Fur Trade Tales feature real-life stories from real people of the fur trade. This is our third Trapline Tales, but look out for Fur Farm Tales, Furrier Tales, and more to come. If you'd like to contribute, please contact [email protected]

I love reminiscing about the wholesome way of life I experienced growing up in British Columbia on my parents' trapline in the 1960s and '70s. In this instalment of Trapline Tales, I'll introduce an old trapper who played an important part in our lives, even though none of us even know who he was: Greasy Bill.

Our trapline was registered in my father's name only, but rest assured it was every part my mother’s trapline too. Often she was a weekend widow throughout the winter months, but after I left home, both my parents spent many a day on the trapline, and great times they were.

SEE ALSO: Trail-building in the high country. By Calvin Kania for TruthAboutFur.

So one November, Ma and Pa (as they called each other) headed for a trapper's cabin located at the confluence of Grizzly Creek and Greasy Bill Creek to get ready for the season that was upon them. The cabins on Dad's line were built in the 1940s by old-time trappers, this one by a trapper called Greasy Bill.  I'm not sure why he got that nickname, but I can only imagine!

SEE ALSO: Ski Doos and marten scent. By Calvin Kania for TruthAboutFur.

The cabins were small, built from large timbers of western red cedars and roofed by hand-split cedar shakes. They were low-rise structures typically fitted with one window, one door, a table or bench and two chairs, a bed, and a wood-burning stove. Flooring was made of wood planks, and a large overhang extended out the front of the porch to keep the firewood dry and to provide a place to hang furs while they were drying. Furs were also dried inside the cabins, but sometimes the ol' wood stove would be pumping out so much heat the furs could dry too fast.

My father liked getting out in November for beaver trapping so he would have marten bait later in the season. For the beaver trapping, he would take the truck back out of Grizzly Creek and head up into the main valley of Koch Creek to a place called Camp Eleven, an old logging camp of the 1940s. Just down the road at Camp 10, which was the main logging camp, is where David Suzuki’s father almost lost his life in an avalanche. My father's trapline has a lot of colourful history. You could never see any beaver activity from the upper road, but once you got down into the main creek, there was beaver logging everywhere.

At the end of their beaver trapping day, my parents settled into their evening of playing a couple of card games, probably whist or pinochle as that’s what we grew up with, and a shot of rye whiskey was course for the evening. It being November, the rains started to fall, the fog rolled into the narrow valleys and a dampness set in, but with the wood stove burning, Greasy Bill's cabin was toasty warm.

Wood is the best heat as it’s the most comfortable. My home on the west coast is electric baseboard as back up, but I have wood-burning stove inserts upstairs and downstairs. If it gets too warm, I just open the doors to outside and don’t feel the least bit guilty.

As my parents' evening of playing cards came to an end, they settled into bed. The coal oil lantern was turned off and left on the kitchen table across the room. It was pitch black. My father could not see his own hand in front of his face. As he was getting comfortable, my mother was already sound asleep and blowing the horn. He chuckled to himself, lying thinking about what and where wolverine and lynx cubbies he was going to build over the next few days. Then he realized that darned wood stove was pumping out the heat again, so much so that he reached over and unlatched the door to the cabin, which slowly opened and a coolness wafted in. 

Mystery Visitor

He was lying there thinking of tomorrow when all of a sudden he heard footsteps - four of them. It was right there beside the bed, beside him. It took a few sniffs, walked into the cabin, and sniffed around some more.

My father lay there, thinking out loud in a whisper, “Coal oil lantern on the kitchen table, flashlight on the cupboard bench, rifle standing in the corner on the other side of the room. Hmmm, what now?"

He thought, “The nearest light is the pack of matches in my pants pocket at the end of the bed. Any slight move is going to spook or provoke this animal in perhaps not a good way. What do I do?"

It was either a lynx, wolverine, coyote, bobcat or young black bear. Its footsteps were heavy enough to be any of those. He was anxious to see what it was that so innocently entered the cabin, but if he made a dash across the floor to the flashlight on the bench, there was a good possibility of a mid-room collision. Nah, not a good idea.

He had to be quick, so the matches at the end of the bed were his best bet. He abruptly sat up, grabbed his pants, twisted them upside down, right side up, fumbled for the matches, only to find they were a bit damp and didn’t want to light right away. At the same time the four-legged creature made a quick exit out the cabin door and into the darkness.

While all this commotion was taking place, my mother snorted lightly a couple of times, woke up, and in a groggy voice said, “Huh, what’s going on?” My father replied, “Ahh nothing, I’ll tell you in the morning.”

It being November and the rains upon them, snow had not quite reached the cabin area, so there weren't any tracks to look for in the morning. The mystery animal will be a mystery forever.

Changing Times

They were great times. Everyone was accepting of the lifestyle, and the Hudson’s Bay Company (HBC) ruled the fur market in Canada from buying trappers' fur pelts to selling fur garments in their department stores from Victoria to Halifax. Although HBC Point Claire Quebec Auction House did have competition from rivals Dominion Soudak in Winnipeg, Ontario Trappers Fur Auction in North Bay, and Ted Pappas at Western Canadian Fur Auction Sales in Vancouver, they still ran the show. Oh, how times have changed.

Today, I find myself criss-crossing China and other parts of the globe searching out markets for our furs. We have to, as many Canadians no longer understand our trapping heritage. That’s right, our fur trapping heritage.

Canada does have a unique fur-trapping culture which is one of the building blocks of our nation, but it seems that many Canadians are ashamed of it. I will probably take flak for this, but much of the blame lies squarely at the feet of the Canadian fur industry as we allowed this to happen. Companies like Canada Goose should receive the Order of Canada for promoting fur to Canadians. Instead, they’re scapegoated by animal-rights terrorists and an ill-informed public. There is nothing more natural than fur.

SEE ALSO: 5 reasons why PETA won't make me ditch my Canada Goose. By Alan Herscovici, TruthAboutFur.

Canada is the leading nation when it comes to international trapping standards. We are signatories to the Agreement on International Humane Trapping Standards (AIHTS). I sat on that committee in the early years when Canada was forced to adopt trap standards in order to meet European Union legislation on the importation of wild fur.

Sharing the Land

Speaking of the changing world, I want to share a story with all trappers across Canada. Be very aware of your trapping rights. It’s your heritage and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

You have to protect yourself against the possibility that, despite following all proper procedures, a domestic animal or pet could unfortunately be captured or harmed. With modern trapping standards this doesn't happen often, but it can happen. I cannot reiterate enough the importance of having liability insurance on your trapline to cover any eventuality.

Be very aware of your trapping rights. It’s your heritage and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

This past winter we found ourselves in a difficult situation. My assistant on the trapline accidentally caught a pet dog in a bobcat set. He was cleared of any wrongdoing by the Provincial Conservation Officer Services; he had followed the law and proper procedures to the letter. My trapline is on Crown Land as all Registered Traplines are in British Columbia. It's also on Sinixt First Nation Traditional Territory for which I sought permission to be on and was granted permission. However, after a few months we were served with a civil lawsuit by the pet owners in the Supreme Court of British Columbia in Vancouver.  

As more city people move into rural areas, the potential for problems increases and trappers are doing what they can to avoid conflicts. For the 2019/20 season, for example, all Registered Traplines across British Columbia will be posted with "Active Trapline" notifications. The BC Trappers Association is working with the Ministry of Forests, Lands, Natural Resource Operations and Rural Development in rolling out this program.  

I would also urge fellow trappers to consider posting a notice in your local paper, advising the public about trapping seasons and reminding them of the importance of keeping dogs on-leash - for the welfare of ground-nesting birds and prevention of harassment to other wildlife, and reminding the public about their own responsibilities in the woods.

Trappers also need to put your local Conservation Officer Services on notice that you expect them to enforce the law under the Wildlife Act and lay charges against anyone interfering with legally set traps. If you are worried about interference, trail cams can help to document unlawful acts.

As for our lawsuit we have reached an agreement with the plaintiffs in which the details are locked up in a confidential contract and cannot be disclosed.

Return to Greasy Bill Creek

My father passed away in November 2015, on his 97th birthday. A few days before he died, I took my mother to visit him at the seniors home, she knelt down beside his bed and asked, “Well Pa, do you have any regrets?” "No Ma, I don’t," he replied."We did everything we wanted to do in life and more. Heck, we pretty much outlived all our friends. What about you Ma?” She answered, "No Pa, none."

The service for my father was two weeks later, family and friends attended from far and wide. Through the whole ordeal and for several months after, I never once saw my mother mourn or grieve. Was it shock? Or was it just because they had been together so many years and it was time to go?

The following summer the family arranged a week-long gathering to celebrate my father's life.  The whole family - children and spouses, grandchildren and great grandchildren, uncles, aunts, cousins, in-laws and out-laws - converged on the family homestead. A celebration it was!

We arranged one of our favourite family outings, heading to Greasy Bill Creek for a fish fry. Kids and adults were fitted with fishing licences, fly rods and flies, and were dispersed in all directions up and down both creeks to catch lunch, with instructions to return by 1 p.m. As we approached Greasy Bill's old cabin, we found it had seen better days. A large hemlock next to the creek had decided to lay its timber across the roof of the shack, and it had caved. But the door was still upright, and above the doorway a sign read, "Trappers Cabin, please respect it and keep door closed. Ed Kania - Trapper".

As soon as my mother read that, was the moment she broke down and grieved and mourned. It was then and there that took her back to those marvellous days on the trapline with a man she had married 72 years earlier.

Welcome to Fur Trade Tales, our new series of real-life stories from real people of the fur trade. We kick off with our first Trapline Tales, but look out for Fur Farm Tales, Furrier Tales, and more to come. If you'd like to contribute, please let us know at [email protected]

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Everyone in the fur trade has tales to tell, and I am honoured that Alan Herscovici – the creator of Truth About Fur – thinks mine are worthy of launching Trapline Tales. It’s the least I can do. Alan has devoted his working life to the trade, sometimes at great personal cost, and has been a passionate spokesperson to the media on behalf of us all. We owe him a great debt of gratitude.

Today I run a company called Fur Canada, making a range of fur products, museum-quality taxidermy specimens, and traps, but my journey in the fur trade began long ago, in a place called the West Kootenay, in British Columbia. I grew up there in the 1960s and '70s, and it had to be the best childhood any kid could experience. With my parents and siblings, I learned the ways of living off the land. We grew every kind of vegetable, had milk cows, chickens, horses and beef cattle, and in winter I would assist my father on his fur trapline.

Snowmobiles – and a Missed Opportunity

Every weekend during winter was a new experience. My father's trapline was 100 kilometres long, and it took us five years just to rotate every corner of it. In 1963, we also acquired the area's first snowmobile.

One day my mother and I were shopping in Nelson when I spotted a parked truck with two big, yellow snow-plowing machines on a trailer. "What are they?" my mother inquired of the gentleman attending them, who happened to be a distributor. He graciously explained how they worked and their advantages over snowshoeing. He called them "snowmobiles", and they were made by a Quebec company called Bombardier. She said her husband was a trapper and might be interested in one, so he followed us home. My father quickly took a liking to these machines, and since it was late, invited the gentleman to stay the night.

Next morning, my older brothers and father road-tested the machines, and by lunchtime the deal was made. We were the proud owners of a brand new Bombardier snowmobile! I still have it to this day, and one day will restore it to its original state.

During that winter and the next, the gentleman made follow-up visits in case repairs were needed. He was very impressed with my father and his success with the machine, because within that first winter, he had contracts with the power company and timber company to check on their power lines and spar tree equipment that was inaccessible in the back country.

On one of his visits he told my father that he was the sole distributor for Alberta and British Columbia, and the territory was now more than he could handle. Would my father like to take over the distributorship for BC? My father pondered for a moment and could only envision the excessive work ahead in promoting, selling and servicing the product during the trapping season – the most important part of the year for him. His answer was an emphatic "No!" I'm not sure he gave much thought to setting up his two teenage sons and me, then just six years old, in the snowmobile business, as fur trapping was his passion. You could say, there was a great missed opportunity for the family, as hindsight is always 20/20.

Breaking Trail

A few years later my father purchased another snowmobile. At this point Bombardier was selling them under the brand name Ski Doo, and our new Ski Doo was called an Olympic.

At 10 years old, I was operating our original Bombardier and my father ran the Olympic, because it was much bigger and heavier. We were trapping in the high Selkirk Mountains, so it was common to get 40-60 centimetres of snow in a week. He would break trail and I would follow. When the snow became too deep and the machines bogged down, out came the snowshoes and I would start breaking trail one step at a time. In that deep, fluffy snow it was difficult, so I would only go about 300 metres and return to the snowmobile. I would get it unstuck, fire it up and away I went. Straddling my freshly broken snowshoe trail, I would get the machine up to full speed until that ole Bombardier hit the virgin snow, go 20 metres and come to a stop, stuck again. Out came the snowshoes and the process started all over again.

Many a Saturdays were spent breaking trail. We would return the following day to set traps. Then a few days later return to check the traps. This kind of fun went on from December to the end of February, when the high-country trapping season ended.

Stinking Rotten Scent

In the summer there was no trapping, of course, but it was still on our minds, and one of the highlights was making call scent for marten. There were two goals. First, it should not freeze. And second, it should be a stinking rotten scent, and the hot summer weather was perfect for this.

Here's how we did it:

1. Take 10-20 mink scent glands, and 10 complete beaver castor glands. Chop and mash them into a fine paste, then place in a glass gallon jar.
2. Add 2 cups of herring fish roe.
3. Add 1 litre of fish oil – herring or salmon works great.
4. Stir ingredients until fully mixed.
5. Place the jar atop the roof in full sun with a light lid cover.
6. Every 30 days give ingredients a stir.
7. After 90 days, remove the jar from the roof and secure with a tight lid until trapping season starts.

During the summer, our recipe would cook and percolate on the roof. It was one of those odours that had to be acquired in order to appreciate the effort that went into making this eau du toilet scent.

All trappers understood the value and creativity of such a fine call scent and its importance in trapping marten. My mother, on the other hand, did not have the same appreciation for our efforts. She had a few choice words for us during those hot spells when she was hosting summer garden parties and the marten eau du toilet scent would waft its way down from the roof top and into the party.

Parting Shots

• Shame on provincial governments! Shame on Air Canada! Canada has a free trade agreement with the USA, Mexico, Korea and others, but we don’t have free trade and free flow of goods within our own country! And can you imagine? Our national airline has an embargo on a wildlife species that the Inuit people of the Canadian Arctic legally harvest for sustenance!

• Sorry Mum! The first critters my father trapped, back in the 1920s, were skunks, when their fur was highly prized. He always joked that his wedding day, November 10, was also the first day of the skunk-trapping season. He told that joke for 72 years until he passed away on his 97th birthday. My mother did not quite see the humour. She says the joke wore off after the first five years.

• Squirrel surprise. When I was about 10, a chum and I ventured into the realm of squirrel cuisine. After hours setting up a spot in the woods, including a makeshift rotisserie, finding dry wood in three feet of snow with wet matches, smudge smoke in our eyes, wet clothes and cold feet, we were ready. We skinned and eviscerated that little critter, then stuffed it with hazelnuts and roasted it over an open fire. Surely this would be a mouth-watering meal, the best-tasting squirrel ever! Well, let's just say that it sounded better than it turned out. It was several more years before I ventured back into the fine cuisine of squirrel cooking.

SEE ALSO: Top 5 tasty furbearers: Muskrat stew and more

• Name-dropping. Among the many products my company makes are coyote fur collars for parkas, and one of our clients has an impeccable pedigree: Amundsen Sports of Norway. The name rings a bell, right? CEO Jorgen Amundsen is carrying on a family tradition of adventurers started by his great uncle, Roald Amundsen, the first man to set foot on the South Pole in 1911!

 

When I started trapping in 1959, it was a lot easier than it is now. Oh, sure, there’s more information and better equipment available these days, but it’s a lot more difficult to actually start trapping today than it was a half century ago.

Urbanization is one reason. The population of the United States has shifted from predominantly rural to predominantly urban, and fewer kids (adults, too, for that matter) live close enough to trapping country to make it work. I was a town kid too, but it was a small town, and my bike could get me beyond the city limits in five minutes. That’s often not the case today, and even where it is, today’s world isn’t the one I grew up in. Turning a kid loose on a bicycle before daylight isn’t such a wise idea in many areas.

Also, there’s the change in public attitude about hunting, fishing and trapping in general. According to the 2006 National Survey of Fishing, Hunting and Wildlife-Associated Recreation, in my home state of Arkansas, which is less urban than many, only 301,000 residents hunted that year. That’s about 12 percent of the population. Trapping is included with hunting, and I’d be very surprised if 5 percent of those 301,000 folks trapped, but for argument’s sake, let’s say they did. That gives us a total of 15,050 trappers in my state, at most. There’s probably considerably less.

The situation is much the same elsewhere. When the percentage of active trappers is that low, it’s hard for somebody who wants to learn more about trapping to find anyone with similar interests. And when you can’t find anyone who shares your interest in something, guess what usually happens? Yep, your interest wanes, too, because it’s not much fun unless you can share it with someone.

Some Are Rookies, Some Trapped When Younger

That’s where us gray-whiskered veterans come in. Thirty years ago, I didn’t really have time to take someone under my wing on the trapline. I was pedal to the metal from Day 1 to Day Last, catching as many animals as I possibly could, because I had a houseful of kids and a dollar bill looked as big as a saddle blanket. Simply put, I couldn’t afford to take the time to help a rookie get started.

But now that’s not the case. I’m far from rich, but the crushing financial pressure is gone, and for Bill and me, the trapline is a more leisurely thing. Don’t misunderstand though. We still work hard, and we put up decent numbers for a couple of geezers, but neither of us is out there because our kids need shoes. And so we take interested folks on our line from time to time. Some are rookies just getting started, some are middle-aged guys who trapped when they were younger, and some are men and women who’ve never held a trap in their hands but want to see what it’s all about.

SEE ALSO: ONTARIO TRAPPERS PROTECT PEOPLE AND PROPERTY

The days when we have guests on the line are among the most enjoyable of the season. We usually don’t get as much done, because we’re answering questions and showing our guests what we’re doing and why. It slows us down, but we both enjoy it and are more than glad to do it. We’ve never discussed it much, but I think the reason Bill and I both enjoy having guests is that we’re helping promote trapping to non-trappers, either by helping a newbie get started or by showing a non-trapper first-hand that we’re not the bloody-handed barbarians the PETA folks make us out to be.

If you’ve never taken a kid, a beginning trapper or an interested non-trapper on your line, I recommend it. Not only will you enjoy it, but you’ll also be helping the cause.