Canal in the Forties—Trapping Muskrats

Along the Canal in the Forties—Trapping Muskrats

Lift Bridge with east-bound ship in ice

Ship headed west through Back Creek with Chesapeake Boat Co. in distance

Joe Hotra was one of my best buddies during my early teenage years, and when I look back at some of the bizarre adventures we had, I’m surprised that we survived. Just about everything we did involved the water, either on the canal that divided our town or on Back Creek, the estuary west of town that ran eventually to the bay. In the winter we spent just about all of our spare time hunting and muskrat trapping. And, you know, come to think of it, we certainly had our priorities straight: hunting and trapping came first, and somewhere down the line school came into play. So, anyway, let me take you back sixty years or so, when time passed so slowly and the world was a captivating place for a scrawny kid. So lean back, relax, and settle in; I won’t keep you long.

It was February, 1949, when I first started trapping with Joe, my mentor. We were trapping muskrats in Continental, a marsh along Back Creek that in the old days was called Randall's Cove. It had a small stream running through it and was located on the South Side, pretty far below the Burnt House. And it was loaded with muskrats.

We got there at dawn to check our traps, but the tide was so high that the traps were covered so that we couldn't check them. So we went back by a tree and waited for a while. Joe was older than I and had much more trapping experience. Then, all of a sudden, he yelled out, "Hey, Geez, it's Sunday morning! I forgot! I have to go back to go to church. Now you stay here and when the tide drops far enough, you go out there and check those traps."

Well, after Joe left, there was more light but it was so foggy that I could only see about ten feet out; I couldn't see the river at all, but I could hear strange noises out there. At one point I heard the reverberation of oars striking the water, accompanied by harsh, angry voices. I was scared stiff. I heard other rough noises and unusual sounds of activity coming out of the fog. We were trespassing on the Howard property for one thing, and I was worried about that as well. I just sat there crouched under that tree the whole time, shivering with irrational fear, while Joe walked several miles to his home, dressed, went to church, walked back home, changed his clothes again, and walked back to the marsh. When he returned it was still foggy and the tide had been coming in for quite a while. And Joe was furious. "Why in the devil didn't you check those traps, you jerk!" he yelled. I didn't even answer him I felt so bad.

After that mishap I decided to give trapping by myself a try. I started trapping both sides of Back Creek, using a collection of steel traps that I bought with the money I had made from working at the Chesapeake Boat Company. I liked it so much that I would get up hours before school to check my traps. Sometimes, if the tide had come in far enough, the rats would drown and be dead before I got there. Many times, if it was freezing, a rat would be just a ball of ice. But often they would be alive, so I’d have to bust them on the nose with a stick. I would take them home and skin them, stretch their hides on a board, and gut their carcasses. They made a fine dinner, gentle reader—dark, red meat that was better than chicken or pork.

One brutally-cold late February day is still vivid in my mind. I had most of my traps set in the leads (tunnels that musket dig) along the banks of the north side of Back Creek, which meant that I had to row my small skiff across the river and a few hundred yards east of where I docked my boat. I remember one morning well. The temperature had been below ten degrees for about two weeks, and on that particular morning the entire width of the river was covered with ice floes about seven to eight inches thick. The ice had been broken by ships and tugs, so some of the floes were stacked upon each other and the whole mass was moving slowly with the tide—crackling, creaking and popping eerily as they drifted.

I couldn’t row because the oars wouldn’t go through the large chunks, so I had to shove the ice away from the bow and push an oar through the ice from the stern to scull across and back. Because of the swift current, I was never able to push in to where the traps were, so I had to lug the boat up onto the ice-covered bank and walk quite a distance. It was dangerous fun but I loved it, in those days when nothing, except home work, seemed to be too much trouble.

Now, don't you know, this muskrat business reminds me of a time when I really messed up as a teenager. I was working at Franz Kappel's Chesapeake Boat Company, and had just stepped on the wharf to go out and check on one of the yachts, when I saw a fresh muskrat lead. It was a dark hole, conspicuous against the snow-covered bank. I could tell that a muskrat had been in there recently, so I thought I would set a trap in there. I jumped down onto the ice-crusted snow and shoved my hand into the hole to see if it had promise. Well, the lead went in about a foot, and as soon as I got my arm in I felt a sharp pain and yanked it out of there. My finger started spouting blood and I realized that a rat had bitten me. So help me, he had chomped down on the tip of the middle finger of my right hand.

         But I had him trapped, so I stopped up the hole with a heavy chunk of ice and went to get Joe, who worked with me there at the boat yard. I grabbed a shovel and Joe grabbed a club and I started digging him out. It only took a couple of shovel loads and out he came. He was a nice, black muskrat, frantically scurrying—slipping and sliding across the ice—trying to reach open water. Joe and I, also slipping and sliding comically on the ice, started whacking at him. I missed him with the shovel and Joe missed him with the club. But after a few swings Joe got him. That was a trophy rat, but I paid the price; there was blood all over the snow—mine and his. I still have the scar on my finger after 65 years. And I’ll show it to you if you ask me; it’s just below my fingernail.