Morning
Was Coming, I Was Ready
Article from May
- Jun 2005 Buckeye Trapper
by Col.
Richard L. Stanley Sr.
I felt a soft touch on my shoulder. It was Dad gently shaking
me from sleep to the cold darkness of early morning. “Come
on Richie, it’s time to check our trap line before the critters
get away,” Dad was softly whispering in my ear so as not
to awake my little brothers soundly sleeping under the big feather-tic
beside me.
It was pre-1925 and I was still in knickers. Dad had long promised
me he’d take me with him on the trap line after I turned
nine and could keep up with him along the creek bed.
Dad stood there by my old four-poster bed already dressed and
holding aloft his battered old “Big-Bowl” coal oil
lantern. He never went anywhere without it at night due to his
poor sight. The “Big-Bowl” was fussen and poppen as
usual due to the cheap grade of coal oil, or kerosene Dad used.
The lantern cast his huge shadow back on my bedroom wall. That’s
enough to scare a kid right out of his bed I thought to myself.
As he spoke his breath hung in the air like a frozen cloud telling
me it was going to be a cold one. But I was ready!
This wasn’t like Mom waking me up for school when I’d
try to lay back and hide under the covers. When you’re nine
years old there is a difference between your Mom calling you for
school, and your Dad calling you for a new adventure on his trap
line. Yes, I was ready! School was one thing, but your Dad inviting
you on the trap line was something else. Together we would ride
to the hounds; my Dad and me! So I quickly slid out of bed onto
the cold floor, grabbed my clothes, which I had especially piled
on the floor the night before, and tippi-toed downstairs to the
inviting kitchen where ol’ Dad had the wood blazing in the
cook stove. This cozily warmed up Mom’s kitchen and Dad
had a pan of mush and sausages frying thereon. Mom really knew
how to cook, but she was sleeping in this cold morning. It was
about 4 a.m. Dad was an early riser.
While I was pulling on my two pairs of knickers and double socks
and sweaters; not forgetting my well-worn leather high-tops with
my trusty Remington pocketknife tucked in the side pocket; Dad
had set the table for us men. Even hot biscuits. There was a new
feeling of togetherness here between my Dad and me, even though
he was pulling a huge stocking cap so far down over my head I
could scarcely see and wrapping a long muffler about my neck so
I could barely breathe.
I had three brothers and three sisters, which really left little
time for a one on one relationship with our parents. But I was
the oldest and the only child to show an interest in hunting and
fishing with Dad. My Mom was Dad’s field companion before
us kids arrived and was pretty good with the shotgun. As the years
passed by I found I was truly blessed to have the same interests
as my Dad for the hours spent together in the field were the most
wonderful days of my childhood.
Dad was not much for talking as he spent much of his time by his
lonesome out in the woods or working his farm sunup to sundown,
so we usually ate in silence. But I knew what he was thinking.
I would study his face, unknown to him of course, and I could
see little smiles and a twinkle in his eyes and I knew he was
thinking of our coming day’s adventure out there in the
wilds together. He thought a lot, so did I.
Dad had already harnessed ol’ Mare to our buckboard in the
barn. Ol’ Mare always loved to go for a trot, anytime, anyplace,
as she loved to run the trails usually with my dog, Snapper, gleefully
barking at her heels. Snapper was not allowed to accompany us
on the trap line.
After cleaning off the table, Dad turned the wick down on the
kitchen wall lantern and turned up the Big Bowl. He wedged another
piece of wood in the stove for Mom and led the way out to the
barn. “It’s really finally happening. I’m going
along on the line. Seems like I’ve waited for years for
this moment.” My mind was racing with excitement. It was
cold, dark, and very quiet outside. A cowbell clanged as ol’
Bessie stirred in her sleep in the barn. A limb snapped as the
sap froze in the big oak tree by the barn. The moon had disappeared
and only a handful of twinkling starts attempted to light up the
cold, dark sky. It was all kind of foreboding and ominous to me,
as I never got out at this time of morning before. Oh well, I
was ready!
Dad’s traps were mostly set around part of a long curving
lake of which I never saw the other end. It laid several miles
from our farm through a deep woods and much rough country. Dad
and a stranger had an understanding on trapping this lake together
in peace. The other man was a full-blooded Shawnee who they say
lived in a small log cabin set far back in the woods at the other
end of the lake. I had never seen this Indian but my schoolmates
had many stories to tell about him; some true, some not so true,
my Dad said. But I knew darn well that I’d never want to
bump into him in the woods without Dad and Snapper with me. I
wasn’t afraid, just cautious, you know. Anyway, Dad said
he didn’t speak much English and they talked mostly in sign
and for me to never bother him, as if.
We jiggled and bounced along in the buggy with ol’ Mare
blowing her frosty breath in great clouds which hung in the air
as we passed by. The ruts in the mud road had frozen during the
night and I feared the wheels would break when passing through,
catching in one rut, then another. This is why some call it a
“buckboard”. Dad built most of it out of old weathered
flat barn boards. Dad’s “Big Bowl” lantern hanging
on the front-top of the buggy, swinging crazily, was casting great
mysterious shadows of the trees along the narrow trail winding
through the forest. Some trees had limbs that actually looked
as if they were reaching out for us as we raced by. Ol’
Mare didn’t wear blinders and I had seen her, more than
once, look sideways with fearful eyes as if she knew more than
I what lurked behind the shadowy trees. Mostly I remember the
great ghostly, galloping shadow out front of us, cast by the ol’
Mare herself as she trotted along forever trying to keep up with
her own shadow.
An owl hooted at us as we rolled by, only to be answered by another
owl further along the trail asking “Who? Who?” with
no answer whatsoever, this was appearing to be rather ominous,
it was certainly frightening to a child of my years at the time.
I fully expected to see a menacing dragon fly overhead. I carefully
watched Dad for sign. I was ready! My right hand rested comfortably
on my Remington tucked in the pocket of my high tops.
Suddenly something flitted into the trail ahead, stopped, and
then flashed its gleaming yellow, eyes at our lantern’s
light, then disappeared into the underbrush beside the trail.
I looked up at Dad. He casually explained it was a mere grey fox
out hunting its dinner. “Perhaps we will meet again,”
Dad said wistfully. My inquiring mind was activated. “Wow!”
I thought, “The darkness must be full of fur animals we
could catch.” Somewhere far ahead a whip-por-wil sang its
lonesome night song.
We soon came to the lake where Dad kept an old flat-bottomed rowboat
that he had made years before for fishing. We soon were rowing
our way along the water edge. Some places there were very steep
banks and at other areas there were creeks entering and swampy
places with some strange animals making splashing noises in the
near dark areas. My imagination was running wild, as it was still
dark and patches of fog hung in the air like old tree moss. I
felt like I was in a place we shouldn’t be in. Somewhere
far off a lonely dog barked. An oar squeaked.
Our Big Bowl lantern only lit up a circle about ten foot out but
Dad knew where he was going. He was a woodsman. He’d stop
here and there, poking around with his long staff that he always
had in the boat. He used it for about everything, from poling
us along in shallow water to killing a water snake. Sometimes
he’d get real excited pulling up his trap from deep water
with a big muskrat caught therein he called “Muskrat.”
Much bigger than the ones I chase around the barn. “The
big difference,” Dad said, “is I get cash money for
these rats.”
We picked up a bunch of these wet ‘rats, forcing me further
and further back in the boat as I’d not yet accepted them
as boat-buddies. I still was learning. At one spot he caught an
old lazy possum and casually tossed it in the boat, in my end,
it didn’t appreciate the toss and was about to show me its
displeasure, grinding its teeth and making funny noises. I was
about to exit my end of the boat, post-haste, into three feet
of murky water, when dear ol’ Dad threw an old burlap bag
over this weird denizen and it immediately “played possum”.
With some foreboding I regained my composure and re-took my seat
nearer the stern keeping one eye on the denizen and the other
eye on the pile of so-called expired big ‘rats, expecting
any minute for one of these wet things to come alive and run up
my leg. I was ready! I think.
All of a sudden, from out of the fog and darkness, there was an
old man in a burchbark canoe silently gliding past our path. His
speed was such that he did not even leave a wake. He sat ramrod
straight, kneeling on the floor of his canoe, his single paddle
poised inches above the water preparing for another stroke. He
appeared to be as old as the mountains. His face was like tanned
leather, deeply lined from years in the sun and wilderness. His
long raven black hair was hiding part of his features except his
piercing eyes; one red and one jet black, both appearing to be
glowing like embers in a smoldering camp fire, seemingly filled
with immortal hatred, but for what. I thought, he seems to have
the best of both worlds.
He slowly turned his head to us, affixing those haunting eyes
on both of us at the same time. My eyes quickly caught his necklace
and head cover. Around his neck he wore several strands of beads
that even in the semi-darkness sparkled like diamonds and red
rubies reflecting more colors than the rainbow from our lanterns
light. Square atop his triangular shaped head with high cheekbones
sat the grinning face of a coonskin cap, teeth and all, charcoal
eyes also staring at me. This old Shawnee brave appeared to be
toothless and his cheeks sunk in on both sides where his teeth
should have been.
Without a verbal greeting, change of expression or display of
emotion at seeing us in the darkness, this old brave raised one
hand from the paddle, palm to us, and silently passed on into
a fog bank as though he had never truly existed here beside us
in the water. The entire episode took place in the span of fifteen
seconds. His epitaph was only a faint swirl in the waters from
his paddle. Many years would pass and long after his departure
with the Great Spirit would I learn the truth. This kindly old
soul of the woods, who all of us kids feared, who seemingly could
put the fear of hellfire into anyone he gazed at, was actually
legally blind and rarely knew if he was looking at anyone unless
he heard their presence. His poor eyes merely were reflecting
our own fires and personal fears.
When we departed the shore in our boat Dad cautioned me not to
talk only whisper if necessary, as our voices scare the night
critters and we were now in their world.
Occasionally Dad would step off the boat to walk a short way into
the woods to check a trap. For this he carried a pail with vegetables,
strips of rabbit fur, chicken parts and other assorted smelly
things to attract the fur animals. Also in the pail was a small
hatchet, given him when he was a young man by an Indian hunter
he befriended. He also carried a spool of fine baling wire. He
was always experimenting with snare type traps where he had to
bend a small sapling tree down to attach it to some kind of trigger
on the snare to jerk the critter off his feet when caught. He
was never very successful with these kinds of traps. Some rabbits
occasionally for supper.
We paused once, way out in the dark lake while crossing. While
the boat softly bobbed about, my good ol’ Dad took from
under his great coat two sandwiches Mom had prepared for us the
night before. Big slabs of cheese with home made bread and butter,
compliments of Bessie. “Dad thinks of everything.”
I thought as I munched away at the goodies. This sure added to
the magic of being out here in the wilderness alone with my trapper
Dad. A nod of his head and a big grin made our snack complete.
Morning was coming. A slight breeze ruffled the lake surface.
Shadows were reluctantly retreating into the forest along the
shoreline. The sun was rising over the distant forest and was
painting the soft, feather like clouds with tips of red and gold.
Several colorful ducks resting along the shore, on our approach,
frantically paddled away to safer water. Far out in the lake a
gaggle of geese rose in unison to continue their long trek south
to warmer waters. A beautiful morning.
Once when Dad stepped off the boat into the woods I heard him
fussing about and a chain rattling. When he returned he carried
a big raccoon by the tail, larger than ol’ Snapper he was.
Dad’s proud smile told it all. As he rowed along he told
me about the coonskin headgear the old Shawnee wore.
Dad said the old Shawnee was known as Hawkeye throughout the mountains,
probably due to his vision problem. He said that chieftains or
tribal leaders often wore the coonskin headgear with the entire
raccoon head on top. The raccoons bared teeth gave them a appearance
of ferociousness and cunning, the pointed ears gave the Indian
extra hearing powers, and the extra eyes gave the Indian the vision
strength to see near and far in his hunts and battle. The remaining
pelt draped over his shoulders commanded a sign of security, good
health and prosperity.
“All Indians”, Dad continued on, “consider all
animals as their friends and indeed pray for them to the Great
Spirit before killing any animal and immediately thereafter. Another
prayer is said thanking the Great Spirit and the animal for the
meat to eat and the pelts to make into clothing and other necessities.
Nothing is ever wasted.” Dad had known many Indians.
Our work was completed for the morning and the sun was friendly
to our faces as we turned the boat about to return to our buggy
and the warm lap blankets.
Mom had another hot breakfast waiting for us. Dad told Mom of
our great adventure together on the lake saying it was one of
his best days ever and that perhaps I had brought him luck on
the trap line. My cup runneth over, there was that big smile and
twinkle in his eye again as he winked at Mom.
The die had been cast and I knew I was a dyed-in-the-wool trapper
from then on. My big reward was being alone with Papa on my first
trapline adventure, long ago. ### Col. Richard L. Stanley,
Sr., 243 Manatee Road, Winter Haven, Fl. 33884
Editor’s Note: Richard has asked us to
inform our readers that he has been diagnosed with Non-Hodgkin’s
Lymphoma and will be undergoing treatment. He regrets that his
current condition did not allow him to write the next installment
of his “Remember When” series. Richard hopes to be
far enough along with his recovery to continue writing soon.
Richard would appreciate our prayers and hearing from our readers
who have a moment to write a short note or to make a phone call
at 863-324-2711.
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