northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North
Usually the old trapper wasn’t bothered by the piercing cold. But lately he felt every one of his 80 winters. The freezing air crept into his bones and
symmetry jessica roy
settled. An unwanted guest.
Waking to another cold, pale dawn, the man decided he would collect his traps for the season. It was a week earlier than usual but due to the long cold winter, his energy was waning.
Wanting to get an early start, the trapper slung a burlap sack over one
shoulder and picking up his rifle, left the cabin to begin the 10km round-trip of his trap line. Despite the calendar’s date, the wind still wormed its icy fingers beneath the trapper’s clothing.
Hours later, the air thick with fog, the exhausted trapper finally approached the last beaver lodge. By the sheer size of it, the man knew it housed a sig-
nificant colony. More than likely a male and female, yearlings and kits. He had experienced success from this lodge on numerous occasions and was anxious to see today’s bounty and retrieve his final trap.
Thinking of the hot cup of coffee and warm fire that awaited him back at his tiny cabin, the old trapper quickly shuffled across the pond. Kneeling,
he broke through the thin skin of ice that had formed at the mouth of the
beaver run. His woolen gloves did not completely insulate him from the icy water and he hissed as the chill reached his fingertips. Grasping the chain that anchored the trap, the man tugged sharply. Feeling light resistance,
he thought he may have caught a kit. Too small to be worth much. Disappointed, the man yanked harder until the trap popped out of the jagged
hole. It took the man’s dulled mind a moment to understand what he was
seeing. Instead of the firm, plump body of a young beaver, he stared down
at a severed front paw. Ligaments and claws were still clutched in the angry, steel teeth of the trap. A grisly, dangling sacrifice. Catching his breath, the
trapper crouched to get a closer look in the fading light. The mangled joint
showed clearly where sharp teeth had gnawed through bone and gristle. It was then that the man noticed that the area around the hole was smeared with blood. Crimson against white. Peering into the water, the man imag-
ined a big male pulling himself into the deep reaches of the lodge to lick his wounds in the comfort of the colony.
Marveling at the immense mental and physical strength of the beaver, the trapper released the foot and placed it in the burlap bag. Before removing the trap, the man looked thoughtfully at the lodge, an internal struggle
taking place. As the sun slipped beneath the tree line, he impulsively reset
the trap. Turning his back on the lodge, the man began the slow trek back to the cabin.
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