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After 70 years of them, I can find little to recommed Januarys. Certainly there are some frolicing-in-the-snow memories, but even those are tainted by the fact that January is the month I lost my first MARBLE'S knife.
Back then, our town ended at the edge of a giant swamp bordered by willow and black birch. For all practical purposes it was a wasteland. But for a boy snaring snow shoe rabbits, it was a happy hunting ground.
I discovered snares in my grandfather's trapping supply catalog and dreamed of following in his footsteps.
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Properly called the Varying Hare, snow shoes change color with the seasons: brown in the summer, white in the winter, and a mix of both in spring and fall. Unlike cottontail rabbits, the big bunnies have no dens and rely on their fast feet and camouflage to protect them.
Runway in early December will be as much as 8 inches deep by mid winter snow, a perfect setup for snaring.
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They have, however, one fatal flaw: they repeatedly run trails that in winter snow become runways as much as 8 inches deep and scarcely 6 inches wide -- perfect places to set snares. The colder it gets, the more bunnies run; their only protection from freezing is to keep moving.
On the run, rabbits land small front feet first (bottom), then swing large hind feet forward (top) and launch themselves as much as 6 feet in a single bound. In the short run, they easily outdistance their predators, but have little stamina and can be overtaken by slower moving but persistant carnivores.
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No one taught me to snare. I stumbled across the idea in an old Oneida Victor trap catalog of my grandfather's. I could not afford to buy ready mades, but I knew I could make my own from picture hanging wire.
Those were more innocent times and I could pull my empty sled across town and into the swamp, pick up my dead frozen rabbits, reset the snares and drag a bunny load home attracting no more attention than if I were hauling firewood. I averaged a carcass a day; four or more were not unusual.
Meat was scarce during WW II and not plentiful until the late 1940s. My contribution was a welcomed addition to the family larder. I hung the rabbits from the ceiling joists in our garage where they stayed unspoiled until my mother wanted one.
Rest stops along trails are not dens, but shelters where bunnies can take a breather before hitting the trail again.
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Snow shoe rabbits are not the tenderest fare. But my mother cooked them as she did all meat, in a stew of unknown ingredients until the whole was reduced to meat and gravy we ate over potatoes or toast. I loved it. Sister Sara loathed it.
I think it had something to do with my gift to her of a lucky rabbit's foot. I had passed them out at school to friends who seemed impressed and pleased. Why not my own sister?
The problem may have been my presentation. "Hold out your hand and shut your eyes and I'll give you a surprise," I told her. Then I plopped the bloody stump into her unsuspecting outstretched hand.
Even at their low points, snow shoe populations are abundant enough to hunt. More than half a million are harvested in Michigan alone. (Courtesy of Michigan Department of Natural Resources)
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She let loose with all the dramatics schooled into the fairer sex: screams of terror, cries of agony, gaggings of disgust, and sobbing pleas to my mother to "Look what Arni did." To this day she introduces me to strangers as, "...my brother the Bunny Strangler."
Otherwise, snaring was rather uneventful. That is, until the day I got more excitement than I could handle. I had just emptied and reset a snare when I heard a car door slam, men's voices and a dog barking. I stood still hoping they would go away.
Then came the dog. A little tail wagging, nose-to-the-ground busy bawling beagle, he stuck his head in my snare, flipped over backward and sat down looking back the way he'd come. His ears were pinned against his neck encircled by the wire.
I was terrified. I ran to him and tried to loosen the wire. The more I tugged the more he lunged, tightening the noose around his neck with every pull. Frantically I grabbed my MARBLE'S knife and began hacking at the branch that anchored the wire until it parted and the chocolate, butterscotch, and vanilla pup, snare and all, ran away. So did I.
Someone put an ad in the paper: "Reward for information leading to the identificiation of the person who snared my rabbit hound..." My father made me answer the ad in person. The dog was OK, but its owner took little pity on me. The fun went out of snaring after that.
The next day I went out and pulled my snares, stuffing them in my pockets in a tangle, knowing I would never use them again. I sat on the sled for a last look around.
Then I saw him, scarcely three steps away, sitting motionless at the base of a birch clump. It was the first time all winter I had seen a live rabbit.
Too young to carry a gun, I had only my MARBLE'S knife. Somehow, throwing it seemed like a good idea. Pinching the blade beween thumb and forefinger, I reared back and flung the weapon at the bunny.
He started at my motion and was long gone before the missile got there. Instead, my prized knife caromed off the birch, skittered into the snow and forever disappeared.
Today the marsh is covered by the Escanaba Country Club's back nine and the municipal airport beyond. There, beneath the north/south runway, entombed in asphalt, lies my first MARBLE'S knife -- ever new, ever perfect, ever faithful. And forever mine.
© 2006 Arni Dunathan
Arni Dunathan is the author of the newly published collector's guide "The Encyclopedia of MARBLE'S Knives and Sporting Collectables." |
