The Daughter's Walk - Jane Kirkpatrick [88]
I visited with the LaPrays, for whom the nearest road to the property was named. They told me of the Warrens, father and son, two men more intimate with the streams and timber than anyone who had actually owned it. They’d been trapping the government property for years. They truly read the land. “But they’ll be wary of you,” Joseph LaPray told me. “You being female and all and them being Indians.”
The LaPrays said they’d put the word out, and one week when I finished work on the shack I’d built, two men appeared. They were from the Spokane reservation across the river. I wore men’s pants I bought at the Coulee store, dressed with fur-lined boots and gloves and a fur hat. I looked like a man, I’m certain, and maybe that was good. The men remained silent to my questions, and finally I stopped asking, said that I needed their help. The elder Warren let a smile creep across his round, weathered face. “We know this,” he said. “We wondered if you did.”
Warily, they agreed to let me watch them set the traps that fall and winter. I assured them I wouldn’t restrict their trapping on what was now my land, and I vowed to stay with them on the long treks in the snow, even sleeping out in the curl of the rocks at night if need be. “My grandmother knows the hides,” the younger Warren told me, and I sent a prayer of gratitude to her for the spirit of acceptance she must have instilled in her descendants. The Warrens treated me as a daughter in need of guidance, with a nod to my femininity during my monthly flow. Those weeks through those winter months I remained in the hut and fleshed and prepared pelts so as not to attract coyotes or wolves to the trap line.
The Warrens showed me how to set the traps myself, explained what to look for in a tree crotch that, along with bait, might lure a weasel in. They demonstrated how to field dress and flesh the animals, stretch and cure beaver hides on circular frames. When I set and began checking my two trap lines, they commiserated with me as I told them a coyote took more than one animal, leaving just bits of fur behind. Like an indulgent grandparent, the elder Warren smiled when I described my delight at sleeping beneath twinkling stars when work along the trap line kept me from my shack. They nodded approval at the harness I made for Lucky, whom I used to pack the hides. They shook their heads at my clumsiness when my knife slipped through a pelt, ruining it. Franklin wouldn’t like that either, and it took money from my hands. But I learned about desirable color, coverage, and other grading qualities from these two grisly men. They called me Miss. “Miss. Stick must be inside trap, not outside, or muskrat will trick you, go home another way.” They snickered at the written logs I kept, writing down what was trapped where, how many skins I collected. I suspect they had years of oral listings they could tell me about, but paper and pencil did not appeal to them.
Still, they gave me wisdom. “Eat dark meat,” the Younger told me. “Very good. Builds muscles for next time you set traps.”
I also endured their grunts about my curling iron when they saw it, and I let them pick up my hair extension and shake their heads in wonder as they tossed it back and forth. These men were skilled, and I needed their wisdom to accomplish my plan. Even more, they were men who appreciated the passion of this intense dance in the wilderness, wits against animals, rivers and land, and the joy in the morning when my efforts proved fruitful and I said out loud my prayer of thanks.
After the first season, back in Coulee City, Olea, Louise, and I attended the Presbyterian church, meeting a few more of our neighbors. The Lutheran church, with a pastor riding from Wilbur every other