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The Spokesman-Review Newspaper
Spokane, Washington  Est. May 19, 1883

Alan Liere: The marvels of a contemporary trap line

When I was in high school, one of my best friends, Eddie, ran a trap line for muskrat and beaver.

It was hard, cold work, and Eddie kept at it not so much for the extra cash as for the independence, the tradition, and the love of the outdoors.

Those of us who knew him, affectionately called him Johnny Muskrat, but the girls at Shadle Park High viewed him with a less-then-enthralled suspicion.

It took broad shoulders to be a Mountain Man in 1963.

I went with Eddie once to see what trapping was all about, but it didn’t immediately grab me the way hunting and fishing had.

I was passionate about those pursuits, but trapping – well, that was a completely different pursuit, and it was Eddie’s thing.

Until it was virtually banned in Washington, trapping was a good management tool.

If you don’t believe that, ask the folks around Loon Lake what they think of the beaver with an appetite for their ornamental trees.

Mention the muskrats that like to build their nests in Styrofoam docks.

Both those fur-bearers are doing what they have been doing for eons, but when they compete with expanding civilization, they become “pests.”

Friends are surprised to learn I now run a trap line of my own.

Yes, I get up early every morning to make my rounds – first the pantry and the kitchen floor by the garbage disposal, then my den, and finally the back bedroom.

I keep thinking one of these days I’ll catch that last mouse, but just a few minutes ago, one crawled out of the dark place under the old stand-up radio in my office and ran by my desk. Pesky little buggers, those.

Nothing turns off a group of dinner guests quite so much as finding mouse droppings on the kitchen counter.

Seeing a mouse in my living room once caused my Aunt Bonnie – at a ripe, young age of 73 – to execute an unbelievable vertical jump onto the dining room table. Degree of difficulty was measured at 5.6.

Few things make me angrier than finding a bag of Cheetos I have been hoarding ravaged by marauding rodents.

I have absolutely no idea how mice get into my house.

I can’t imagine them hiding by the door to scurry in when I bring home the groceries. They aren’t really known for their surveillance skills.

Perhaps they have been here since construction. Maybe, in essence, I boarded them up inside and they have colonized.

Watching one squeeze beneath the door of my office, however, convinces me that even the tiniest gap is an invitation into the house.

I have purchased a half dozen spring-loaded Victor mousetraps.

I bait them with peanut butter, and I love to lie in bed at night and listen for the “SNAP!” that indicates my offering has enticed another rodent to its demise.

I’m still learning, but my most glorious success was two mice at once in the same trap.

Usually I get one or two a night for a week before success drops off.

I must assume there is a learning curve. In another week, though, there will be more. Peanut butter always wins.

Had I skinned all the rodents I have collected so far this year, I’d have enough pelts for a coat. A short jacket at least.

The mouse challenge stirs my primordial soul – not as much as a flushing cock pheasant or a five-pound smallmouth, but I’m beginning to understand what Johnny Muskrat knew all along.

He was good at what he did. I wish I had paid more attention.