Pennsylvania Game News - May 2009 - 26

It was November 1960. John F. Kennedy had just been elected president in a close race against Richard Nixon; Stay, by Maurice Williams and the Zodiacs was America’s number one song, and muskrats were king of the fur trade. It’s hard to believe that almost a half-century has passed since that day, but I remember it well. The bright, sapphire sky dappled with lazy white clouds; the sun gentle and warm on our boyish faces; and the heavy scent of autumn leaves as we broke into the woods and raced toward the streambank ahead. But most of all, I remember the heart-pounding, heady excitement that two 12-year-old boys felt as they were about to check a trap for the first time in their young lives. The trap was a No.1 Victor Jump that I had slipped into a deep, underwater den entrance by rolling up my shirtsleeve and reaching into the cool stream as far as my arm could go. As it turned out, the trap was empty, but our spirits remained high as we continued to make our way along the meandering stream to check our remaining sets. Muskrat sign was everywhere: slick trails, called slides, ran up and down the streambank for as far as we could see. And gray, kidney bean shaped droppings were piled high on many of the logs and rocks that dotted the stream. Gazing into the water, we could tell where the muskrat dens were located by the “runs” that had been gouged into the stream bottom as the aquatic furbearers entered and exited their burrows below. Some runs were clouded with muddy water, telling us that a muskrat had recently been there, which made it even more difficult to bear when our foothold traps came up empty, time and again, as the muskrats swam right over them. John and I had purchased the traps for 25 cents apiece from a friend named Lance, whose father had used 26 them years earlier. Hoping Lance would know how to get the muskrats to step into our traps, I sat across from him during lunch at the school cafeteria the following day, and waited patiently as the stocky farm boy wolfed down a huge plate of raviolis, mashed potatoes, green beans and peach slices (all for only 35 cents). As soon as he finished eating, I asked him how in the world his father managed to catch muskrats in the traps he’d sold me. Lance took a big gulp from his milk carton, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and belched. “Oh, those things.” he said with a wrinkled brow. “My dad caught most of his muskrats in Conibears, not jump traps.” “Conibears,” I shot back in bewilderment. “What are they?” “Killer traps,” shrugged Lance. “You stick ’em in front of the den hole, and the muskrat swims through the trap and it kills them instantly.” This sounded like the perfect solution to my problem. I couldn’t wait to get my hands on one. “I have a dollar.” I offered while reaching into my pocket to fish it out. “How many will that buy?” “Tell you what, take the school bus home with me and I’ll sell you two Conibears that are like new.” Lance stuck out his meaty hand and I dropped the wrinkled bill into it. “Deal,” I said excitedly. Lance looked across the table and eyed the peanut butter and jelly sandwich my mom had packed for me. “Gonna eat that?” he asked. I’d been so focused on talking about trapping that I had forgotten all about it. “Guess not,” I said pushing the sandwich his way. Besides, my appetite had dwindled considerably after watching him inhale his own lunch. While on the school bus with Lance, I hammered him with questions about how to trap. He had very little experience himself, having accompanied his father only on rare occasions while trapping muskrats. GAME NEWS

Pennsylvania Game News - May 2009

Table of Contents for the Digital Edition of Pennsylvania Game News - May 2009