THE WAY OUT THERE

Eager little beaver

BY HUNTER HILL
Posted 1/18/23

“Grandpa Adam, I want to catch a ginormous beaver, as big as me,” declared my son Rorick, while speaking on the phone with my father. We had been telling many bedtime stories lately about the beavers that his Grandpa Adam and I had caught in the past. Even the less colorful stories were eagerly absorbed by my son’s ears as he began to catch the fever for going trapping for beavers.

This item is available in full to subscribers.

Please log in to continue

Log in
THE WAY OUT THERE

Eager little beaver

Posted

“Grandpa Adam, I want to catch a ginormous beaver, as big as me,” declared my son Rorick, while speaking on the phone with my father. We had been telling many bedtime stories lately about the beavers that his Grandpa Adam and I had caught in the past. Even the less colorful stories were eagerly absorbed by my son’s ears as he began to catch the fever for going trapping for beavers. 

Fortunately for him, beaver season had arrived here in PA, and Grandpa Adam and I began to make plans to introduce him to the thrill of the hunt. 

Years ago, my dad had caught and boasted his limit of beavers for a single season, 40 large furs in all, plus other species. At the time, his goal with these was to have a beaver coat made for my mother, a coat which she still has to this day. 

After hearing about the fabled beaver coat, my son had to see it for himself, so in the days leading to his first beaver outing, we stopped at Grammy’s to see what all the fuss was about. 

She brought out the coat and gave a spin, showing Rorick how it looked before attempting to drape its heavy, warm mass over his shoulders. While it obviously didn’t fit him, I was proud that he managed to stay upright with all that weight on him. For reference, the coat probably weighs a good 10 to 15 pounds, if I had to guess. 

We petted the beaver hair and talked about where the material came from, explaining that just as any animal would be harvested for food, these animals were harvested for clothes.

Well, the day came when I miraculously had enough time to take him down to Grandpa Adam’s to set out a few traps. Given his young age, of course we didn’t take him through the gauntlet of a long trapline, setting and staking and baiting each trap. Instead, we summarized it for him, and toted him around on my shoulders as Grandpa showed him the traps that he had already put out. We baited the last few together. 

Fortunately for us, a large family of beavers had moved into one of our favorite areas and was attempting to flood the neighboring field. 

It worked out great for our timing, because beaver season had just started, and it was a nice, easy-to-access spot to take Rorick. 

As we left the traps that first day, we made arrangements to check back with Grandpa in a couple of days. Every day between then, however, we called Grandpa Adam on the ride home and talked about the big, big beavers we wanted to catch. 

Finally, we returned a few days later. I got out of work and picked up the boys. We drove down to meet Grandpa Adam and check one of his traps close to the house. He had already gone to check his other traps since it was now dark, but he left one just for the three of us. As we walked down in the dark, led by a single flashlight, we spent the majority of the walk reminding Rorick how important it was to keep his voice low so as to not scare away the beavers. 

We pushed through the multiflora roses, and wove through the spindly trunks of birch and willow as we neared the edge of the pond where the trap was placed. As we approached, Grandpa Adam shone his light out on the water, where his guide sticks revealed the location of his trap. “Got one,” he whispered, to which my zealous son responded, “Ooh, where?!” in his least whisper-like, full-volume voice, completely forgetting himself in the excitement of the moment. 

We pulled out the trap and removed the beaver and the trap for the evening, pausing to take some pictures—and, of course, pet the beaver. Rorick was actually so fascinated by the latter, that he had a hard time looking up for the camera. 

We brought everything back to the truck and loaded the beaver in the back, where there were four more beavers waiting from earlier in the day. Rorick sat on their backs and petted their fur, commenting nonstop on their appearances and his grand designs to keep trapping more and more beavers until we had filled the truck. 

The way out here, sometimes the best way to start an adventure is to share the tales of an old one. I know I’ll always remember this as the first year I took Rorick out for beavers. Perhaps we will save a hide, like I did when I first began trapping with my dad, to hang on the wall; a felt-tip pen mark on the back will note the date it was taken. 

All I know is so far, this has been the highlight of the new year for me—seeing my son engage with an old practice with new excitement.

beaver season, hunting, story, children, family

Comments

No comments on this item Please log in to comment by clicking here