In the Land of Wilderness: The writings of Marty Meierotto

River.

Chapter 1

My brother Jeff and I with some beaver and the Big S, our first trapping machine.

Beaver Trapping The Hard Way

This was the first article I had published. I was in high school at the time. It appeared in the February 1979 issue of Fur-Fish-Game. My brother, Jeff, and a friend of ours, Randy Spindler, teamed up. With a huge amount of help from my Father, we trapped beaver during the winter season in Northern Wisconsin. Looking back on it from all the passing years, it was one of the best trapping seasons I have had. Oh! To be that young and excited again!

Of all trapping, beaver trapping is the hardest, and the hardest way to trap them is during mid-winter. In spite of all its shortcomings, my two partners (my brother Jeff and our friend Randy Spindler) and I decided to give a big ‘line a try.

It probably seems a little odd to have a three partner set-up, but it worked out pretty slick, especially when skinning time came. As it was, we were all in high school and all three of us did our share of trapping. Pooling our traps, wits and beaver ponds, we figured we could do just fine.

Here in northern Wisconsin where we trap, the land is crossed with many streams and a few swamps, almost all of which forms the Nemadji River drainage system. This covers a fair piece of land and we planned on trapping nearly all of it.

Early one September morning, we went out to find a big list of ponds. First, we needed a machine that could get us through muddy trails and backroads. My Dad remedied that problem with his old 1962 Scout, that we humorously called the Big S. With a little work on its rusting body, we had what we figured would be the best trapping machine we could get.

For more than a month and a half, we hunted for ponds on foot and by 4-wheeler, in cold weather and warm. It took a lot of gumption to get up on a frosty morn and climb into a doorless Scout. With us finding ponds, and friends telling us about others, we figured we were on our way.

I had a pad of paper that I used to number and record briefly a few characteristics about each pond. Every pond was given a name; they ranged from Eglets and Hoffies to the Pipeline and the Tracks. A week from opening day and 50 ponds on the pad, we decided we had enough ponds. The little pad came in real handy. I think it’s a good idea to use this kind of system, especially when beaver trapping.

When everything was added up, we had 38 #330 conibears and about 25 leg-holds (#3s, #4s and a few #14 jumps). We relied on the baited #330 set very heavily and made very few leg-hold sets. I guess we just didn’t have faith in the old leg-hold.

There’s only one thing in life you can count on and that’s nothing is a sure thing. We found that out for ourselves about three days before opening day.

The cold weather we were having had formed a nice four to six inches of ice on most of the ponds. But then it happened, the weather broke. Suddenly, it was in the 30s and before we knew it, just about every pond had up to five inches of water covering the ice.

Nevertheless, we were up with the sun on opening day. We loaded up our gear and headed for our first pond. This pond was fairly easy to get to. Within an hour, we had two sets in. Both were baited conibears, one placed on each side of the feed-bed and away from the house to avoid catching kits.

Chiseling the holes was almost a pleasure because the ice was thin; as you chopped, the water on the ice would float the chopped ice away. The weather was miserable; there was a fog and it began to rain.

We went to the next pond and made two more conibear sets and one leg-hold. It took longer at that pond, and the weather kept getting worse. By the time we got our seventh pond set, we were drenched to the bone and feeling pretty low. We decided to quit early and hope the ice wouldn’t melt and wreck the sets we already had out. It bothered me all night and every few minutes I would look at the thermometer, hoping it would drop. It didn’t, and the next morning we were up early again anyway. We set a few more ponds and gave it up. The weather was really screwing things up, so we decided we would just check up on the ones we had set the day before to make sure they were still there.

I really felt miserable as we headed for the first set. We hit the pond and started wading through the water. Suddenly, Randy let out with a heartening shout. Looking up, I noticed the pole of one of the sets was pulled down and twisted out of place. Before I knew it, we were all running through the water towards the set. Randy was the first one to reach it and he grabbed the pole and gave it a little wiggle.

It’s a beaver, he yelled in my face. He then proceeded to yank and twist the pole like some kind of crazy man. Jeff and I got him calmed down. We chopped the hole a little bigger and Randy grabbed the pole and gave it a little tug. The head and shoulders of an extra-large beaver broke the water’s surface, displaying our first beaver of the year. The conibear had done the job, gripping the animal around the neck. We re-made the set and headed back to the Big S a lot happier than when we had left it.

At the next pond, to our surprise, we had another beaver waiting for us. Before the day was out, we had five beaver.

It seemed like things were on our side for once. The third day, the weather finally turned cold and we set all day. It took us about a week and a half to set all our traps because we had to go to school.

As the weeks went on, the trapping got better but the ice got thicker and thicker, and we had to pull traps in order to get the sets all checked.

All season, we were pretty lucky. A few times, somebody would break off our poles but we never lost any traps, although we had a few close calls. It gives a guy a sick feeling to pull up your trap pole and see no trap on it. Sticking your arm in icy cold water to grab a trap is no delight.

We only had one mishap. We were at a spring-fed beaver pond and it just so happened it was about a quarter mile walk in. We were looking for our set location, when I heard the ice break. I turned around and saw Jeff up to his ears in water. He got himself out of there pretty quick. I didn’t realize that he could move so fast. Needless to say, he had a cold walk out.

As the ice got thick, it got rougher on a person to check the traps. When it got about two feet thick, the beavers’ backs began freezing in on the bottom of the ice. Sometimes, their whole backs would be in the ice.

We used pine boughs to try and insulate the sets, but it would still freeze pretty bad.

We only caught about 13% of our beaver in leg-holds, but then we only had a few sets out. The first beaver we caught in a leg-hold regained our faith in the trap and we began to set more of them.

Once the beaver is on the ice, the fun is over. Skinning beaver is no easy task, but with three of us skinning and my Dad sharpening knives, we got it done. We skin them clean except for the red meat that sticks on the back. We then stretch them oval and re-skin the back, leaving nothing but the clean white skin.

One day while checking traps, we got Big S stuck and had to walk to the nearest house and ask for a pull. He got us out and then we started talking. He mentioned a beaver pond up the road a ways which needed trapping. We thanked him and told him we’d check it out. We took a spin up there to take a look at it. It was a beautiful pond with a large beaver house. There was just one thing wrong. It was right next to the road. There were about four other sets in it and all the best spots were taken. But we decided to make a few sets. We made two conibear sets and headed for home because it was getting late.

The next day, we were at the pond to check the sets. We really didn’t think we would catch anything. We chopped out the first set and I gave it a twist. A heavy drag signaled the catch of a fair-sized beaver. We were all surprised by the catch because the other sets were there long before ours. While Randy and Jeff took the trap off the beaver, I went to the other set. The ice wasn’t too thick, so it didn’t take me long to loosen the pole. I gave it a twist and to my surprise, there was another beaver in that trap. I chopped the hole a little bigger and pulled out a medium-sized beaver. I had to look twice at it. The beaver was pure black, the only one we caught during the whole season. Jeff and Randy were shocked, two beaver out of two traps isn’t bad.

Jeff and Randy with a couple beavers.

Although we were mainly after beaver, if the chance arose to fill our otter tags, we took it. At one colony along a small stream, a few otter were playing around the dam. I decided to make a set upriver of the dam. I went up to where the stream was about eight or nine feet wide. I fenced off the whole thing except for ten inches. There, I set a #14 jump. The water was about six or eight inches deep to the bottom of the ice.

The next day, we headed to the pond with high hopes. After chiseling a hole in the ice, Jeff peered through the clear water. He said he saw something in the trap. My heart skipped a beat! Making the hole bigger, we pulled out a large beaver. It wasn’t anything to complain about, but it would have been nice to catch an otter. As it turned out, we caught more beaver in that otter set than we did in the beaver set we had there. Later on, we went up to the Nemadji River and set some otter sets, but I guess we just weren’t supposed to catch any.

It is surprising how many different sizes and shapes a beaver colony can be. It mostly depends on the lay of the land and the number of beaver in the colony. One pond we trapped was on a small creek, in a fairly sharp ravine. That dam was over nine feet high and contained three mudded houses; an awesome sight, to say the least! On the other hand, we trapped another pond that was at the headwaters of a little stream. The dam was but a few feet high, but the length was truly amazing. Randy paced off the dam at 135 paces. In my book, that’s outstanding. Needless to say, the pond covered a fair piece of land. To top it off, right smack in the middle of the pond there was a huge house towering over six feet above the ice. The diameter was well over ten feet.

We try to trap conservatively, trying to take only the two largest beaver from a colony and then pulling. Taking only a few beaver from each pond assures that there will always be beaver. A guy would be working against himself if he trapped out every pond on his ‘line. All the trapping we did left me with one thing I never could figure out. Most of the ponds we trapped, we were able to take our quota of beaver in a few weeks, but there were quite a few which would not produce no matter what we did. They had a decent house with a vent and a good feed-bed, so we knew there were beaver there. We tried moving our sets to different locations, but still no results. It was one of many things we will have to learn about trapping, I guess.

Me as a younger man with a beaver.

As the end of the season rolled around, we began pulling our traps and soon they were all up. It was a lot of hard work and it was nice coming home from school and not having to skin beaver. They are good memories, though.

Looking back on it all now, and the low price we got for our hides plus the cold and the hard work it took, I can tell you as a trapper I would and will do it all over again.

Chapter 2

Main Cabin on Squirrel River.

Because It’s Worth It

This one is another favorite of mine just because of the nostalgia it congers up for me. It was printed in the Alaska Trapper in April of 2000. It harkens back to my distant youth when I wasn’t sure what I was going to do with my life. Whether chasing dreams was a wise thing to pursue or should I get settled and plan for a safe, secure, and predicable future.

Here we are, facing the all too familiar dismal fur price forecast. It seems the ranks of active trappers are thinning just a little more. Many have not given up, but are putting their operations on hold, hoping for better days and at least a small return for their efforts. Many are hopeless cases (myself included), who carry on our time-honored trade, impervious to dismal fur prices and rising costs of almost every necessity for our traplines. Judged by some trappers (and most wives) to be foolish, we carry on, this lifestyle being a part of who we are, the very fiber of our being.

Many times in years like this, I will hear the phrase, It’s just not worth it! I assume they are referring to the financial gain which can sometimes be realized with higher fur prices. I always sympathize with them and try to remind them fur prices have always been on a roller coaster of ups and downs. As the mountain men used to say, Fur will shine again! If we were honest with ourselves, we’d acknowledge that we do this for more than money. Even in years when the price is good, if we divided the fur check by the many hours we spent scouting, setting, checking, skinning, and just the general preparation that is involved in the trapline (let alone the expenses), our financial reward would dwindle to insignificance. So in truth, who among us traps solely for financial gain?

There is no doubt it is certainly aggravating to pay more for gas and get less for our fur. This is especially true when a bad year follows a good one, because of the glaring contrasts. Our time and efforts remain the same, our skill in pelt preparation has most likely improved, and yet our fur is worth less. I vividly remember getting more for my beaver pelts in high school than I do now, 40 years later, and that’s not even figuring what the dollar would buy then, compared to now.

At times, I find myself frustrated and mutter those very words, This just isn’t worth it! But then I sit down and reflect and question my true motives and ponder the worth of it all. I think back on all the cherished experiences I have had over the past 50 years. I think of the times the trapline has tested me in one way or another, at times beyond the limits of what I thought I could endure and yet I have overcome those challenges. I think of the many unexpected thrills that, to this very day, still fire my blood after many years. I think of the way my time afield has changed the very person I thought I was and the change has always been for the better, at least I think it has. I have learned sacrifice, perseverance, modesty, humility, compassion, respect, nature’s wonders and the grace of God. In many ways, it has made me who I am today and is one of the strongest influences in my life.

A younger me with a friend and our catch hanging on a clothes line.

We all have memories we cherish from our time spent on the ‘line. It isn’t just the catches that come to mind but the misses as well. It’s the sights and sounds, the smell of a crisp winter day. Even the heavenly warmth of home or cabin after battling a long cold, bitter day is part of the joys and benefits of the trapline. We can’t forget the people we chance to meet in the trapping world who are a part of what makes trapping so appealing. The list goes on. Now ask yourself what all these memories are worth. Can a price be put on such experiences? How many of us would willingly discard a cherished memory on the grounds of whether money was made that day or not?

Of course, we all have our bad days as well. Not every day spent afield is awash in sunshine and happiness. There are many days I would just as soon not live through again. Yet even those fretful days have their long-term benefits. Those arduous days when there just seems to be too much for one person and all things seem to have turned against you. But you survive; win the battle so to speak. You have passed a test of mind, body or both. You have tempered the very metal of which you are made and you come away with a special sense of strength and accomplishment that no nine to five job can ever give you.

A long time ago, when I was a young lad in northern Wisconsin I had a friendship with an old man. From our first meeting I had a special liking for the old man and I’d like to think he felt the same toward me. The time eventually came when he lay in a hospital bed dying. Cancer had left him with a few precious weeks remaining on this old earth, a fact of which he was very well aware. I went to visit him several times during those final weeks and at times it was just he and I alone in the hospital room. I remember sitting there, feeling a little uncomfortable. Being a young kid, I didn’t have a whole lot to say and all I felt was a deep sadness for my friend. There were times when the silences between our small talk seemed oppressive but I am sure now that he never even noticed them. At those times, he would gaze out the hospital window at the manicured lawn beyond, but he was actually gazing through a different window into the past.

My brother and trapping partner when we were young and trapping muskrats.

You know, Marty, he would always begin. The story that followed was, without exception, of a deer hunt or a special moment he had experienced while in the woods. He would remember every minute detail of that particular day so long ago and recall the story for me with all the enthusiasm he felt the day it happened. On one visit he sighed and began, You know, Marty, I have probably taken a 100 deer in my life. I never thought then and I realize now he wasn’t bragging. He had been lying in that hospital bed, reliving every one of those hunts for each of those deer.

I have no doubt many of his thoughts were of his wonderful family, who to this day are still dear friends of mine. I am sure he thought of friends and other aspects of his long life but there was no doubt his time spent afield was definitely occupying a large part of his final thoughts. On those final visits, just before he died, he had given me a gift. One I didn’t realize I had until many years later. That gift was insight only long years of life and the inevitable stark reality of approaching death can possibly bring.

Here was a man in the final days of his life. Of all his life’s experiences collected over 70 years of living, the times spent embracing nature with all its challenges and rewards were at the forefront of his thoughts. He never once spoke of money he had made or of a particularly good job he had landed. It was the hunts which comforted him, helped ease and calm his mind in those final days. In the end it is all any of us will have. When death comes to call, if we are allowed the time, our life will be but a stack of memories for us to go through. It will be a time of reflection and reliving, hopefully, a good life with few regrets. I believe many of my thoughts will be of the trapline and all the wonders of nature. I doubt fur checks, big or small, will have anything to do with those precious memories.

Yet there are those times when the money runs out and the bills pile up and I wonder if heading out to the trapline is worth it. But then I think of the memories I have and the experiences yet to come as I anticipate the coming seasons and relish the experiences that await me around the bend in the next set. I think of the approaching time when age, illness, or calamity robs me of my ability to wander at will and marvel at all nature’s wonder and beauty and harvest her renewable bounty. But mostly I think of my old friend and the gift given to me long ago. That gift of insight that can tell us all what true worth really means. As for me I guess I’ll just keep trappin’. Why? you ask. It’s simple … because it’s worth it.

Chapter 3

My first double on red fox as a kid.

Looking Back

Published in the January issue of the Alaska Trapper in 2008. It is a story I wrote while reminiscing one fall as I prepared for another trapping season.

As I readied my cabin for another trapping season in 2007, I found myself reminiscing about my early days and how I ever got here in the first place. I realized it was my twentieth trapping season on the Squirrel River and the half-century mark was looming on the horizon of my years on earth. I got to looking back. Most of the paths that led me here were of my choosing, but many were chosen by luck and circumstance. I suppose the paths of many a man’s life are shaped in a similar fashion.

The one over-riding force that shaped my life was my love of trapping and all things wild. As a young lad growing up in northern Wisconsin, I fell in love with hunting while stumbling along behind my father on his hunts for grouse, squirrel and white-tailed deer. It was on his small walking trapline for raccoons and fox that my love became a passion that shapes my life to this day. It was on the trapline that I first realized the course my life would take. Even at the young age of eight, there was just nothing that could compare to the feeling of the trapline. I simply came alive on the trapline. It was a magical place and I forever imagined myself lost in the heart of the deep wilderness as I grew from a stumbling, energetic child to running my own ‘lines. Bolder and brighter pens than mine have tried to put such feelings on paper and have fallen short of the goal so I will not even try.

Of the many gifts of knowledge and life lessons my loving father bestowed upon me, the love and respect of the wild places and its inhabitants are my most cherished. He was a patient teacher and eager to expose me to the wonders of nature and the thrill of the hunt. My father’s first love was hunting, but for some reason it was trapping that set me on fire. There are many distractions life throws at a growing boy, but trapping has been the one thing that has remained constant throughout my life.

As I entered my twenties, my traplines became more extensive and involved the road system and a vehicle. I still felt I needed something more. I was missing something in life that I needed to find before it was too late. I pored over topographic maps of the area and searched for sections of country that contained no sign of man. Searching for any area empty of buildings or roads or even small trails, I soon realized without ever having even seen it the wilderness was calling me. The only stronghold of true wilderness left was to be found in Alaska. The western states were chopped and divided into blocks years before my time. By my definition, the country left in the western states for a man to roam in was not wilderness at all, so Alaska grew in my mind as the magical place of my dreams.

There were many circumstances that led to my eventual move to Alaska, but the most influential was of my brother Jeff expressing his intentions to travel to that state after he graduated from college. To some extent, he felt as I did because we had trapped together off and on since childhood.

On a sunny day in May of 1985, Jeff and I pulled out of our parents’ yard and headed for Alaska; precisely where in Alaska, we had no idea. We didn’t know a soul and our only guide was a Milepost magazine we found at a bookstore. It was a great trip up the Alaska Highway and I will always remember the feeling of excitement and anticipation at the new country unfolding before us mixed with the wonder of what was to come when we arrived in Alaska.

At long last, we crossed the border and were finally there. Now what? At Tok, we took a left and ended up in Anchorage. After a short look at Anchorage we headed for Fairbanks. Anchorage seemed like another big city to us. Even though the Alaska I was searching for was close at hand, the city was too much for our tastes so we headed north. As we crossed over the Alaska Range and entered the vast Interior, I knew I had found what was calling me. Fairbanks was an island in a sea of rolling unconquered wilderness as opposed to a patch of woods surrounded by a mass of humanity. I could sense it in the atmosphere of the town itself.

We found jobs fairly quickly, but it took a long time to get a feel of the town, the people, and the surrounding country and of course the wilderness beyond. We slowly met like-minded people and developed friendships. There were many times when I felt like I was spinning my wheels and getting nowhere. I was once again stuck in a job I didn’t like. The only difference seemed to be I was in a different town. The map hanging on my small apartment wall, however, proved to me every day I looked at it that the wilderness I yearned for was at my fingertips and I knew I wouldn’t give up. Just the thought of trapping marten or wolverine or even a wolf kept me going.

That first fall I caught my first marten on a small walking ‘line south of town off the Parks highway. To me, the marten was a symbol of the northern wilderness and I was hooked. Somehow I had to find a way and the means to get a wilderness trapline.

Luck smiled on us again when we found out about a trapline for sale on the remote Squirrel River. Rick Tyrrell of Central was selling his ‘line and after a phone conversation we went to meet Rick and his family. After meeting the Tyrrells, it didn’t take us long to realize this was what we were looking for. We told Rick we would take it and we pooled our meager funds. There was not much left over