Trapping with Dad
© 2002, Tina L. Curtis
Excerpt from her work in progress, “French Crik Memories.”
French Crik Memories is a new book that I am working on for the benefit of my sister, nieces and nephews. My sister has a limited memory of our childhood years. She is amazed that I can remember details about the silliest little events that took place in our lives. As for my nieces and nephews, I just want them to know some of the mishaps and adventures I experienced as a child. And now I have another reason to write my memories. After 11 years of marriage, I am now expecting my own child. I want him or her to know that Mom remembers what it’s like to be a child.
I don’t know if I’ll ever publish this small book for the world to read. In the meantime, some of the stories may be interesting so I have been using them on the Writer’s Block web page. I hope you enjoy them.
Winter was not the safest time to be spending at French Crik. As small children around the ages of six and eight, the only hopes my sister Tammy and I had of going to the crik at this time was to go trapping with Dad.
Dad loved his outdoor sports like hunting, fishing and trapping. I can still remember when it came time to go trapping, Dad would call my cousins over to help him with the bluing of the traps. The traps, which hadn’t been used since last year, would have to be boiled in a bluing solution to protect them from rusting in the cold French Crik waters. Dad would set up a 50-gallon barrel on three cement blocks. A fire would be built under the barrel between the blocks. It would take hours to get the water to boil. Tammy and I got to haul the wood out of the basement to keep the fire going though we weren’t permitted to actually go near the flames.
After the traps were ready, Dad would get up early to go set them in the parts of the crik where he thought he’d catch some muskrat or mink. My cousins would also try for beaver. Tammy and I would wait and go in the evening, to empty and reset the traps. We preferred our warm bed in the morning. Trapping was done when there was snow on the ground. Brrrr... not our way to wake up each morning. But Dad would faithfully check the traps twice a day until the season was over.
Tammy, Dad, and I still remember the funniest time we had during trapping. We had been trudging along behind Dad in snow over our boots. It was deep and the air cold. We had checked a number of traps and were heading to a small runoff area of the crik near the Laing Bridge, south of town. Dad had to lie down in the snow to reach the trap which was located in the water under a small ledge. Dad wasn’t worried about the snow... he wore his Carhartt overalls and wading boots. He would be warm even when he had to wade into the crik to reach a trap.
But this particular day, the boots were not high enough and the Carhartt overalls not waterproof enough. He had just leaned over the edge of the bank to reach the trap when Tammy and I heard a “Kersplash!” Dad disappeared below the surface of the water. For a second we were stunned. Then Dad shot up out of the water like a rocket. Tammy and I busted into a fit of laughter. We laughed the rest of the day over the event. I don’t know if it was the way he shot out of the water or the look on his face, but it was funny!
The water had not been deep so he could stand in it easily enough. The problem was he was drenched from head to toe in freezing cold water. He quickly climbed up onto the bank in the deep snow. He had to take off his boots and stand in the snow in just his wet socks to get the water out of his waders so he could walk back to the truck. Needless to say, we went straight home.
Trapping and trading in furs was the occupation of those who first visited Wattsburg in the late 1700s. It was a way to make a living by trading the furs for items needed for survival. Now trapping is rarely heard of though it is still legal in Pennsylvania.
