Trapper Dave's Prank

It is not easy being the strapping young ten-year-old out in the woods with two grown men.  When you are ten, there are lots of things to learn and much teasing to take from the old guys.  They take you on snipe hunts, make you carry the cast iron skillet, and in every way make your life a misery.  But any ten year old boy would agree that even the worst humiliating prank is preferable to sitting in fifth grade listening to Mrs. Peabody try to teach you fractions or grammar.

The thing about ten year olds, is that they soon grow up and turn into old men themselves, full of pranks to play on the unsuspecting.  Trapper Dave was just such a ten year old who had turned into a seasoned Veteran of Great Pranks. But back when he was ten, he wasn’t Trapper Dave, he was just little Dave P.  Dave’s dad promised him a fall hunt, and they headed off to a great little hunting cabin that Dad and his brother Uncle Basil had built.  Well, “built” was perhaps an exaggeration.  “Constructed” wasn’t even quite right, and if you had been paying attention in Mrs. Peabody’s class you might be able to come up with adjectives like “fabricated” and “slapdash”. 

Whether or not little Dave paid attention back then has yet to be determined, as this story is not about Mrs. Peabody’s classroom.  “Slapdash” will do to describe Mr. P’s hunting cabin.  And “cabin” is far too grandiose a term.  Hut or shack won’t even do, for it was merely a pole held up by ropes stretched between a big T-pole on one side and a stake on the other.  Suspended from the poles was simple black plastic.  The door was canvas, in one corner was a bed where Mr. P slept.  Uncle Basil and Trapper Dave slept on the floor.  They had a small pot belly stove in one corner. 

In a hunting tent at night there was very little to do, except sit by the warm stove.  The main entertainment was to set mouse traps, then watch the ensuing entrapment of the miniature camp robbers.  After 10 had been trapped, it was bedtime.  Sometimes bedtime came mighty early, other times, not until midnight.  You could bet on what hour it when ten mice had been caught.  At that point, the Coleman lamp was turned out, and pitch blackness would descend.

It is difficult for those who haven’t been out in the woods to understand the correlation between blackness and night sounds.  The darker the night, the louder the sounds.  A ripping man-fart in a tent on a pitch black night is nearly inaudible compared to a snapping stick or rustling leaves.  A deer tiptoeing through camp booms like Dolby surround sound.  A chipmunk scurrying across a forgotten tarp is thundering.  Each noise rivets attention from ten-year-olds that Mrs. Peabody the fifth grade teacher could never in her wildest dreams command.

Dave could hear snoring certainly, but something else caused him to freeze and hold his breath.  Something was snuffling.  Something large.  Larger than a boar.  Very large.  L-A-R-G-E!  The snuffler sniffed and poked at the plastic right beside Dave, and then rustled along the plastic siding towards the piece of canvas that served as a door.

There was no food in the hut.  The men practiced clean camping and had hung all the food in a garbage bin, suspended from a rope, but animals can be curious.

“Uncle Basil, wake up, there’s a bear!” whispered Dave.

“Mmmmph.”

“Uncle Basil, there’s a bear!”

“Ha, ha, I’ll bet.”

“No, really!  Listen.”

It couldn’t be denied there was something sniffing the plastic sides of the tent.

“Aw, go back to sleep, it’s a raccoon,” yawned Uncle Basil.

“No Uncle Basil, it’s a bear, and he’s going to come in.”

By this time Uncle Basil had deigned to raise up on one elbow and determined that there was indeed something present just outside the door.  At that point, a bonafide bear poked its head through the canvas door.  Uncle Basil flicked his powerful flashlight on right in the bear’s eyes, blinding as well as scaring it, so that the bear took off and plowed right into the T-pole where the rope holding up the hut was tied.  Down came the pole, followed by the whole hunting shack, waking Mr. P in a spasm of questions simultaneously addressed to both heaven and hell.

Uncle Basil, swathed in plastic, was laughing his head off.  Trapper Dave batted off plastic and tried to get out before the bear dragged the whole hut down the hill.  When the dust cleared, Mr. P. did not believe there was any bear involved.  He was pretty sure that he’d had a prank played on him, in spite of Uncle Basil and Trapper Dave both insisting it was a bear.

Of course, since Trapper Dave himself told me this story, I’m not so sure a prank hasn’t been played on me, believing such a tale.  Trapper Dave is sitting by the fire right now chuckling to himself, and I’m pretty sure that twinkle was aimed at me.  He’d better be careful though, he knows not with whom he deals.  I paid attention in Mrs. Peabody’s class and can come up with adjectives.