The Poison Trail

Sports Afield, December 1930

This article, which Sigurd actually wrote in 1928, appeared just as he was beginning research on the timber wolf that he would incorporate into the thesis he would write for his master's degree at the University of Illinois in 1932. Sigurd's research for his thesis—the first scientific study of the wolf—would lead to a dramatic change in his views from those shown in this article.

The man named "Urho" in the article was game warden Urho Salminen. In 1957 Urho, by then long retired, would help Sigurd build the cabin at Listening Point. The two of them are shown at left in a photo taken at the time Sigurd wrote the article.

The magazine added to the article the following introduction:

"The Poison Trail" is timely and will be illuminating to our readers, inasmuch as it shows intimately just how the poisoning campaign is conducted. Ten foxes, one of which was a silver, four wolves and four coyotes are definitely mentioned as bags on this 100-mile "Poison Trail." Mr. Reader, what's your comment on this? Is the price paid for the wolf too high? Could they be trapped in large enough numbers without any harm to the other fur bearers? We would be glad to have your views.—The Editor.

It was New Year's day and a howling northwester, the beginning of a long trek for the trappers, who had spent their holidays in town. The dry powerdered snow whirled and eddied down the smooth beaten path of the dog team trail, leading straight away into the drifting whiteness of Fall Lake. Winton, headquarters for the Superior State Game Refuge and last outpost of civilization, was dropping rapidly behind us. The gale was at our backs and our skis all but flew over the hard brittle crust.

We were bound for the Frazer Lake country: Long Bill, of wolf trapping fame, Urho, his partner, and myself, to make the round of a line of poison bait set out some weeks before; a poison trail, one hundred miles in length. This was but a phase of the warfare between the predatory animal control and the hosts of grey marauders which each year descend from the wilds of Ontario to prey upon the herds of moose and deer across the border. Our trail lay along the eastern boundary through one of the finest big game areas on the continent and incidentally one of the most harassed by the killing packs.

At the end of Fall Lake we left the beaten trail and turned into the timber toward the southeast to make a thirty mile circle on our way toward Camp Twenty Five on Newfound Lake. After leaving the dog team route the going was more difficult for the snow was loose and deep. For a ways we followed a smooth winding creek, a wilderness boulevard, fringed with cat-tail and alder. Then, striking an old tote road, we plunged into a dark swamp of cedar and spruce and here we found our first evidence of game.

Tracks and signs were everywhere, and once we surprised a bunch of four deer feeding on the underbursh beside the trail. Startled, they watched us for a nerve-wracking moment, and then like grey shadows, slipped away into the timber.

Other tracks we saw too, tracks that made us more than anxious to see the first of our poison sets. Following the deer runways, crossing and recrossing our path, were the huge dog-like imprints of the timber wolves. We stopped to examine one much larger than the rest, so broad that I could barely cover it with my closed hand.

"The deer are going to catch it now," spoke Bill. "As soon as the crust forms over all this loose stuff, there is goin' to be trouble."

"Yes," I answered, "and I wouldn't be surprised if they've started their murdering already."

I was breaking trail at the time and while crossing a small frozen pot-hole on the other side of the swamp, discovered the first evidence of their killing, the carcass of a doe dragged down the night before. I waited for Bill and Urho to come up, and together we examined it. What we most feared, had happened. Only the fat of the entrails had been eaten. They were already killing for fun.

"Fed up, are they?" spoke Urho. "What's goin' to happen towards spring if they're startin' that now?"

"There is only one thing that will save the deer now," answered Bill, with emphasis, "and that's to poison every lake this side of the boundary."

We set some scattering baits and pushed on. We soon struck another creek winding and doubling upon itself, until it seemed as though we never would reach its end. All along the stream were signs of beaver dams and houses down its entire length. Signs of starvation there were too, fresh cuttings of birch and poplar, and broad oval trails leading from the air holes up into the brush. Their stored supplies of food were running low.

The creek finally widened out and emptied into a rambling body of water known as Pine Lake, the location of our first poison stations. Naturally, we quickened our stride, for the first bait lay straight ahead, not half a mile from shore.

Urho was now in the lead. As he rounded the first point, he gave a yell and started to run. "There's comething out there," he called back. "Looks like a couple of wolves."

We dug in our sticks and followed him closely. There, sure enough, within fifty feet of the first set, were two mounds drifted over they the snow. We uncovered them hastily and found that instead of wolves they were foxes, one a red and the other a beautiful silver black. Ordinarily, a catch like this would have given us cause to rejoice, but now we were thoughtful and somewhat saddened. We wondered just how costly a toll in fur bearers "The Poison Trail" would take.

But we were after wolves and we scouted around everywhere looking for larger mounds in the snow. An unnatural looking hummock a ways up the lake attracted my attention. I skied over, kicked off the drift, and uncovered an enormous timber wolf frozen solid to the ice. This was more like it, but now our work was cut out, still three miles from camp and a hundred pounds of frozen carcass to be toted in.

We pulled straws for the honor and Urho won. Without even waiting for our congratulations, he tossed the wolf onto his shoulders and was off. Bill and I each picked up a fox and followed, thanking our stars for luck. Our good fortune was short lived, however, for at our next station a mile up the lake, we picked up a couple of coyotes not a stone's throw from the bait. Now there was no choice, honor enough for all, and we each wore a solid fur collar the rest of the way in.

Leaving Pine Lake, we struck into the timber and just at dusk came to our first cabin on the shore of a tiny pond. Dropping our packs was plain luxury and for a while we just sat, enjoying the strange sensation to the utmost.

That night, we strung our animals to the ridge pole to thaw, and next morning skinned them out, throwing the carcasses to the chickadees and whiskey jacks. After breakfast, we headed north toward Newfound Lake. Crossing Moose we picked up another fox and a coyote and here adventure came to us from an unexpected source.

Bill left the trail half way down the lake to look at a trap he had set on a long, finger-like peninsula to our right. He hadn't been gone five minutes before we heard him yell. Leaving our packs, we hurried over to the point, cut into the timber and almost ran over him in our excitement. There he stood with a sprung trap in his hand, repeating over and over again, "Can you beat that, now ain't that the devil?"

"What's the trouble?" I asked, as soon as I could get my breath.

"Trouble," he blurted out, "look what's in this trap. That's trouble enough; twenty miles of trailin' to do, startin' right now."

I stepped over to where he stood, took the trap from his hands and examined it. Held neatly between the sharp steel teeth, was the heel of a timber wolf's foot, torn cleanly from its socket.

"Poor devil," I exclaimed, "he deserves to get away, after going through all that misery."

For twenty feet in every direction the snow and brush was beaten down and blood stained, giving every evidence of a terrific struggle. A bloody three-legged trail led off into the timber toward the point of the peninsula.

At a suggestion from Bill, I slipped again onto the ice and swiftly circled the point to see if the killer was still in the timber. At the very tip, I found what I was looking for. The trail emerged and zigzagged uncertainly toward the mainland. I followed it and noticed that the right front leg was dragging and probably broken.

For a hundred yards, the trail ran straight away and then to my surprise turned and circled back where it disappeared again in the timber of the point. I had just made this discovery, when I heard three shots and a yell, then three more in rapid succession.

When I got back, Bill and Urho were sitting on the ice skinning out a good sized wolf. Urho had stumbled on the crippled beast, shortly after my departure, and had fired the first three shots as it ran through the brush. Then Bill got into action, or rather was forced to, for the wolf bore down upon him, frothing at the mouth and snapping at its wounded leg. The last shot dropped him dead not twenty feet away. I lit a cigarette and watched the skinning with growing satisfaction. Luck was with us. No trailing through the brush and no carcass to be toted in.

It was late afternoon when we pulled into Twenty Five, and not having eaten or rested since daylight we were tired and hungry. The dog team had been there with supplies and the three hundred pounds of chuck they had left looked more than welcome.

That night as we sat before the red-hot heater, I was regaled with story after story of trapping days before the law came to the border, of days when Twenty Five was a rendezvous for outlaws and its smoke-stained rafters had hung heavy with fortunes in smuggled furs. As I sat and listened and watched the play of candle light over our own shining hides, some of the romance of those old days crept into my blood. Even Bill, hardened old woodsman that he was, grew fondly reminiscent. It was ten o-clock before we knew it, and that is late for the woods; so we crawled into our bags, taking our dreams of the past in with us.

Daylight came all too quickly. Urho and I got the stove to toaring while Bill nursed his pan of bubbly sour dough, the pan that never failed or went dry. Pancakes and coffee and we were ready to talk plans. It was quickly decided that Bill should stay, skin out and stretch the fur we had, and comb the surrounding territory, while Urho and I should push on alone to Frazer Lake.

The range to the east was brightening up with streaks of orange and lavender as we shook the snow from our skis and started. It was considerably colder and two rainbow colored sun-dogs rode high on either side of the dawn. The trail for a mile was all down hill and icy and we shot along at breath-taking speed, rounding the turns with reckless abandon. Before we were even warmed up, we slipped through the last fringe of timber onto the smooth ice of Mountain Iron Lake.

Half a mile ahead lay the first narrows, a veritable death-trap for deer. As we drew closer, a game trail could be seen coming down one slope onto the ice and going up the other side. Skirting the edge of the weak ice, we counted four bloated carcasses floating in plain sight underneath the thin transparent crust. One, a young doe, we pulled out and cut off the rancid fat of her back and stomach for bait. The other three we marked for further use.

"Queer," I remarked to Urho as we were leaving, "that those fool deer insist on crossing where the ice is weak. You'd think that they would go down a hundred yards where there is no danger of breaking through."

"Yes, it is queer," he agreed. "They're worse than sheep. Last year, Bill and I blocked up the trail, hopin' they'd detour, but after walkin' clear around the obstruction, they followed the shore and came back to their old tracks to drown themselves. We couldn't figure it out nohow."

The lake stretched eastward for a good five miles, miles of firm wind-rippled snow over which our skis glided with scarcely any effort. At the far end and towering skyward was a rugged range of hills, blocking our passage to Slate Lake. We stopped at several poison stations on the way, but non, as far as we could see, had been molested. At last we reached the portage and started the long climb over the divide. It was killing work in the deep snow with our loaded packs, but not as impossible as it had seemed from the lake and only once were we forced to shoulder our skis.

From the summit the view was well worth the effort. Far below us to the westward stretched the frozen whiteness of Mountain Iron, a broad glistening highway toward Camp Twenty Five.

We left the ridge reluctantly and headed eastward once more. Noon found us in the shelter of a huge rock on Slate Lake, boiling a kettle of tea. While I dug out the bannock and cheese, Urho took a run around the lake. Long before the water had even begun to bubble, I saw him coming back with something on his shoulders. As he came closer, I saw it was another timber wolf as big, if not bigger, than the one we had shot on Moose.

As he dropped it alongside our packs, he mentioned casually that five foxes were waiting for me around the point. Visions of an easy trip to Frazer vanished in smoke and I began to wonder if after all most of the romance of a trapper's life couldn't be translated into plain back-breaking work. As we sat watching the kettle come to a boil, I told Urho the story of the French voyageur who had carried a three hundred pound pack across the Grand Portage on the Pigeon River without stopping to rest.

"And how long was that portage?" he asked again.

"Nine miles," I answered.

Strangely enough, that gave us strength. After lunch, Urho wrapped his hard frost-bitten choker around his neck and started. I followed until I reached the first point and there loaded on the foxes. As I mushed on, I discovered that five frozen foxes with twenty stiff legs jabbing me in the back and ribs wasn't nearly as amusing as I had thought.

On the lakes it wasn't so bad. But on the steep, drifted portages it was a different story; for in addition to the weight of a bulky pack was the added encumbrance of nine-foot skis and sticks. Sliding down was even worse, for no sooner did I gain momentum, then a frozen leg would catch on a branch or sapling. The pack would start to swing, gently at first, then a wild effort to regain my balance, ending usually in a swan dive to the foot of the hill, the heavy pack delivering the coup de grace, as I lit.

We crossed several small lakes and then struck Frzer with its beautifully timbered shores and islands, standing out dark green against the whiteness. For a time, I forgot my load in admiration of the scene before me. Suddenly, I stumbled over something. I was about to go on, when I noticed the tip of a coyote's tail sticking out of the snow.

From then on, scenery was only a blur. I was so heavily loaded, that my skis sank repeatedly through the crust. Urho strode on ahead as though carrying a hundred pound wolf was nothing out of the ordinary and I followed for ages, wondering vaguely how long it would be. At last in the very end of a long spruce-bordered bay, we saw the cabin. That last mile was sheer agony; slip—slide—crunch, slip—slide—crunch, I seemed to be in a treadmill getting nowhere. The moon was rising full and yellow in the rose tinted east before me, and behind me I knew was a sunset, but I was far too absorbed in my work to notice such everyday splendor.

Then before I was aware, we were unloading our packs and shaking the snow from our skis. That night the little cabin was full of thawing wolves and foxes. We had them hanging everywhere, and as their frozen hides began to warm, the perfume they gave off was one never to be forgotten.

The next few days were filled with activity—skins to be stretched and dried, baits to be looked after and reset, and the multitude of little jobs that are always waiting around any trapper's cabin.

It was here that we made the biggest catch of the season. One morning, Urho feeling ambitious, decided to take a run on the lake while I made breakfast. I puttered around for half an hour and had just stepped to the door to yell, "Come and get it," when he staggered up the trail, carrying on his shoulders the biggest, shaggiest looking monster I had ever seen. We carried him into the cabin and strung him to the ridge pole with a chain.

"Where in all creation did you find that?" I asked. "He looks more like an old lion than a wolf."

"And if you had carried him in, you'd have thought he was bigger than that," answered Urho wiping the perspiration from his face.

From tip to tip, he measured wll over seven feet and must have weighted as much as a man. Broad across the head and back and heavily furred, he was as savage a looking brute as one could imagine. Such jaws and teeth, it was little wonder that they could ham-string moose or deer and drag them down.

That afternoon, we picked up a cross fox on a little lake towards Saganaga, and Urho showed me where earlier in the season, shortly after the freeze-up, they had saved a moose from drowning. They had found him half dead, hind quarters broken through the ice and frozen in. After chopping him loose, they had finally hoisted him out with a long pole. But for a full day and night he had lain there, too exhausted by his struggles to move. Then with the return of his strength, he had ambled off slowly into the woods, a sadder but wiser moose.

The next morning, calamity descended upon us, the worst of all catastrophes that can befall a woodsman. Our sour dough batter went bad and our cakes instead of coming out their usual crispy brown were soggy and all but transparent. We tried everything but to no avail. The stuff was dead. I will never forget the look on Urho's face as he sank his teeth into that first anemic cake. Disgust and utter helplessness was written all over him.

"Let's go," we said in almost the same breath, and without further ado, packed our hides and duffle and left. The crust had frozen after the brilliant sunshine of the day before and a heavy frost had covered everything with a blanket of glistening crystals. The trees that morning were marvelous creations of fantastic lace-work and, as we skimmed over the trails, all of our troubles were forgotten.

We made good time and hove into camp by the middle of the afternoon, hungry enough to eat wolf stew. Bill, for some reason, had expected us and had a big pot of mulligan waiting to be dished out. The three of us laid to and cleaned up the entire mess before we had spoken a dozen words.

When I had finished, I pushed back my chair with a sigh of relief, lit my pipe and asked Bill if any excitement had happened during our absence.

"Nothin' much," he drawled. "Picked up a few more wolves and one morning on Mountain Iron, I saw a couple of eagles fightin' over a poisoned fox. I never heard such screechin' in all my life. They sure ripped up that hide before I got there, nothin' left but the head and ears and a few ribbons."

That evening while checking up our hides, Bill reminded me that I was due back on the twelfth and according to our new calendar this was the eleventh. I would have to leave in the morning.

As luck would have it, the clear cold weather came abruptly to an end and out of the southeast came a warm blizzard of soft sticky snow. Before rolling in, we stood in the doorway and watched it come down, white heavy gobs of it dropping out of the darkness. It was a beautiful sight, but when I thought of the twenty-six miles of mushing ahead of me, it was hard to wax sentimental.

We were awake long before daylight. It had stopped snowing, but in front of the door was a foot of loose fluffy stuff that spelled doom to easy travel. Bill's cakes were unuwually good that morning and I'm afraid I lingered over them longer than I should have. I said goodbye reluctantly, slung my pack, and was on my way.

It was slow going at best and frequently I was forced to stop and rub the soft sticky snow from my skis. While crossing Moose Lake early that afternoon, I had what woodsmen term a run of pure fool luck. I was working along slowly watching the trail, when something squawked above me. Stopping, I looked up, and there not a hundred feet above my head, wheeling and circling about, were several black ravens.

Knowing their vulture-like habits was not at all reassuring knowledge and it was not hard to guess what they were waiting for. I was in danger, that I knew, but where to go to get out of it? Taking a chance, I went ahead testing the ice with my stick. I hadn't gone twenty feet before the steel-shod point went through. I stopped dead, hardly daring to breathe, and very carefully slipped one arm from its pack strap, "just in case." Then turning slowly around I pushed on my sticks ever so gently and glided away toward the mainland.

The ice cracked once, but I did not turn to look until I had gone a hundred yards. One glance was enough. Where I had stood a moment before was nothing but black water. The ravens followed me clear to shore and then left, deciding no doubt that it would be yet a little while before I would grace their menu.

It was dark before I hit the end of Fall Lake. As I pushed down the last seven mile stretch, one by one the lights of Winton hove into view. For an hour, they seemed to draw no closer. Then at last, I saw the welcome light of headquarters itself and heard the familiar chorus of husky dogs. Elijah had nothing on me. I too had come out of the sticks, thanks to the squawk of a raven.

Elizabeth Olson with pelts from "The Poison Trail"—photo taken from the late 1927-early 1928 period when Sigurd was working on the article.