Pennsylvania Game News - May 2009 - 27

But he managed to give me a few good tips on how to use Conibear traps, and he also told me how to make drowning sets when using foothold traps. When we got off the bus at his farm, he motioned me to follow him into the barn where several dozen rusted traps hung on a wall. Lance pulled two Conibears from the tangled assortment and handed them to me. Then we walked over to an old wooden desk and he opened the top drawer and pulled out a worn, paper catalog. “Take this,” he said solemnly. “I want you to have it.” I reached out and took the catalog from his hand. It said O. L. Butcher’s Trapping Supplies, Shushan, New York. “He’s a professional trapper.” Lance remarked with puckered lips and a reassuring nod. “Before my dad died he talked about him all the time.” “Gee, this is really neat. Thanks.” I smiled. Then I saw Lance’s eyes start to water up and his chin begin to quiver. I felt real bad. Lance was a big kid and I knew he didn’t want me to see him cry, so I looked down at my Timex wristwatch (“Takes a licking and keeps on ticking”) and pretended that I had to go. “Wow. It’s late. My mom is gonna kill me.” I crowed. And I turned and ran away as fast as my legs could carry me. Looking back, I guess I was running away from myself more than anything. I still had a father, and it scared the heck out of me to think about what it would be like if he died, as Lance’s dad had. Lance didn’t know it, but he changed my life forever when he handed me that catalog. After I got tired of running and started walking toward home, I began thumbing through it and dreamed of becoming a professional trapper like Mr. Butcher. There was a picture of him on the cover — a husky, rugged looking man who wore a heavy, checkered shirt and a knit cap while sitting on a stump outside his log cabin. Dozens of fox and beaver pelts lined the cabin wall behind him, and he became an instant hero to me. MAY 2009 Back home, I showed my brother John the catalog and the new traps I had purchased. Excited about the prospect of finding fur in our traps, John began paging through the catalog and soon found an advertisement for The Trappers Guide, written by O. L. Butcher. “We have to get a copy of this book,” he exclaimed. “Yeah, that would be cool.” I agreed. “But I just gave Lance two weeks’ allowance for two traps. I’m broke.” “I’ll pay for it,” said John. “Fair is fair, and since you bought the traps I’ll buy the book.” So we borrowed a 4cent stamp from Mom’s kitchen drawer (it had a picture of a pony express cowboy riding hard on it), licked it good and stuck it on an envelope, along with a dollar bill and a short note to Mr. Butcher asking him about his life as a professional trapper. Muskrats were the schoolboys’ meal ticket back in those days. They were everywhere. Small creeks running through cornfields provided excellent food and cover for them, and local farmers happily granted us permission to trap the voracious furbearers. Some streams were infested with them, and damage to the banks caused by their constant tunneling was dramatic. Nevertheless, my brother and I had but a handful of traps, and were allowed to set them only on weekends while school was in. As a result, we did little to help control the burgeoning muskrat populations. However, things began to change when we received O. L. Butcher’s book. My brother and I were doing homework at the kitchen table when our mother suddenly walked in with a large manila envelope in her hand. “Guess what came in the mail today?” she said cheerily. John and I both looked up and grabbed for the package at the same time. “Ah, ah, ah,” 27

Pennsylvania Game News - May 2009

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