Some will say he’s gone to stay among his real friends.
Others guess its heavy stress that’s put him at wit’s end.
Whatever it is I think it’s his to hide (we may concur).
He’ll head out in the northern wind to trap a bit of fur.
Every year with winter near he settles all his bills.
At first hard frost he’s gone across the tundra toward the hills.
We’ll not hear for half a year of his perils or his strife.
It’s a lonely land, but he can stand the trapper’s way of life.
A week is spent without a tent, watched by wolf and grizz.
He travels slow through early snow to the wilderness that’s his.
And when he’s near with all his gear, his soul becomes at ease.
The final mile will bring a smile; he knows the rocks and trees.
For a couple weeks, he rarely speaks, except to cuss the cold.
His every breath is to avoid the death that so often can take hold.
He brushes trails through hills and swales to make his travels good.
He chinks all cracks, and checks all tracks, and packs in winter’s wood.
When ice is strong and fur is long, now dense and nearing prime.
He sets his lines, when the full moon shines, ignoring clocks or time.
In the dark of night by candle light he thaws out the day’s catch.
Marten and fox he pulls from the box and skins and stretches the batch.
There are lonely days but many ways to deal with being there.
For days on end he works to tend to every trap and snare.
He don’t need much ‘cept food and such, some coffee and sharp knife.
He respects the land that by God’s hand, has given him this life.
The weather’s grim but it’s up to him to contend with what’s dished out.
Ain’t another hand in the entire land that’ll hear his final shout.
When the ice gives way or the sled dogs stray, leaving him to die.
He’ll not lay blame when the end of the game leaves him one card shy...
Jack
