The Trapper and His Angel
Part II

DON RETURNED at about 10:30 and I looked hopefully into his sled for any sign of a beaver. Not seeing one, I asked, "Have any luck?" feeling certain that he had not. "Just one small one," he replied, "Young of the year, born last May. I left the traps set for the others and I'll go back in a few days to check on them. I'd like to get the older ones and leave the small ones, if possible."

One small beaver is all Don takes at Wrath Pond.

After loading my camera gear into the sled we left for Beaver Brook on Second Lake. On the way we met a couple of men on snowmobiles at the Portage Trail. As I walked past them they complained of the lack of snow and of the warm weather. At the western end of Second Lake Don had me wait with the team while he scouted for beaver. After twenty minutes he returned to say he'd found one old, lone beaver without a house. "He's just living in the side of the stream bank," he told me. We both went in with Kobi pulling the pulk. There were wood chips all over the snow among the alders bordering the stream bank. After watching Don set one trap I decided to get a head start back to the team at the edge of the lake, but first I asked Don to cut a souvenir log that had beaver teeth marks on it for Vanessa.

While I waited for Don to return from setting a second trap I had lunch... more of the gorp (raisins, coconut, peanuts, almonds, yogurt covered raisins and dried fruit) that I'd already consumed so much of while snacking at the camp, wheat crackers with mild and sharp cheddar and chunky peanut butter. The only things we had to drink during the trip were tea, coffee, carnation hot chocolate mix, lake water or snow. At this point my only choices were water or snow. When we were sledding Don would sometimes stop, get into a push-up position with his hands in ice-cold water to take a sip from a pool atop the lake. He's never been afflicted with the intestinal disorder giardia from the water. "I think it's mostly caused by people living near water supplies, not by beavers or other animals, but I carry 'Flagyl' to combat it. Never had to use it though," he told me.

His dogs focus their attention on Don as he skins a small beaver.

The sky quickly darkened from the southwest and a few drops of rain fell before Don came out of the woods. We went back to Third Lake, past our camp and then south, up the stream at the end of Minister Cove. At the first of two clearings where I hoped to shoot pictures Don said, "Any trapper who sees your pictures will know there aren't any beaver here. There's another spot five minutes farther in that will look right. It's open and surrounded by gray, dead driki (trees killed by the beaver damming process) that contrast with the dark green of the conifers behind them. It's a typical looking beaver flowage that I haven't trapped in four years. There aren't a lot of hardwoods there for beaver to feed on. It could never support a big house. There's a ridge to the west of it... a pretty spot, but marginal beaver habitat." Angel later told me that the unnamed pond is one where she and Don once fought, so between the two of them they now call it "Wrath" Pond.

It would have been a beautiful place for pictures with better light... late sun over the ridge. But once again I knew I'd have to shoot high-speed film at slow shutter speeds. I waited there for a half hour while Don trudged back to the lake to laboriously work the team through alders, up hills, over stumps, rocks and fallen trees, through two-foot-deep wet snow to position them beside the brook where we staged our pictures. It was as authentic as possible, using the 17 pound, 46 inch (combined vertical and horizontal pelt measurement when stretched and dried) young beaver that Don had caught earlier in the day. Don put him into the Conibear trap and lowered it into the stream while I shot. Then he rough skinned it, gutted it, and chopped it into pieces with an ax to feed the dogs. They ground up everything, including skull and bones. He gave me the tail as a souvenir.

Don gives one of his dogs a reward for his hard work.

I went out toward the lake ahead of Don and the team and heard a snowmobile in the distance as I approached the shore. At our camp Wiggie was waiting with a small, illegal Togue (Lake Trout) for the next morning's breakfast. He was startled when I called, "Hello" and he jumped up. "Turn off my hearing aid when I'm alone," he explained. "Where have you been? I've been trying to find you all day. Went up toward Big Minister Pond but the trail was so bad I turned back."

While I started to explain our day's activities Don returned. A few minutes later Wiggie waved good-bye and rode down the lake, leaving a wake of water gushing behind him. "There goes our last contact with civilization," I muttered. "I won't miss it," Don added. We cleaned up a bit, gathered firewood, chained the dogs to their wire line and fed them. Don prepared supper: spaghetti with sauce made of ground venison, vegetables and a store-bought tomato base. It was really quite delicious mixed with chunks of cut cheddar cheese.

We both bedded down in the tent by 8:30 assuming that we'd have rain before morning. Don gave me one of his two Ensolite pads because my inflatable one didn't insulate me enough from the cold, damp ground. I slept better than the first night, although I did get up once to pee. If the mice visited again I didn't hear them. Don had left a handful of dog food on the ground so that they wouldn't rustle the bag again.

Saturday morning I first woke at maybe 4:30 or 5:00 but fell back asleep 'til 6:00 or 6:30. "You awake?" Don asked from his corner of the tent then. "I'll build a fire while you stay in your sleeping bag if you'd like." When I arose fifteen minutes later to look outside the tent my view was of an overcast sky, heavy fog enveloping the lake and wispy, string bean-like strands of vapor floating across the slushy surface of Minister Cove next to which we were camped. All night I'd heard the faint sound of an irregular but steady dripping rain falling on the tent.

Because the morning light was soft and mysterious looking I decided to photograph the camp site but when I took my equipment outside all the lenses became covered with condensed moisture from the warm air in the tent, so I hung them from branches to dry off or equalize with the outside environment.

Don made breakfast... first a pot of hot cereal with raisins, condensed milk and syrup. Then he set up a rectangular, cast-aluminum pan in the snow in front of the tent, placed our illegal fish in it alone, covered it with another like pan and built a twig fire atop the construction to bake it. By then my lenses had cleared so I photographed him as he nursed the fire with more twigs. Timing of the cooking process was by instinct. When he first tasted the fish Don said, "It's OK for me. Maybe you'd like it cooked another five minutes." I flaked off a piece with my fork, savored it and nodded, "Yes, a little more time."

"Togue isn't very tasty fish. No fresh water fish is," Don said while we ate it. "I prefer salt water fish," he continued as he finished up the one third portion of the fish he'd taken. The rest he left for me to enjoy with no more flavoring than a bit of salt.

We sat and talked for an hour or more while Don boiled the dishes and utensils clean in a pot of water atop the sheet metal stove he'd had custom made for him by a mill worker. "The guy makes $35,000 a year and built himself a jeep during his spare time in the machine shop," Don told me. "The stove only cost me a dollar as a favor. It should last three seasons; much more durable than the flimsy commercial ones."

Our conversation ranged over subjects such as politics, family, my photo career, Don's adventures and work as a guide, and conservation and development issues. "If you had ten million dollars, what would you do with it, buy a big chunk of land?" I asked him. "I wouldn't want ten million dollars," he answered, continuing, "I'd be afraid of being corrupted by it." He paused. "But, ya, I guess I'd buy land... and put up 'no trespassing' signs on it."

Asked if he finds his five to six day trapping trips into the woods lonely he answered, "I'm too busy to feel lonely. Up at dawn. Working hard 'til dark. Then I fix supper and go to sleep. I try to spend a little time reading before bed, but the list of books I want to read keeps getting longer despite my efforts."

By then it was clear that the weather wasn't going to clear anytime soon so we decided to pack up, leave a note to Angel and head out by way of Second Lake with a stop at Beaver Brook to check Don's two traps there. Once again I waited by the lake while he went in to the site. After a few minutes the six dogs with me started howling and baying. When they stopped I thought I heard a distant, high pitched, soft, "Gee... haw." I put on my glasses and peered down the lake through the fog and could barely make out a dim figure moving along the shore.

Don came back empty handed a bit later. "The old beaver sprung both traps. He must have seen his peers in traps earlier and gone into hiding up that brook. Just a wise, old hermit," he figured. I told him about seeing a sled team down the lake. "Angel will be swearing at me and wondering how she missed us," he said. "I'll leave you at the portage trail while I go back to camp and see you when I see you."

While he was gone I wandered nervously onto the water-covered ice to photograph trees and fog but eventually my fear of falling through got the best of me and I returned to wait on the trail, sitting on an overturned canoe under dripping birch and cedar trees.

A while later Angel, her friend Vicki, and Don arrived with three sleds loaded with our gear and I stuck out my thumb for a ride and smiled as they drove past me onto the lake. We swapped dogs around, once again avoiding putting males with females in heat. Don took a team of five back toward Big Minister Pond. Angel and I rode double on her sled with six dogs while Vicki and her four dogs followed behind us. The twelve mile trip out took a couple of hours and, once we were off the lake, our path alternated between a narrow trail at first with small hills and then a broad trail with longer, steeper hills. We crossed two bridges onto which Vicki's dogs feared to walk, so Angel led them across. As we sped along, almost going off the trail several times I jumped and fell off to avoid hitting trees and to give Angel more room to maneuver the 750 pound load being hauled by her six little fifty pound dogs. On one particularly steep hill I slid fifty feet down it on my back. "Are you alright?" Angel called to me as I got up, wiped myself off and assured her that I was fine.

By the time we got out to three parked trucks at Abol Bridge around 3:09 p.m. we were all soaked from either rain or perspiration and anxious for a hot shower, so we quickly packed up our gear, loading the dogs and sleds onto the trucks, and headed southeast to Millinocket. Back at the motel once I'd cleaned up I telephoned home. "Are you still in the woods, Daddy?" Vanessa asked. "No, I'm back at the motel. There aren't any phones in the woods, honey," I told her. "But I have something for you: a piece of a tree cut down by a beaver. You can see his teeth marks on it. And we caught one small beaver," I continued. "What did you name him?" she asked.

"Uh... well, we couldn't think of a name," I replied hesitantly. "Did you keep him as a pet?" she asked. I knew then that I couldn't show her the beaver tail that Don had cut for me.

Angel, Don, and family in their lakeside home.

Saturday night I had dinner with Wiggie and Joyce Robinson at their home. Sunday I slept late, until 7:30, and watched TV, did some exercises and had breakfast. It felt good to relax and do absolutely nothing for a change.

In the afternoon I went to Don's house to photograph him fleshing a beaver pelt. He'd caught one more medium sized one on his way out Saturday. Then I took pictures of his two types of traps: conibears and foot-hold. Finally I shot portraits of Angel and Don with Kobi next to the stone fireplace. On the mantel one of their four Siamese cats sat during the session. The cats are called Lovey, Dovey, Romeo and Juliet.

Sunday night we all went out to supper at a new local restaurant, the Terrace. Don was quiet and the silence seemed awkward after our camaraderie during the trip. I don't know what, if anything, was bothering him. Maybe it just takes him awhile to readjust to civilization! I'm sort of that way after I've been traveling on assignment for a long time.

The sledding/trapping trip turned out to be very enjoyable despite my initial anxiety about it. It was wonderful to wake up each morning to nothing but natural sounds, the aroma of the forest, a sharp chill in the air and a still peacefulness. Although Don's work is physically demanding it's also quite relaxing compared to modern life in more urban areas.

Don and I have since talked about making a ten day sledding trip up the coast of Labrador next winter, stopping in local homes each night. I'll try to sell the idea to a travel or airline magazine. Now that I'm a dog sledding veteran doing the story should be a walk in the park!