The first springtime flock of migrating Canada geese passes overhead as Wayne Smith and I survey the damage wreaked by a hyperactive beaver along the banks of the Pecatonica River. The trapping season will close at the end of the month, and Wayne will try to rid the premises of the fur-bearer before it has another season to tear up the banks and girdle what are left of the aspen trees on the wooded slope nearby.
I first suspected beavers during the bow season last fall, as whole stalks of corn would disappear overnight from the food plot along the river. Then one early October morning, the toothy marauder was caught in the act.
Dawn was breaking as I sat motionless in the tree stand lashed to the big pine along the bend of the river. I perked up as the sound of rustling corn broke the silence 30 yards away.
There was something different about this disturbance, however. With deer, the tinder-dry tassel will bounce back and forth as the kernels are yanked from the cob, a sure sign of impending hunting action.
This was different. The entire stalk would disappear from the row, only to re-emerge along the bank; then vanish once again. Soft splashing noises confirmed the theft.
Now, Wayne will bring more than 40 years of trapping experience to the task. "The fur is prime right now, but we might have to wait 'til next year," he warns. "Sometimes they'll move out for a while if they think something's going on."
"These are bank beavers," he notes. "Up north they make lodges. But, you can't trap within 15 feet of a lodge or a dam," he explains.
He ponders the prospects, looking up and down the river at great length. He notes the tree branch across the river, chewed almost completely through and a path of dirty snow nearby, leading down to the river.
Finally, after several minutes have passed, his gaze comes to rest on a doubled-trunked willow leaning precariously out over the water several yards down stream, right where the river bends to the left. "It's probably denned up under that tree," he predicts with quiet confidence.
Now it's time to get to work. He slides his hands into a pair of arm-length black rubber gloves, tied together with string that he hoists over his shoulders. He grabs a pail jam-packed with assorted wire, lengths of poplar sapling, a hatchet, stakes, traps and a sack full of rocks designed to hold the traps securely in place.
The plan calls for a couple of leg hold traps at the water's edge where numerous tracks and disturbances in the snow are evident. The procedure is painstakingly slow as Smith wades through the water in his chest high waders.
He proceeds gingerly, staking down traps, attaching wires and making sure the presentation is realistic. The goal is a perfectly set trap. "I don't rush it," he says. "I never say, 'That's good enough.'"
"It has to be right the first time," he adds. "If they brush a trap and set it off, they won't be around for awhile."
The first job complete, Smith turns his attention to the bend where he believes the beaver may be holed up. His choice there is a number 330 conibear for what turns out to be the home base of not just one, but two beavers of just more than 40 pounds.
Once again, Smith wades into the brisk current of the Pec, probing the bank for an entrance point. With the thrust of a booted leg, he discovers the entrance point, deep enough to allow entry under any potential ice and wide enough to accommodate his quarry. Again, he works deliberately, only this time the trap is a far more menacing apparatus.
The lethality of the conibear is readily apparent. But with skillful manipulation of the trap's safety catches and careful placement of the stakes holding it in place, Smith completes the task "by feel."
He leaves nothing to chance when trapping, even camouflaging the stakes holding the trap in place. He uses walnuts as a dye. "You put them in a plastic barrel, throw in the stakes and fill it with water. Then let 'em soak."
Once out of the woods, we stop for a few minutes at the bunkhouse to talk of the outdoors. "I've liked being out in the woods since I was little," he says, "around the rivers and the creeks."
"I remember as a kid in bed at night listening to Orville Davis' coon hounds." He recalls how "Trapper Ben" Stamm took him along for his first trapping runs. "Bennie helped me a lot."
Now, at 58, Wayne wonders how many years he will have left to enjoy his favorite pastime. "I won't be able to do this forever," he laments.
"They just buried Pete Gilbertson (at age 94) the other day. He was quite a trapper."
- Lee Fahrney is the Monroe Times outdoors writer. He can be reached at (608) 967-2208 or at fiveoaks@mhtc.net.
I first suspected beavers during the bow season last fall, as whole stalks of corn would disappear overnight from the food plot along the river. Then one early October morning, the toothy marauder was caught in the act.
Dawn was breaking as I sat motionless in the tree stand lashed to the big pine along the bend of the river. I perked up as the sound of rustling corn broke the silence 30 yards away.
There was something different about this disturbance, however. With deer, the tinder-dry tassel will bounce back and forth as the kernels are yanked from the cob, a sure sign of impending hunting action.
This was different. The entire stalk would disappear from the row, only to re-emerge along the bank; then vanish once again. Soft splashing noises confirmed the theft.
Now, Wayne will bring more than 40 years of trapping experience to the task. "The fur is prime right now, but we might have to wait 'til next year," he warns. "Sometimes they'll move out for a while if they think something's going on."
"These are bank beavers," he notes. "Up north they make lodges. But, you can't trap within 15 feet of a lodge or a dam," he explains.
He ponders the prospects, looking up and down the river at great length. He notes the tree branch across the river, chewed almost completely through and a path of dirty snow nearby, leading down to the river.
Finally, after several minutes have passed, his gaze comes to rest on a doubled-trunked willow leaning precariously out over the water several yards down stream, right where the river bends to the left. "It's probably denned up under that tree," he predicts with quiet confidence.
Now it's time to get to work. He slides his hands into a pair of arm-length black rubber gloves, tied together with string that he hoists over his shoulders. He grabs a pail jam-packed with assorted wire, lengths of poplar sapling, a hatchet, stakes, traps and a sack full of rocks designed to hold the traps securely in place.
The plan calls for a couple of leg hold traps at the water's edge where numerous tracks and disturbances in the snow are evident. The procedure is painstakingly slow as Smith wades through the water in his chest high waders.
He proceeds gingerly, staking down traps, attaching wires and making sure the presentation is realistic. The goal is a perfectly set trap. "I don't rush it," he says. "I never say, 'That's good enough.'"
"It has to be right the first time," he adds. "If they brush a trap and set it off, they won't be around for awhile."
The first job complete, Smith turns his attention to the bend where he believes the beaver may be holed up. His choice there is a number 330 conibear for what turns out to be the home base of not just one, but two beavers of just more than 40 pounds.
Once again, Smith wades into the brisk current of the Pec, probing the bank for an entrance point. With the thrust of a booted leg, he discovers the entrance point, deep enough to allow entry under any potential ice and wide enough to accommodate his quarry. Again, he works deliberately, only this time the trap is a far more menacing apparatus.
The lethality of the conibear is readily apparent. But with skillful manipulation of the trap's safety catches and careful placement of the stakes holding it in place, Smith completes the task "by feel."
He leaves nothing to chance when trapping, even camouflaging the stakes holding the trap in place. He uses walnuts as a dye. "You put them in a plastic barrel, throw in the stakes and fill it with water. Then let 'em soak."
Once out of the woods, we stop for a few minutes at the bunkhouse to talk of the outdoors. "I've liked being out in the woods since I was little," he says, "around the rivers and the creeks."
"I remember as a kid in bed at night listening to Orville Davis' coon hounds." He recalls how "Trapper Ben" Stamm took him along for his first trapping runs. "Bennie helped me a lot."
Now, at 58, Wayne wonders how many years he will have left to enjoy his favorite pastime. "I won't be able to do this forever," he laments.
"They just buried Pete Gilbertson (at age 94) the other day. He was quite a trapper."
- Lee Fahrney is the Monroe Times outdoors writer. He can be reached at (608) 967-2208 or at fiveoaks@mhtc.net.
