George 
the 
Trapper 
By ROBERT WATSON 
THE NORTH COUNTRY TRAPPER, TRUE WOODSMAN 
THAT HE IS. MUST RELY ON HIS MEAN “YARD OF 
CANVAS” FOR PROTECTION AGAINST THE WEATHER. 
TO IT HE MUST CLING FOR HIS VERY EXISTENCE 
THRU THE LONG WINTER NIGHTS. . . . MOST OF 
THE ROMANCE OF THE TRAP LINE IS TO BE FOUND 
IN BOOKS ALONE. ONLY THE MOST COURAGEOUS 
SURVIVE THE HELL OF LONELINESS, EXPOSURE 
AND DANGER ACCORDED BY NATURE TO THOSE 
WHO INVADE HER SACRED INNER PRECINCTS 
BELOW—CRUDE AS IT MAY SEEM 
TO THE CITY DWELLER, THE 
PERMANENT HOME OF THE 
TRAPPER IS A PALACE INDEED, 
COMPARED TO THE SMALL TRAP 
LINE TENT 
11 A NYONE who says the marten 
/A trapper makes easy money, 
^ ^ all I have to say to him is, 
let him have a go at it.” 
It was a marten trapper of eighteen 
years’ experience in the wilds of 
British Columbia who made the re¬ 
mark to me early last fall in the little 
town of Vernon, in the Okanagan, Val¬ 
ley, British Columbia. George, for 
that was his name, used to pay oc¬ 
casional visits to the town for supplies, 
and I had got to know him for his 
splendid reputation as a trapper as 
well as for his own real worth. I 
suggested to him that I would like to 
go over his lines with him some time. 
He glanced at me from under his Stet¬ 
son hat to see if I were in earnest, 
and left me without committing him¬ 
self in any way. His appraisal, how¬ 
ever, could not have been altogether 
to my discredit, for I received a letter 
from him some time later informing 
me that if I was still of the same mind, 
he might be able to arrange the desired 
trip sometime early in the month of 
March. And before I realized clearly 
what I was letting myself in for in the 
way of physical exertion, I had the 
journey arranged in detail, even to 
getting in touch with the various mail 
carriers and stage drivers in regard to 
conveying me by sleighs to my starting 
point, George’s pre-emption at the head 
of Sugar Lake at the south end of the 
Shuswap Valley, fifty miles from the 
fruit-growing town of Vernon. 
With a certain amount of internal 
misgiving, I started by auto stage on 
the first leg of my trip, for the French 
Canadian settlement of Lumby, six¬ 
teen miles out. The ground was still 
heavily covered with snow and the air 
had a bite of frost in it. 
While awaiting the mail carrier at 
Lumby, I dropped over to the little, 
one-horse cabin which housed the 
town’s only bank. I knew the manager 
and wanted to have a chat with him. 
“What!—do you mean to tell me you 
are going out be¬ 
hind George the 
trapper? You’re 
not scared! 
That’s the tough¬ 
est man to travel 
in all B. C. I 
would rather you 
than me!” 
The stage 
driver arrived 
before I had time 
to change my 
mind about con¬ 
tinuing, got his 
mail sorted and 
we started out, 
well tucked in 
robes, in his 
sleigh behind two good horses. We 
drove along for several hours in the 
quiet of the gathering darkness, over 
a narrow wagon road between almost 
endless stretches of forest, which 
opened up here and there in little out¬ 
lying ranches. At almost every small 
steading, someone was waiting at the. 
roadside for this ever-welcome mail- 
carrier, in the hope that he might have 
a letter or a much-sought-after news¬ 
paper. 
Our journey for the day ended at the 
stage driver’s home. I had arranged 
with him to remain there overnight, 
continuing with him again next morning. 
His wife, a quiet, open-hearted Scot like 
himself, met us with a lantern, helped 
to unhitch the horses and stable them, 
then hurried on ahead of us to set out 
the meal she had already prepared. 
Their little 
homestead sat 
sheer under the 
shadow of a 
queer shaped 
mountain of the 
name of the 
Camel’s Hump. 
After supper, 
under the spell of 
the cozy parlour 
fire, we talked in 
the Doric of 
Stevenson, Scott 
and Robbie 
Burns. The old 
couple sensed 
that I was a 
lover of books, 
but whether or not they jaloused that 
I wrote them, I am not sure. 
They showed me photographs and 
they told me of the old home town in 
a southern sheep-farming district in 
Scotland, which they hoped some day 
to revisit. 
How the emigrant dreams and plans 
to wander back again to the old haunts 
of his childhood! 
![!lll!!l!!l||!!lll!l!!!!ll!ll!ll!lll!ll!ll!ll!ll!ll!!l!lll!llllllll!!l!l!l!!ll!l!!ll!lill!l 
Endless are the tales of those 
who go into the winter woods in 
quest of fur. The joys of the 
trap line and the rewards of the 
trapper are invariably depicted 
in high colors. This tale, how¬ 
ever, of snow-shoes and trap 
lines high up in the wilds of Brit¬ 
ish Columbia tells something of 
the hardships of a trapper’s life. 
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