CHAPTER 1
The Early Years
Double Jeopardy on the Trapline
In 1963 and 1964 Eve and I lived our winters at an abandoned railroad hamlet called Petry; trapline 139.
It all started with a visit days before. Borsky the road master spoke to Eve. "Missus, yous tells you husband he's be KILL-ETT! Stay off railroad track!"
The day before I had managed to jump the track into a ravine. My skidoo made it through the rock cut in time. I looked up as a freight train whizzed by with a rail crew shaking their fists at me. I had already decided this was a dangerous convenience that I'd have to give up. Borsky had turned up the heat by telling on me to Eve. As a result of this, Borsky bore a resemblance to Boris Karloff, an actor who starred in Frankenstein movies. He had dark circles under his eyes, perhaps because of the black soot from a long career of railroading. He held the title of Road Master along this stretch of track, and if he resembled a raccoon it made no difference, he was the boss! Whatever I thought, from now on I would travel the Petry River. Back in '64, I had no idea that one day I would teach snowmobile and ATV safety courses.
After my 22 caliber accident years before, I never thought I was invincible. I revelled in my independence, a sense of freedom I'd never understood before. With no regrets I exchanged a sign design job for a life on the trap line. The toughest part is the first winter in any trapping area, building pole bridges across rivers where currents flow. The sheer adventure of seeing lakes never before seen brought me never ending enthusiasm. In the spring I obtained better maps, a decision that ultimately rang the doorbell of opportunity for work and a career with Lands and Forests. From tower man, I became a park ranger, deputy warden, and ended up as a conservation officer. Because of experiences learned in my past regarding matters of safety, I was hard on people when conducting hunter safety tests, especially when it came to properly handling firearms. I felt eminently qualified having experienced what a gun could do when in the hands of drunken or careless people. It no longer mattered to me that I'd had an accident; what mattered most was that I had survived. I wanted others to have a safe outcome when handling weapons.
Nine years after my accident, I was on the Petry River trapping and learning my trails. I relished my life in nature. Borsky was right. I soon established new trails along the bogs that followed the edge of the river. One day I stopped my skidoo to study the slip, hop, and slide of an otter's tracks that lead across the river. At first his home appeared to be a hole in the river bank, a great place to set a 330 Conibear humane trap I thought. I caught a glimpse of the otter in the shadows.
Anxious to know, I took the plunge. It was a hole in the river with thin ice and a fair current flowing on a river bend. Sand gathered so it wasn't deeper than my upper chest. My hands coiled out without my will and gripped the brush hard. To my surprise, a large piece of ice pancaked and ran off with the flow. For a brief moment I observed about six inches of air formed under the ice. The ice itself was nothing more than a suspended bridge, with little or no support above flowing water. This ice could collapse at any given moment. The river level had already dropped by the end of February. Wet as I was, I knew I could make it home, if my 9 HP skidoo started. The sun was high and the March wind was warm and early. I was glad that this day wasn't like January, when the section crew had told me that the temperature had dipped to fifty degrees below zero.
I was glad to hear my single cylinder putting and bogey wheels turning. I wouldn't have to strip off my clothes and build a fire in the naked blue elements. I didn't have to haywire a broken rubber track to get home. I knew that in thirty-five minutes I'd be sitting by a wood stove with coffee and wearing dry clothes. Eve would be showing me linoleum block prints, colorful designs on paper that she had created and now hung on a clothesline drying.
I would have liked to have thanked Professor Otter but I never saw him again. I learned to never follow an otter to the edge of a river. It could be hazardous to your health, especially in the winter, because an otter can put you on thin ice.
Beef on a Mitt
John Hook taught me that a tire tube harness on snowshoes was safer if you ever broke through the ice, a single tension knot pulled, allowed for quick release. "Swimming with snowshoes is not good," he said.
I learned that with a single rubber knot, tension would hold snowshoes on for walking, and that a tug on either of the two tethers caused a quick release.
As his student I had a great teacher; his specialty was under ice trapping. In order to learn I offered to be his apprentice. We had adjoining traplines. His line was eleven miles northwest at Quern, and mine was east at Petry, Ontario. Since he was about to retire, I was his gopher. He enjoyed my role and our relationship. His health declined as his age inclined. As the months passed things had become routine. In the morning we'd trap and have lunch in the open air cafe surrounded by deep snow. During an open fire lunch break John's words startled me. "You be eat for fat. I be eat for lean." He handed me my beef on a mitt and explained he had an ulcer problem. I stared at two chunks of beef. There was no need to explain. Instead he stated, " Fat be good for you to fight cold."
Inwardly I was amused. By spring I recognized a great trapper, teacher, and master. He was very fussy, even about the shape of nature's poplar branches, and how they'd fit exactly around under ice trap sets. If they were not precise, he would send me back to cut and gather more.
It's strange how by chance so many of us meet. Hook had a nice cabin, including fantastic walleye fishing on a point on Selwyn Lake which he wanted to sell. One spring he sold to my mom and stepdad. Well into their 50s, they sold what they had and arrived by rail on a flatcar loaded with tools. Their temporary new home was Hook's cabin situated on a beautiful point of land.
Meanwhile that spring, Eveline and I returned to my job as a tower man. We later learned that having sold their farm, my parents now had to start from scratch. At nearby Quorn they purchased abandoned railroad buildings, dismantled them and even saved the shingles, and carried beams and all materials around a rapids. Then from the materials they built a raft. All things floated to Hook's point at Selwyn Lake. From those early efforts, a viable business developed called Selwyn Lake Camps. From start to finish, I know that by the light of coal oil lamps, cribbage was played for more than twenty-four winters before they retired; a proud accomplishment.
Theirs was a Herculean feat at any age. Her husband always said that she could make something from nothing, and they did. Timing is everything. In the 60s, it was still possible for others to have similar opportunities. At Wawang Lake, a young ranger quit his job and made himself a resort....
