Mud, muck and outdoor memories

I let out a great whoop, but no one heard it to share in my joy.

A pair of geese across the river honked, though they were probably annoyed. At times of triumph, so much of the joy is because there’s someone around to share it. Alas, not today.

I called a boy, but it went right to voicemail. At a time like this my dad would have been a perfect companion, but dad hasn’t answered the phone for three-and-a-half years now, just prayers, sometimes. I tried another relative and got him on his second number. He was happy for me, but the connection was poor to start with and soon he cut out.

The thrill was that I had tried something new and actually succeeded — a welcome change for this consistently hapless outdoorsman.

If the New World of North America was a land ripe for European exploitation, then many of the first riches were in furs. The English crown chartered the Hudson’s Bay Company, incorporated in 1670 it spent its first 200 years primarily as a fur trading concern. Its competition, the North West Company, was forced to merge with it in 1821, creating a colossus.

The fur of record was beaver. Plucked and sheared, it made blankets, coats and trim. Processed into a felt, beaver was a top material for hats.

But it did not last.

In the 1830s, silk became the new “it” material for hats as deforestation and voracious market trapping left beavers few and far between. The market for beaver collapsed and the time of the mountain men came to an end. Even Kit Carson had to take up a real job.

Today the “it” fabric is fossil fuel-based plastic; whether it's a polyester shirt from UnderArmor, a nylon jacket from North Face and its faux-fleece liner, or a plastic-based ball cap. Beaver has been sidelined to niche markets and novelties.

My spring break was relegated to Iowa, accordingly choices for outdoors fun during the season of mud were limited. Beaver trapping was a late winter activity in which the mud and the muck could be celebrated. Extirpated by 1900, government efforts restored beavers in Iowa. A regulated season opened in 1949 and the fecund rodents did the rest.

So in the name of a new adventure I used the time and resources available and set off to steal an inkling of what those long-gone trappers experienced.

I placed my sets along the banks of streams and rivers. The steel laid several inches below the water’s surface. It guarded a mound of mud I made on the bank, slicked up with water for some sparkle and topped with a lure made from the beaver’s castor gland.

Spring is the time when beavers seek new territories and mates. The sweet smelling mound was a challenge and an invitation.

Beaver males are very territorial and woe be the interloper because the fights between males leave great scars made by great teeth. Don’t confuse their vegetarianism with passivity.

I hoped to catch the attention of a beaver cruising the water. If the man-made castor mound is seen or smelled, then it is likely to get investigated. Curiosity was the secret ingredient.

As a neophyte to the pursuit, I wrestled with my equipment much more than necessary. I got wet and dirty. My sets looked bad compared to what I saw in magazines and internet videos. I had little optimism, but I had hope. Optimists will try something once, the hopeful will persist.

The first two days of checking were beaver free and I wasn’t surprised. I just relished the chance to splash about in the water despite being three months ahead of swimming season.

On Day 3, I checked a particular set on the Wapsipinicon River and the trap was gone, surely it just got bumped out of place or I miss-set it. But when I pulled that first flat tail out of the depths, I was gobsmacked. It worked.

The 25-pound male was magnificent. This endeavor was now officially an overwhelming success.

When I returned for another round of checks the following day and pulled a 49-pound male beaver from the same place, the triumph was complete. Elated, I declared victory and pulled all my traps. My 2023 season ended on a high note.

Three gallon-bags of meat rest in the freezer awaiting some ambitious meal making. The pelt was prepared, dried and then shipped to a local tannery. They are destined for a pair of leather chopper-style mittens that were my father’s. I’ll back the choppers with wily beaver hair, as well as add gauntlets.

Next winter when I’m tramping about, I’ll be able to include my dad too. He won’t be walking beside me, but I won’t be alone either.

Looking up, looking ahead, and keeping my pencil sharp.

John Lawrence Hanson, Ed.D., of Marion, teaches U.S. history with an emphasis on environmental issues at Linn-Mar High School and is past president of the Linn County Conservation Board.