Trap Line in Alaska

by MASTEN BEAVER

MASTEN BEAVER and his wife lived in Alaska far six years operating trading posts. This is his first appearance in the Atlantic.

My WIFE Helen and I operate a little one-horse (1 guess you could call it a one-dogteam) trading post, north of the Arctic Circle, at an Alaskan Indian village called Chalkyitsik, about sixty miles east of Fort Yukon, near the Canadian border. It might be possible to get farther away from civilization but I doubt it.

I spent the fall compounding a potent brew for baiting my traps. Visions of animals unable to resist its lure came to mind as I carefully added liquid to solid. If Smellivision is ever invented, I’ve got the makings for a quick fortune.

Saving the roe from a whitefish, I put it into a glass jar and let the sun curdle and boil the contents. A dash of liver and of the entrail fat of the northern pike, plus a beaver castor, thinly sliced, was mixed in with a dash of cod-liver oil to pep the solution up to full strength, but when I sniffed my secret formula it lacked the magical ingredient that always appears in advertisements — glamour. I quickly solved that sticker by adding some of my wife’s best, perfume to the brew, and sat back dreaming of how I’d spend the money when the fur came piling in. I was positive I had the one and only bait for trapping fur-bearing animals.

I Pestered the Indians the rest of the fall, trying to pry a few secrets on the art of setting out traps from the best trappers. They thought it was a big joke for me, the trader, to want to know how they made their animal sets. I carefully refrained from mentioning my secret bait.

Big Nitchie, a tall, kindly warwhoop, took me under his expert wing and tried his best to leach me the fundamentals of opening a trap without losing a finger or two when the trap snapped shut. He was one of the finest trappers in this section, with a face that would have panicked a. Comanche warrior but with a heart like a friendly puppy. I have been his backward pupil for six years as he has patiently tried to teach me the lore of the North.

I followed him out into the spruce grove in back of the post for a practical demonstration after he thought I was showing a little promise. Nitchie picked an old charred stump for the first lesson. He gathered an armload of sticks in assorted sizes and put two into the snow about, six inches apart, leaning them back against the stump.

“That’s door,“ he said, looking up to see if I was watching him, the strain of concentration lining his homely face. He had trapped all his life but it was difficult for him to explain how he did it.

Next he jabbed the rest of the sticks into the snow, forming a half circle from the door to the stump. It looked like a frame for a tepee. Nitchie took the axe, cut a pile of spruce boughs, and brought them over to the frame. He placed the spruce limbs over the sticks, covering everything but the entrance.

He picked up a small piece of bark. “That’s bait,” he said, “you watch.” Reaching back into the set, he placed the bark on the snow.

“Don’t make house too small,” he continued. “Bait got to be way back so marten go all way inside. House too small, then marten reach in with long neck, get bait but no get trap.”

Nitchie set the trap and placed it inside the door, sifting a fine covering of powdered snow over it. Picking up a stick, he demonstrated how a marten was supposed to act. The stick went searching around the sides of the house for a place to sneak in and steal the bait, but the set was too well constructed. Finally, the stick in his hand went toward the door, slowly, cautiously, until it was almost inside; then, with a rush of confidence, the stick entered and the trap snapped shut. The lesson was over.

Curiosity, which killed the cat, kills thousands of marten each year. The trapping sets are based on this fact. Lure the animal close with the scent, and when he comes to the set, curiosity will make him take a look inside and another Hudson Bay sable takes the initial step toward milady’s neck.

When the trapping season opened, I loaded a dozen traps, a small axe, and my potent bait into my pack and, with snowshoes strapped to my winter boots, started out across country toward Okk-dik Lake.

It was a beautiful day, with the temporature hovering around the zero mark. The winter’s sun, a ball of pale gold, hung suspended over the spruce forest, giving light to the Arctic regions but no heat. Snowlay heavily on the brush and trees, mantling the countryside in deadwhite with gray shadows. You didn’t have to look far to see why the Indians loved the bright reds, greens, and blues. A spot of color in this two-toned scene would have been visible for miles.

As I pushed farther back into the bush, I watched for the tracks in the snow. The tiny feet of a mouse punched holes in the surface and disappeared under a white-blanketed log. There were tracks of a weasel running from tree to tree, bush to bush, constantly on the search for mice. The snow shoe rabbits were beating their trails through the willow thickets, and a branch stripped of bark showed me where they had fed the night before.

I stopped, parked myself on a log, and lit a cigarette. Zipping down the front of my parka, I let the cold air cool me off. The pick ‘em up, lay ‘em down action of the snowshoes was making me sweat. Next time I would not wear so many clothes.

Continuing, I found marten tracks wandering through the spruce, so I stopped and built a little marten house. I stirred my bait and smeared a little of it on a piece of rabbit fur, spilling a generous amount on my clothes, and placed it in the back of the set. My first marten house and I was proud of it. Nitchie would have thought he was a good teacher if he could have seen it.

More marten tracks farther back in the woods, and I set a total of six traps that day. I returned to the cabin confident the morning would find me the owner of six marten skins. And why not — wasn’t I using my special bait?

Helen had been busy baking bread while I was out and I got home just as a pan of hot rolls came bouncing out of the oven. There was a slight delay as she ran me out of the house and made me change my clothes in the store. I was informed that I smelled strong enough to chase a skunk off a garbage wagon, but I figured she was complimenting my bait.

I finally got her to say she’d go out with me in the morning when I went to pick up the fur, but not until I had promised to be careful where I sprinkled the bait. Nothing quite like taking your wife along so she can see what a fine trapper you are.

Bright and early the next morning we hit the trail for the trap line. I was so excited I couldn’t wait for breakfast. Locking our little cocker spaniel in the cabin, I looked around for my three Husky pups, my future dog team, but they had gone somewhere, probably down to the village. Me put on our snowshoes and started for the first trap.

I could see the animals had been moving around during the night, Yesterday’s smooth expanses of snow were punched full of tracks. I approached the first set with a growing apprehension that proved to be not unfounded. It was exactly as I had left it.

“Well, I guess we’ll only get five today,” I told Helen, trying not to catch her eye.

“Oh, that would be plenty,” came the answer, and I suspected she was laughing at me. I hoped she’d see when we got to the rest of the traps.

She saw all right — the rest of the traps were as empty as the first. I didn’t have much to say on the way home. What could I say? My despair was so deep I didn’t hear the commotion. taking place toward town. “When Helen called my attention to it, I passed it off as being the big sled-dogs in the village. In subzero weather you could hear a dog howling for miles.

“Oh, honey,” Helen cried excitedly, “you’ve caught something!”

I hurried up to the wrecked marten house and saw instantly that the trap was missing. A whimpering from the brush, then one of my pups came limping out dragging the trap with him. The small trap hadn’t hurt him a bit, catching him by one toe. but he was sure scared. He licked my face and was awfully glad to see me as I took off the trap and rebuilt the house, but I’m afraid the affection wasn’t returned.

The other two houses each caught a pup and had to be rebuilt. It was a sadder but wiser bunch of pups that limped back home that morning. I was a little wiser, too.

As I sat eating breakfast Helen cheered me up. “ Don’t worry, honey,” she said, “ your bait attracts dogs, anyway. If worse came to worse, you could always catch a dog team.”