Children in the Wilderness

When we were children, my brothers had a trap line. And I don't mean a trap line in the house to catch those horrid mice, though we had that too. But a real trap line. With real conibears and leg holds.

They spent hours walking. And sometimes I would go with them. It was no feat for the faint of heart, at least coming from a child's perspective. We walked on a narrow trail packed through the snow. It wound through the peat moss swamp, around evergreens heavy with snow. Trudging through the forest, we were careful not to disturb anything unnecessarily, careful not to break any twig. Craters in the snow showed where big branches shook loose, sending their burdens hurling down with a wump. We called them elephant prints.

Eyes searching the snow-covered ground, we found evidenced weasels, pine-martins, and the ever-present rabbits.

It was cold. The trap line must be walked every day despite the weather. The trail must be re-broken if it snowed. My brother carried a backpack, laden with survival gear. A rope, a knife, matches, chocolate, a compass. All designed to last in the cold if we got lost.

Sometimes I wonder at my mother. How did she not worry about us in that wilderness? Not only was there the danger of the cold and wolves, but the heavy traps they pried opened were designed to snap shut in a second, securing its prey. It could have secured them.

But she let us go. Let us walk through the wilderness. If we would have gotten lost, would we have survived? Somehow I doubt it. But that didn't prevent her from allowing us to go.

That letting go was a gift.