Game
On
Article from Mar
- Apr 2009 Buckeye Trapper
by Aleta
(Reed) Blackstone
“Hon,” whispered my husband in the dark as he stuck
his head into the bedroom where I was sleeping, “I need
you to do me a favor. I need to leave for work now, but I think
I have something in one of my traps this morning and I need you
to go check it for me.”
“Sure, which one?” I croaked in my sleepy voice.
“The one we had the two ‘coons in,” he answered.
“Thanks! You don’t have to go till daylight. I’ll
call you later from work.”
I listened as the car pulled out of the driveway and attempted
to go back to sleep. I knew what to do when we had something in
a trap, so I was calm. We’ve talked about it a hundred times
- how to shoot the ‘coon, where and how to hang it up, etc.,
but I’d never actually had to do it.
Patrick has trapped for over twenty-five years, but it has always
been his thing, not mine. Sitting in a plastic lawn chair, I would
visit with him while he worked in the trapping shed, trying to
understand as he talked about night-latching, four-coiling, and
base plating. I knew it smelled funky when he dyed the traps and
it was messy when he waxed them. There were usually body parts
and skinned carcasses somewhere to be seen and lots of metal hooks
hanging everywhere. (Apparently, you can never have too many metal
hooks.) I just didn’t get it.
I was used to him bringing back his catch for the day and hanging
it on the wisteria pergola outside the patio doors for me and
the dogs to see from the kitchen. My part was to take pictures
and download them to the computer. I would applaud and give a
thumbs up from the kitchen if he had something or sympathize if
it had been a dry run.
I lay there thinking about all of this and decided to go ahead
and get up and get ready even though it wasn’t daylight
yet. The least I could do was help him out this one time. So,
I fed the dogs their breakfast and began to collect the things
I thought I needed to take with me. The butterflies began to move
in my stomach as I ran through what I was about to do. Patrick
had bought me a pink Marlin .22 caliber for my birthday a few
months ago because I enjoy target shooting (I got that from my
mother). So I strapped it over my shoulder, pulled on his gumboots,
camo hat, jacket, and brown jersey gloves, grabbed the camera
and stepped out into the quiet pre-dawn. I had stuffed a large
garbage bag in my pocket and the dog’s choke chain to carry
the animal home with. Now, I was really beginning to get nervous.
I had never killed anything and I didn’t know if I could.
I knew about where the set was, but things looked different this
morning. It was frosty, wet and cold and I didn’t want to
slip and fall. I was heading down the hill along the fencerow
where we had caught the other raccoons. It was brushy and briary,
so I stopped before I could see the set to get the camera out
and get ready to take pictures just in case I startled the animal
and it pulled loose. I crept quietly past the last clump of briars
and came face to face with a coyote. That wasn’t supposed
to happen. This was a 1½ Victor set for a raccoon. We had
not really discussed this possibility. My heart was in my throat
as I started snapping pictures.
It was right about then when I felt something begin to change
on the inside of me. There was something so raw and surreal about
standing there, just feet away from this animal. I couldn’t
quite process what I was feeling. There was something in me that
had never been tapped before. I raised my rifle, took the safety
off, and fired. The coyote died quietly. Not at all what I had
expected. I had to rethink how to get her home. I couldn’t
carry her like I planned, so I freed her from the trap and slid
her into the oversized trash bag. I started dragging her back
up the hill toward the house. I was kind of glad I had made that
choice since I had about fifty yards of county road to walk by.
I just didn’t think I was ready for the neighbor ladies,
bus drivers, and school children to see me dragging a large dead
animal along the road. I wasn’t that cool yet.
Once we were in the back yard, I hoisted her with a rope over
the pergola and tied it off until Patrick would get home. He called
a little later and I told him the news. In my opinion, he was
way too calm - didn’t he know this was major for me? I looked
out that door roughly a hundred times throughout the day. I just
couldn’t believe I had done this thing.
After this, we had a little discussion and Patrick shortened his
line. I would be checking it each morning as long as he was on
day-turn at the plant. I would stay in bed until I heard him leave
in the morning. I’d wiggle my toes under the covers until
I couldn’t stand it anymore, jump up, feed the dogs, and
head out. We had a few raccoons, but nothing I was excited about
- not like before.
Finally, the day dawned again when I rediscovered why I was loving
this. As I topped the hill behind the house I could see him. He
was huge and dark. I pulled out the camera while I was still far
away and took pictures every twenty feet or so. I wanted Patrick
to experience the same sense of anticipation I was. When I reached
the set, it was incredible. This coyote was beautiful and elegant.
He was a noisy one, too. I hadn’t witnessed that before.
My insides got all jumbled up again. I was frightened, yet at
the same time I was so excited I couldn’t stop giggling.
I think it’s a girl thing.
I pulled the rifle up to shoot and my gun jammed. I hadn’t
planned for this. I emptied the bullets out and lost them in the
frosty grass. At this point, I was pretty shaken and the coyote
wasn‘t a happy camper. I had only brought three shells with
me. Who brings only three shells? What was I thinking? So with
shaking hands in clumsy jersey gloves, I combed through the grass
for those bullets. I found two and reloaded, trying to remember
if your gun blows up when you put wet bullets in it. It jammed
again, so I repeated the process. This time I blew on the bullets
in my hand to dry them off in case that would make a difference.
The gun fired and again the coyote died quietly- very dignified
actually.
I sat down in the grass near him and watched as he expired. The
line was blurring again between my very orderly life and this
wildness. Once again I had stepped over into a world I was previously
unaware of and it made me more alive than I had ever been. There
is a bit of a twilight zone that exists on the trap line. Raw
nature dominated by you, life and death, and a glimpse of the
wild. I’m hooked.
Patrick bought me a dozen Sleepy Creek traps, a dozen snares,
lure and bait for Christmas this year. Game on. ###Aleta
(Reed) Blackstone, 45192 Hanson Ridge Road, Lewisville, Ohio 43754.
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