operated-ignition, propane cookstove. Life is good.

The mid-February daylight means earlier mornings and no need for the kerosene lantern as we eat breakfast while watching the birds jockey for places on the bird feeder hanging from the porch beam just a few feet the other side of the window at which we sit. It’s been a dry, windy winter in western Alaska, on the edge of the Bering Sea, which means we have a rough ride through the backcountry ahead of us today. We linger for one more cup of coffee after the obligatory morning trip to the outhouse.

As I wave goodbye to our dogs, a young chocolate lab and an old husky/shepherd/wolf mix, sitting on the lower deck in front of our small, offgrid cabin, my husband’s snowmachine clatters down the frozen river. Gregg built this 400-square-foot cabin almost 30 years ago and has called it “home” every since. Despite the occasional grizzly knocking down his front door, breaking windows, and tearing up kitchen cabinets while he was away on extended guiding and trapping trips in the interior for months at a time, this modest cabin has stood the test of time. I smile to myself as I drive off behind my Mountain Man, catching up to him just as he climbs the bank that takes us off of the Unalakleet River and up through the tundra toward the trapping grounds.

Even where there is a trail, it’s rough. The weeks of 30mph winds have taken their toll on the countryside, carving short, hard, snow drifts and creating dips and holes that are impossible to see in the flat light. It is a jarring ride that reminds me of that one piece of hard-crusted, toasted heel that bumps the food processor blade round and round again as the rest of the dried bread turns softly into crumbs. My joints are the heel and my muscles become the crumbs. The dark blue clouds that are chasing us north bring hope of relief though, as snow is in the forecast. Six inches of fresh snow with no wind would be a welcome relief.

Gregg’s sled is loaded down with the necessities of the day – traps, snares, mailbox and milk crate cubbies, bags of bait, and tubs of tools. I watch the sled bump along behind his machine and wonder that nothing bounces out. He’s tied everything down well and turns around only occasionally to check that I’m still behind him, confidently unconcerned about the status of the sled contents.

When we arrive at the first set (several snares and a foot-hold), there are lynx tracks but the bait and the sets are untouched. The creek below the set has open water, probably just overflow, but not a good early sign of what’s to come today. It’s an unseasonably warm day, low to mid 30’s expected, and we’re just a couple of days away from a New Moon. Those conditions bring higher tides and overflow, water from underneath the ice that has found a crack to escape to the surface, even on inland rivers and creeks. It’s truly amazing how much change there is over the course of a month.

The next set we check is a couple of hundred yards up a narrow creek bed, usually accessible by snowmachine. Not today. We disembark and cross the creek carefully, choosing a narrow band of intact ice to step quickly across, and wade through the heavy, knee high snow on the other side. When we round the bend and are within eyesight of the set, we see it. To me, it looks like a small bear. Gregg identifies it immediately. A wolverine! We are frozen in our tracks, 40 feet away from the animal, checking for any movement, any possible rise and fall of its chest before getting any closer. It’s a large one, about 40 pounds. He’s stiff with rigamortis but not frozen. He hasn’t been there for more than a day, a beautiful, yet terrifying, creature. He died barefanged, trying to chew the body grip trap in which he was caught by the neck. He didn’t even get to the bait, so Gregg quickly resets the trap and smiles as he lugs the heavy catch back to the sled. Even though I’m walking behind him, I can feel his smile, big as the country we are making our way through today.

 

After checking a couple of untouched marten sets, we discover a creek that we usually cross as a shortcut to the rest of the line is open today. This country changes every day. Drifts appear where there were none yesterday. Creeks open up where they were frozen solid last week. Trails appear and disappear on the tundra with the rise and fall of the wind. We have to be on constant alert. Nothing can be taken for granted. That’s how people get into trouble. That’s how people get lost. That’s how people get hurt. That’s how people die.

“Well, we’re gonna have to go ‘round, and that’s gonna add a 45 minute ride,” Gregg sighs, still smiling. He’s always smiling. As a matter of fact, I don’t think I know what he looks like with a frown. Sure, he can be serious, but even when serious, he’s still got an upward turn to his face. He’s a man who smiles with his whole face, even his bright blue eyes smile from behind his glasses. On the trapline, his favorite place to be, his smile is constant, even with a cigar hanging out the corner of his mouth.

“Well, is there somewhere else you’d rather be?” I ask, knowing the answer.

“Nope.”

“Then, let’s get this show on the road!” I smile because his is so damn contagious. It’s a beautiful day, even with the gray sky and flat light. I’m warm from the heavy, sharp turns through the pine thickets, so I unzip my parka and start the machine. There is no place I’d rather be either.

The long-way-around trail was in good shape and provides for a comfortable ride through a valley with fantastic scenery the entire way. Up and down hills that provide panoramic views at the top, mountains rising all around us, and just enough challenge up and over drifts to keep our attention. By the time we reach our destination, just a couple of hundred feet from the other side of the creek where we started, we’re ready to stretch our legs only to discover that some varmint has stolen all of our bait at the first set and even escaped from one of the snares. However, it reveals itself through paw prints left in the snow.

“Maybe that fox’ll be up the trail in the next set,” Gregg says, expectantly. And, he’s right.

A sneaky, red fox was crouched, very much alive in a snare at the next set. He’d managed to wrap it twice around his neck, kinking the wire and preventing it from giving him a quick death, even though he was securely caught. Gregg put him out of his misery with a swift swing of the hammer and we added him to the game sack with the wolverine.

The next challenge was crossing the overflow on the North River to get to the next 20 marten traps. Gregg unhooked the sled and left me behind on my machine while he water-skipped across the opening and went up river to check the trail. Back in ten minutes with good news, I followed him across and up, leaving the sled behind, as we didn’t want to risk sinking it with the fresh fur in tow. Less than a mile later, we came across a live wolverine caught by the foot in a fellow-trapper’s snare. Gregg would call the owner up when we got back to town to let him know, rather than shooting the wolverine himself and taking him in to the trapper. One just never knows how another will react to your treatment of their fur. Turned out that the man in question would have been just fine with it.

Trapper etiquette aside, the search for traps set a week before can sometimes feel a bit like an Easter egg hunt. We put one in this thicket somewhere, didn’t we? Where’s that fresh fallen tree that we used? How many have we checked in here and how many did we originally set? Twenty sets and two marten later, we water-skipped our way back to the sled and headed for home.

It had been a perfect day. Sixty miles of backcountry and river trails mixed with a late afternoon snowfall, some very tired muscles, and four critters to skin made me happy to part ways with Gregg as he headed the four miles in to town to hang the animals to thaw in his shop while I turned for home, our little cabin, eight bumpy miles away, to get the fire going and start on dinner, mooseburgers with pan-fried potatoes. However, the call of ibuprofen washed down with a whiskey and water, river water, caused me to flop down on the couch and cuddle up with our lab puppy, not moving until Gregg walked in an hour later.

He carried in a cardboard box with him, telling me that some friends of ours had sent home a fresh, King Crab, still alive! He hung up his rifle and removed his snowpants, parka, and beaver hat while I carefully opened to box to reveal a wriggling, pinching crab, several feet across from tip to tip, and squealed with delight! Could this day get any better?

After a relaxing whiskey and water of his own, Gregg offered to make dinner, Surf & Turf. I could hardly believe it when we finished off half-pound mooseburgers, an entire King Crab, and several potatoes. It was definitely a day for the record books!