The County Farm Crick was a half mile from my house. I walked it in hip waders, carrying two Victor longspring traps. I made two cubby hole sets, baited them with apple and hardly slept that night.
The next morning I walked that half mile and found a muskrat in each trap. I carried them home by the tail, grabbed more traps and walked back again to make more sets. And found another muskrat who’d been caught while I’d walked home and back. Three muskrats in two traps. My first day on my own trap line. I laid those muskrats out on cardboard in the shed and waited for my dad to come home from work and find them (and skin them).
I can still feel that excitement in my stomach. I was a trapper. Like my dad.
We set out trap lines together when I was in college. I’d save up all my skips for the semester and go home every second week of November. Dad absorbed all the expenses - gas for the truck, traps, lures, gear. Then he’d split the whole fur check with me 50/50.
Sometimes my brother would come along and he’d mule the raccoons and muskrats back to the truck for us. He also headed up the party planning committee.
Looking back on those November mornings, my fondest memories are around my dad’s green Stanley thermos, steam rolling off the coffee gettin’ poured into the lid. A bag of donuts.
It didn’t matter if we caught 15 raccoons or a small, black-tipped possum not worth skinning. My brother would start unscrewing that thermos lid, “I guess that calls for a celebration.”
I hope you’re enjoying my record Memoirs and the stories it has to tell.
To listen: ffm.to/memoirs...
To order vinyl and merch: www.joestammba...
17 сен 2024
