I read about a trapper found dead who had chopped small hole through ice to check number 14 jump but stuck his hand into trap. Couldn’t reach anything to chop with and froze to death. A friend of mine and his partner were trapping together when one stuck arm down hole to Check 330 and got caught. He would have been dead right there had his partner not been there. I had a # 4 jump with 20 penny nail teeth welded on and while bedding trap got caught One nail through finger. Open water though so not life threatening just embarrassing.

I would guess that thin ice has claimed the most Beaver trappers by far.

I was trapping the Missouri river on the NE/SD border right after ice-out. I was out of the boat in chest waders walking to a likely spot for a crawl out set and stepped off a shelf from 3' of water to 12'. Thank God I made a grab for my Jon boat and grabbed the gunwale. I was neck deep in water with substantial current but made it back in the boat and survived the 2 mile run back to the boat ramp. It was 45-50 degrees that day. I swear, it took me two weeks to warm up!

Fell through the ice up to my shoulders while crossing a pound over to a beaver house. Was around 11 mile snowmobile ride back to the truck and by myself. Temps were chilly but nothing crazy. Showbibs were pretty stiff by the time I got back to the truck then 20 minute drive back to home.

Thought I could push myself across an ice shelf into open water while setting in a Poke boat. Ice gave way unevenly and sent me into the pond. Deeper than my chest waders. It was cold...... not something I would recommend.

Wouldnt say near death but was checking under ice beaver traps at 55 below zero and froze my lung working (chizelling)
went to doc with Pneumonia like condition,doc said small part of lung got frozen,Doc gave some antibiotics to keep from getting infection while it healed up.
Been in water many times trapping beaver,not a problem since always carry change of clothes when under ice beaver trapping alone and remote on skidoo.A normal safety precaution here,along with fuzees to start fire.

"Rapahos had me surrounded in a canyon over in The Big Lost. Trouble was, there was a way in but there wasn't no way out at all. A whole tribe of Blackfoot down there..just madder than a turpentined wildcat.
They just kept a-comin. Entire Sioux nation. Me, outta powder, outta lead. I was one scared democrat...
What happened?
Well, I got killed, of course..."

Never near died but would now if it happened. Early '80's and I am about 30 years old in early December. Driving a 12 Elan skidoo at night to check beaver traps. Topo map says beaver house was 2 miles from the road. Half way there put the skidoo through the ice on my old track from previous check. Grab axe* and jump off into waist deep water. Walk the mile back to truck and drive back to town and get a buddy and his 12 Elan skidoo. We go back mile across pond to my skidoo. I jump in again, up to waist, to grab the skidoo and he is pulling from shore. We get it out and haul it back to road with us both on his little 12 Elan. Next day thawed out skidoo and got it going same day. Never though much about it. Good example what being young can do. Not sure would survive one mile night walk over ice back to truck now let alone go back same night and jump in again to get skidoo.

Seems to me you can not do any amount of frozen weather trapping by yourself without having had similar experiences. Imagine many can identify. If you're gonna be dumb then you gotta be tough lol.

* My axes are always on side of running board on skidoos in a bracket for that reason. Works on gravity and NEVER comes off on its own. Easy one grab and go for emergencies and just ordinary work. No messing around with retainers of any sort to get an axe. Number one tool along with properly packed matches + lighter on you for cold weather emergencies.

I have been through the ice several times, never over my head. Had clothes freeze before I got back to the truck. Had one instance when I snowshoed a couple of miles into a pond.Started out onto the pond and a large section of ice broke out at front tip of my shoes. Water was about 12 feet deep. My snowshoes distributed my weight and prevented me from falling in. I gingerly back stepped and immediately left, scared me so bad that I never set the colony.No one would know where to find me.

I heard of a trapper that had driven his chisel straight down into the ice, got down on his knees to check the set and the chisel fell over, hit him in the back of the head, knocked him out, but did not kill him.

It was thirty below zero and I was walking edge of lake to check otter sets when I broke through a spring hole and was instantly up to my ribs in goo. If not for a big grass hump just in reach that would have been my last day. Even with my arms around the grass hump I could barely pull myself out of that quick goo. After I got out I walked a half mile to a family owned gas station on their farm. Old Bill an 80 year old friend with beady bright blue eyes told me I needed to take an assburn, or I’d get sick. he meant aspirin of course but it came out assburn. They had a wood cook stove going and I told Bill that I didn’t see what good sitting on the cook stove would do me he just stared at me with those bright blue beady eyes like I was nuts. He had no idea I was joking with him about his mispronouncing aspirin. I miss those old timers That was 50 years ago so Bill was born 130 years ago. Oh the stories those old timers could tell.

Fell through a bog to my arm pits and was not touching bottom. Scariest 2 minutes of my life trying to get my @ss out ,filled waders and all. Had a 50 lb beaver in my pack also.

Not specifically beaver, this was otter. Could have been beaver. Could have been disaster.

The next morning, with all the familiar necessities completed, I departed the frozen river in front of my house at about 10 a.m. I flew east, hoping to cut the tracks of the Dog Puke Lake Wolf Pack. Weather was shaping up to be perfect, as advertised. I hadn’t gone more than about twenty miles when I spotted a set of tracks along a drainage, with the little stream alternately cutting through patches of black spruce, then opening into a series of beaver-dammed ponds. I dropped down another hundred feet or so until I could easily read the sign. Obviously, I was initially mistaken, in that the tracks had been made by a group of three or four river otters, not wolves. Just as I was about to flare off and resume my quest for wolf tracks, I noticed a pair of otters cavorting in a small blackfish hole in the ice of a large pond not more than two hundred feet from me. A hasty decision to harvest a $60 or $70 otter (a bird in hand . . .) meant that the wolf hunting could wait another half hour. I circled around and found an easy place to settle the plane onto the snow-covered ice of the pond.

After throwing the engine cover over the cowling, I grabbed the snowshoes and little .222 Remington and started the hundred-yard walk toward the open hole. I could still see the group of otters periodically periscoping up and down in the blackfish hole (open lead). When no more than thirty yards from the hole, I kicked out of the snowshoes, plopped my rear end on one shoe and stuck the other, tail-first, into the snow. Perfect rest for the rifle. I waited several minutes for an adult otter to hop out of the blackfish hole onto the shelf ice, centered the crosshairs, and touched off a round.

Blackfish are an interesting critter. They are a relatively small fish (usually less than six inches, at least in that part of Alaska). They usually live in stagnant ponds and sloughs, where, once the ice and snow are thickening, the dissolved oxygen content of the water diminishes to near zero. However, these fish have adapted over countless eons in these subarctic ponds, and have come up with an adaptive solution. They are able to gulp free air, thus maintaining their ability to oxygenate their blood and preserve their health. Often, by the time winter is waning, the ice covering on their ponds may be in excess of five or six feet, with another couple of feet of snow on top of that. Without their propensity to keep open holes in the ice, they would indeed be doomed. However, these open holes are maintained by constant activity of the fishes chiseling away with their micro-sized teeth, and simply their frenetic activity jumping and cavorting at the holes, limiting the amount of ice that is able to build. There are often hundreds, maybe thousands, of blackfish constantly moving the water at an open hole, disallowing the hole to freeze over. Other species of wildlife certainly take advantage of this open water. Ravens periodically congregate, picking off an easy meal as the fish jump from the water to gulp oxygen. I’ve seen commonly where otters take advantage of the only open holes in an otherwise ice-locked pond as an access portal to open water for hunting pike, whitefish, or even the blackfish themselves.

The otter slumped immediately, but as I slipped back into the snowshoes, the critter started kicking its hind legs, which slipped him back off the ice shelf and into the water. As I approached, the kicking action in the water further propelled it into the center of the little open lead. I kicked out of one snowshoe and picked it up, reaching with the snowshoe to coax the now-dead otter back to the ice-edge so I could grab it. Unthinking, I put weight on my un-snowshoed leg as I tried to retrieve the otter. With absolutely no warning, the ice I was standing on collapsed and I was immediately engulfed in thirty-two-degree swampwater. Each time I kicked to get my upper torso onto the ice, that ice would again give way. It seemed like a minor eternity (but which I suspect was actually no more than thirty seconds), and I finally was able to exit the unscheduled bath.

I slipped into the snowshoes once again, grabbed the otter, and hurried back to the plane. I was soaked through quite thoroughly, and remember thinking to myself how (This word is unacceptable on Trapperman) heavy arctic insulated coveralls and a down jacket were when they were soaked through. The airplane was a mere hundred yards away, but it seemed a mile. I threw the rifle, snowshoes, engine cover, and otter in the back seat and was relieved when the little Lycoming sputtered and started on about the fourth or fifth pull. With the engine running, I hopped in and quickly went through the checklist and was airborne in a matter of seconds.

There was no questioning my plans for the remainder of the day. I didn’t need to even glance at the OAT gauge (outside air temperature) to know that it was minus twenty-five or thirty, and turning for home was the only prudent course of action. Home was only about thirty minutes back to the west.

A SuperCub cockpit, even without bunny boots and grossly thick winter attire, is fairly cramped quarters. I was huddled in that cockpit, heading home. The air temperature inside the plane was marginally warmer than the outside air, but still, my water-soaked parka and insulated bibs were freezing stiff in no time. Without making a preliminary circle over my landing spot on the frozen river in front of my house, I brought the plane to ground (ice, actually) and quickly taxied into my tie-down spot. With my right elbow, I released the doors to exit the plane. It was then I realized that I was frozen in a sitting position, my thick clothes maddeningly disallowing me to change positions and my butt frozen into the seat of the plane. I wiggled and shook myself with as much energy as I could muster, and finally tore my frozen butt cheeks off the seat. No way in (This word is unacceptable on Trapperman) could I get my feet out of the plane for a “normal” exit, despite my herculean efforts. At this point, I was pretty exhausted, and decided the only way I was going to get out of the ’Cub was to simply fall, in the sitting position, out the door on my right side. Of course, when I made the half-hearted lunge out the door, my noggin made solid contact with the wing lift-strut, and, even through my thick otter hat, I felt the lump. A few short minutes later, the blood was trickling down my face.

Now I was lying on the ice, still in a frozen sitting position, blood staining the immediately surrounding snow. Again, energy that I thought was long ago depleted enabled me to right myself, and, still in the sitting position, I was able to duck-walk up the river bank and crawl the twenty yards to my front door.

Crossing the threshold, a warm house never felt so good. At the time, it wasn’t all that comical. Looking back on it now, though, with a different perspective, I just shake my head and chuckle.

My vote Gulo gets the prize.

Gulo,
I'll deal with these big cottonmouths and an occasional gator down here anyday.....

That's one heck of a great tale Gulo! Thanks for sharing that.

I got nothing to match that, but have certainly had plenty of swims over the year for various reasons. Usually just my boat drifting off while I have my back to it engrossed in making a set. A couple of times cruising along at full speed (about 20 mph) hitting a submerged log or something and getting jettisoned out of the boat. One time I had just made the boat ramp when my motor died and before I could get it started the current ran me sideways into a partially submerged widow-maker (tree leaning out into the water). The jon boat instantly had water come over the side flipping the boat and me somehow ending up between the hull of the boat and the widow-maker and all the river pressure pinning my body hard between the two. It was one of the rare instances that I had my trap shed helper with me that day who had already disembarked at the ramp and who ran the 300 yards downstream to where I was stuck and helped get the boat off me from the bank. That was kind of a thrilling experience.

Had a near 80 year old beaver trapper come up missing years ago. We went looking for him. I had an idea where he might have been trapping. I found him. Deceased with his elbows on the ice, his feet touching bottom. He didn’t have the strength to get out. His son and I are friends.
One of the not so great memories of my career.

The last time I ever wore a dumb pack basket too. Had a small beaver in it and couple traps, hatchet, etc. Slipped and went through the ice on my back and couldn’t get that dam heavy thing off fast enough to get my head back up above water.
Jim

I maybe over use ice chisel when walking on beaver ponds but spring holes and other weird thin ice as well as beaver movement are all like a well set trap just waiting for you to step in.

In 1968 when I was 16 my father and I snowmobiled about 7 miles from home into the state forest to check out a beaver complaint. Beaver house was out in the middle of Mishipagong Pond at the Trail Blazer Camp, a kids summer camp. Was about 18 inches of snow on the ice and we walked out to the lodge and picked out spots to set traps the next day when the season opened.
Next day when I got home from school I jumped on our old 1959 SkiDoo with 9.5 HP engine and went to set up the traps as Dad was milking the cows. Walked out toward the beaver lodge with traps and axe in hand, stepping in the same tracks we had made the day before. Promptly broke thru the ice in about 10 feet of water. Axe and traps were dropped. Feeling along under the ice I found the hole to get my head out of water. Using my fists I was able to break enough ice to get my feet onto the beaver feedpile and get back onto the ice. Climbed over the beaver lodge and got back to the old SkiDoo. Got it started and headed for home. My clothes at the time were Woolrich coat, wool pants and LL Bean boots. Temperature was about 10 degrees. I got about halfway home and my clothes froze so much I could no longer steer the SkiDoo up the winding trail. Instead I leaned my body to steer it and was making some progress when I met Dad coming over to see why I was late. He and my cousin Dutch took me home where my clothes were cut off and I got warmed up. The warmer I got the more I hurt. Froze parts of both legs but not my feet. To this day I still have skin problems with my left leg.
I went all the way thru the ice beaver trapping 2 more times in the next 10 years or so. Since then I no longer walk on ice where the water is deeper than 4 feet. Still an axe and 2 #4 Victor jumps on the bottom of that pond.

About 20 years ago I was beaver trapping a high bank area of the Black River in western Wisconsin. I had a set that took some effort to get to due to the high, sandy bank. When I looked down a big coon had somehow gotten himself into the 330 and was dead (luckily) in the trap on a little grassy hump just off the shore. I worked my way down there in my waders and stepped on a small ice shelf next to the coon that I had stepped on many times before. It immediately went out from underneath me and I went down into the deep current, only stopping myself by grabbing the dead coon and the 330. My feet did not touch bottom and the area was historically very deep with swift current. somehow I scrambled up onto the little hump with the coon and worked he and I out of there. Soaked to the bone I made my way back to the truck and got out of there.

Had that coon not been there I don't think I would have made it out. Had he still been alive one of us would have had a very bad day.

Moosetrot