The Trappers' Village (standard:non fiction, 4555 words)
Author: Steve Remington	Added: Sep 23 2003	Views/Reads: 3319/2989	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A true-life, bittersweet story of two men who lived in the Canadian wilderness for 55 years. The nature of their existence stuns the imagination and defies the norms of "everyday life". ENJOY!!

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

evidence of civilization on the lake was a fly-in service just across 
the small bay. The rest of the lake was edged with primeval forest, 
hundreds of large and small islands, inlets, bays all fed by dozens of 
streams but not a solitary sign of civilization. He sternly cautioned 
about animals and being on the lake after dark. His advisory included 
strong suggestions about using the map that he was providing and a 
compass. 

Almost as an afterthought, he said, “Well, there is still a remnant of
society at the extreme north end of the lake” and with his finger, he 
pinpointed a spot more than 25 miles away. Naturally we asked, “What is 
there?” 

He began a verbal description of the spot that he had denoted, a story
that he had learned mostly from his father. Despite his youth (probably 
about 22-23 at that time), he had actually observed the end of the tale 
that I am about to relate. A few of us, myself included, were 
fascinated by what we heard and made a pact that we would go there to 
see it for ourselves before the week was over. Marcel and Pierre were 
natives of rural Quebec and undoubtedly grew up in a wilderness 
environment at the very beginning of the 20th century. World War I gave 
them an opportunity to escape their milieu by joining the Canadian Navy 
where they served their hitch until approximately 1920. Apparently when 
they were leaving the Navy, they learned that they were eligible to be 
granted trapping rights in northern Ontario. These rights were mainly 
for the indigenous people of the region but apparently military 
veterans were included in the eligibility. Realizing that they were 
well-suited for trapping and had become close friends, they applied for 
and received the rights which extended from this lake for 250 miles to 
the north toward the sub-Arctic and Hudson's Bay. 

Armed with their permit, they trekked into the wilderness to begin their
trapping career. It was to last for 55 years! Even as I wrote that last 
sentence, I was awestruck by it. Just pause here and consider what 
happened in the world between 1920 and 1975. When we were there in 
1976, only the road from the rail station connected this entire lake 
with the larger world. It was almost 150 miles by road, most of it 
unpaved, from Armstrong to the nearest large town, Thunder Bay on Lake 
Superior. In fact, that city did not even exist in 1920 and was created 
many years later (about 1965) from the towns of Port Arthur and Fort 
William. No roads existed west, east or north of Caribou. Only isolated 
small hamlets were strewn across the vast wilderness of lakes, rivers 
and forest and they were only accessible by fly-in services. It is 
about 400 miles from Caribou Lake to Polar Bear Provincial Park on the 
southwestern shores of Hudson's Bay. 

To this desolate and lonely setting came these French-Canadians, then
only in their early 20's. It was not known how they even got to their 
ultimate location but it is quite possible that they traversed the 
wilds from Lake Superior on foot to get to their stake although the 
railroad may have crossed the area by then or a logging road may have 
existed. But clearly, once they reached Caribou Lake by any means, they 
had to bring necessities and belongings by boat to their site and very 
probably had to build the boat to do it. 

Once they reached the starting point of their trapping rights, they were
then confronted with the necessity of providing shelter before they 
could even begin their efforts to trap the wild animals that they 
sought. The saga from that point to 1975 is mind-boggling to me and 
always will be. Had I not seen the end results with my own eyes and 
photographed it, it would be difficult to convince anyone that these 
two men existed in this beautiful yet hostile environment for all of 
their adult lives. 

Five of us set out in two boats on a sparkling clear morning a few days
after our arrival in camp. We were all a bit uptight about our 
collective abilities to reach the location - - - a simple “X” on a 
questionable map. We left specific details about our plans with our 
remaining associates and the camp manager. 

Realizing that it was probably a 1½ - 2 hour boat ride one way, if we
made no wrong turns, and concerned by the admonitions that every bend 
of the lake looks like the last one, we packed food and warm clothes. 
We indicated that we would return by supper time that evening but the 
next remark by the manager gave us sobering reflection, “We won't look 
for you after dark and you will just have to pull ashore and bunk with 
the animals”. We added flashlights and more food at that point. 

The boats were slow at top speed and were slowed even more as we began
to edge our way north toward “The Trappers' Village”. We stopped often 
to just reconnoiter, share thoughts and look closely at everything in 
front of us and behind us, since we had to do it in reverse on the 
homebound journey. We even pulled to the shoreline in a few places and 
piled rocks to provide a “blaze” for our watery trail. 

There was no specific route and our worst fear was submerged rocks
and/or shallow bottom that could damage the boat or motor or both. The 
map had no depth marks but a bright sun and a crystal clear lake 
combined to enable us to see shallows or sub-surface rock as we glided 
along. It was occasionally necessary to reverse our course to try 
another channel or another side of an island and it also took total 
concentration since we had to pick the course from the map while trying 
to associate limited map markings (emerging streams, oddly configured 
bays, rapids, etc.) and constantly wondering if we had chosen the right 
path. I was the navigator while one of the guys manned the tiller and 
another served as a lookout, constantly scanning the ever-changing 
shorelines. The other boat had an operator and a lookout for landmarks 
since we only had one map. We rafted together often to discuss our 
progress and settle on, “this channel or that channel?” 

We had no way of knowing how many miles we had traveled and felt that if
we were reading our progress correctly on the map, we had reached “x” 
point - 15 miles, 20 miles.  Much later, when we discussed the entire 
event, everyone agreed that they had a gut feeling of “turn around” at 
various points but nobody ever verbalized their fears. We were in 
unanimous concurrence that we were doing well despite a few “back 
tracks” and we should forge ahead but cautiously. The moose, deer, fox 
and occasional small bear that looked out at us from shallow drinking 
spots along the shoreline were constant reminders of our nocturnal 
companions if we lost our bearings. 

We had brought our fishing gear and planned to fish along the way but
the outbound journey was one of rapt attention to the effort and 
fishing never was considered. All eyes were scanning the shorelines and 
the vastness before us. 

As we slowly traversed a rocky channel next to a small island, we agreed
that we had to be getting very close. Our camp manager had indicated 
that the location was tucked into a small inlet, surrounded by towering 
pines and not easily visible, particularly in morning shadows. Suddenly 
someone in the other boat traveling just off our stern shouted, “Look 
over there!” He pointed to the southeast and in a narrow bay we saw a 
dilapidated wooden dock in the morning sun. We edged the boats in that 
direction very slowly as the rocky bottom was quite visible. Using an 
oar over the side told us that we were in water only 2'-3' deep. 

We were within 300 yards of the dock and rounding a point, overgrown
with pines almost to the shoreline, when suddenly the “village” came 
into view. Shaded by the late morning shadows, the buildings seemed to 
disappear in the sylvan setting. As we inched toward the pier and our 
eyes focused, we began to pick out individual buildings; all painted a 
maroon color with white trim. Even before reaching the dock, we 
marveled at both the number of structures and the apparent quality of 
their construction. 

As we reached the end of the dock and tied up, we realized that there
was a second dock, even more dilapidated, just a few yards away. 
However, it was quickly evident to us that it had been abandoned due to 
declining lake level as the end of it was in water only inches deep and 
80% of it was high and dry. The Frenchmen had obviously had to get to 
deeper water and rather than refurbish and extend the existing dock, 
they opted to build a new one. The “new” one was anything but new and 
was rotting in places. We walked with great caution as we left the 
boats to see the village. 

I will pause here to relate the extraordinary saga of the lives of these
two men who lived a life of almost total isolation from the civilized 
world. Imagine for a moment, a life without electricity, phones, 
automobiles, grocery stores, newspapers, all modern appliances and 
conveniences; a life that requires you to know navigation, carpentry, 
cooking, medical care, hunting, fishing, trapping, animal habits and 
care, construction, sewing, seamanship, survival skills and more; a 
life with just one friend, no neighbors, no human contact. 

I have personally tried for a quarter of a century to imagine such a
life and I still cannot even remotely comprehend their day-to-day, 
year-to-year existence. Every day was just a day without significance. 

Their isolation was not total according to our source. Marcel and Pierre
were, after all, in the business of trapping to obtain furs for sale 
and that process brought them out of the woods on an annual trek to 
Port Arthur to sell the pelts from the animals that they had trapped 
and skinned. They did their own tanning and when the annual journey 
occurred in August each year, they brought their products to market 
partially for sale and partially for barter. 

One must realize that aside from a small garden, hunting, trapping and
fishing for food and logging for timber, they had to transport their 
needs by boat to their almost inaccessible camp. Tools, kerosene, 
canned goods, boat motor gas and oil, clothing, and so much more had to 
be ferried to their homestead at the conclusion of their annual trek 
which apparently lasted for 15-30 days each year. We can surmise, at 
least in later years with the convenience of trucks and the railroad, 
they were probably able to have things shipped to the rail junction for 
pickup but any and all deliveries had to be hauled by boat to their 
camp. Size and weight had to be major considerations. It is reasonably 
safe to say that things got easier for them as the outside world 
mechanized and modernized but their existence was very rudimentary and 
probably very difficult in their first 20-25 years. 

All of these thoughts ran through our heads as we slowly walked from the
dock to the structures that they had built for themselves and their 
needs. Every building brought a revelation and the need for 
contemplation about what we were seeing. 

The buildings were aligned so as to simulate a street. The two most
prominent structures were obviously cabins for daily living but one was 
larger than the other. As we gazed through the windows, the reason for 
the disproportion became clear. While both buildings were identically 
constructed for sleeping, the larger cabin contained the cooking and 
dining facility. A large drum, cut vertically in half and cleverly 
rigged with both a grate and a small makeshift oven set over the coals, 
was the stove. A small but well made table with two handmade chairs was 
the dining area. They shared this larger cabin for meals but lived in 
separate cabins. 

I must pause in this depiction to state that the two trappers had died
in 1975 just about one year before our visit, and the Royal Canadian 
Mounted Police (RCMP) had padlocked the premises. The entire village 
was posted advising no entry into the structures at risk of arrest and 
fine. Thus, all of our views were confined to the exteriors and looks 
through the few windows. Sadly, we learned that the RCMP had offered 
the trap lease but had no takers and, fearful of squatters utilizing 
the land and the buildings, planned to do a controlled burning of the 
village in the ensuing year. It would have made a marvelous little 
museum but with access restricted to occasional visitors by boat, it 
made no economic sense and so a microcosm of two unique lives, lived in 
an incomparable manner, ceased to be in 1977. 

The evocative impact of the scenes through the cabin windows was a sense
that the residents had gone out for the day and would return soon. 
Boots hung from a nail in the ceiling; a coffee pot was on the stove; 
clothing hung on wall hooks beside the beds; a cup and spoon sat on a 
worktable next to the stove. My thought was one of virtual impropriety 
as I looked in on the homes of two deceased people who had inhabited 
this land since 1920. These men had lived out their lives in their own 
Elysian Fields. 

Facing the village from the dock and going left to right was the large
cabin, the other cabin, the outhouse and a storage building (equipment, 
tools, probably pelts). To our extreme right, on a point of land 
jutting into the lake, was a long building, which housed their boats, 
dog sleds, trapping gear and snowmobiles. To the rear of the living 
cabins was an overgrown garden and to the rear of the garden and 
slightly offset near the edge of the forest was a sizable garbage dump 
and compost heap. Adjacent to that area were two tall (40'-50') fir 
trees that had been stripped of their limbs and had a wire stretched 
between the tops of them. We took a long time to analyze the entire 
layout. 

The land had obviously been cleared and enlarged over the years. Since
surrounding lake shore had pristine forest growing right to the water, 
it was safe to surmise that they first had to carve out a treeless plat 
for construction although a portion of the area looked like a meadow 
and we saw no evidence of felled trees or old stumps. The downed trees 
were the raw material for their construction and their efforts over the 
years could be traced by the condition of the stumps. Some were decayed 
and rotting while some still had visible ax cuts and reddish-blond 
coloration in the stumps. It appeared that hundreds of trees were 
toppled over the years for various uses from boat construction to home 
building. 

The other surprising area was the refuse or garbage area. It was one of
the areas that would have been the most revealing had we stayed longer. 
Here, in a pile, were strata that evidenced years of their existence - 
- - rusting cans, old bottles. Close by was a rotting mound of similar 
content. It was their original refuse site, dating back many years. 

The garden was sizable and clearly had been both a labor of love and
bountiful for fresh vegetables in summer and canning ingredients for 
winter. 

The boat house held a surprise for us. We had to wait for a return to
our camp to get answers to things that we observed through the windows. 
Large wooden dog sleds were stored and were beautifully hand crafted. 
They were 8'-10' long with leather dog harnesses visible. Two boats, 
also well built and similar in size and design to the vessels that we 
were using, were stored and motors were in each boat. The shocker was 
two virtually new snowmobiles - one still in a packing crate. Handmade 
cross country skis and snowshoes and many tools (shovels, large tree 
saws, and garden implements) completed the visible inventory. They were 
planners evidenced by the wooden rails and the double doors opening 
directly on to the lake to allow the boats to be easily launched into 
or retrieved from the lake. 

The storage building, like the other buildings, was padlocked and had
just one small window in the rear that only permitted limited light to 
enter which diminished our ability to view the interior. Racks were 
faintly visible, probably for storing pelts, and various size traps 
were in evidence. A few traps hung from the outside eaves near the 
front door. Behind this building in the woods was an earthen and wood 
construction built into a hillside. It was cave-like and empty. We 
speculated that the trappers probably cut ice from the lake in winter 
and stored it here, a common task in wilderness Canada. Large ice 
blocks could easily last for months if protected from sunlight and 
insulated with straw or blankets. This was undoubtedly their 
“refrigerator” for many months of the year. 

The stripped trees with wire stretched between them were “towers” for
their crude radio antenna, which they used infrequently, but in true 
French-Canadian tradition, listened to hockey on cold winter nights. 

The final building brought a smile to all of us. It was clearly the most
commodious commode that any of us had ever seen, “Le Grande Outhouse”. 
This was the only building not secured with a lock for quite obvious 
reasons. It was built as substantially as the other structures and had 
two seats and reading material! We found newspapers and magazines, 
obviously acquired in their annual “marketing” hiatus from their camp. 
We were surprised to find such publications as FORTUNE and POPULAR 
MECHANICS. I took a Sunday magazine supplement from a Port Arthur 
newspaper of October 8, 1960 for a memento of this amazing place. 

The structures in this village were not the only places that these men
built. We learned an even more amazing part of the story from our camp 
manager. Since Marcel and Pierre had trapping rights along a 250-mile 
line, they built outpost cabins at 50-mile intervals. The world was 
barely motorized when they entered the wilderness in 1920, so they 
built impressive dogsleds from scratch and raised the dogs to pull 
them. Since the traps had to be checked in winter and summer, the 
outpost cabins provided shelter from the numbing cold and snow of the 
Canadian winter. The men were so enamored of and proficient with the 
dogs and sleds, they at first resisted the idea of snowmobiles. 
Finally, in the late ‘60's or early 70's and probably bowing to their 
advancing age, they bought two snowmobiles. For reasons that we will 
never know, they abandoned the snowmobiles and returned to the sleds 
without ever opening the crate containing one snowmobile. 

We ambled about the village singly and in pairs, each with our own
thoughts about what we were seeing. Later, when we discussed this 
unprecedented experience among ourselves, we found that each of us was 
both awed and moved by the experience of that day in that primordial 
setting. I took several photographs as I was desirous of recording what 
we were seeing and knowing that it would be nearly impossible to 
document what I had felt as I vainly tried to comprehend how these men 
had lived and worked in this lonely, forsaken yet majestic and 
beautiful place. It is that very thought that has haunted my memory for 
these many years and why I chose to record it now. I think of this 
narrative as homage to two men that I never knew but came to know in a 
very abstract way. 

Still concerned about our safe return to camp, we ended our mesmerizing
sojourn after an hour or so and boarded our boats. I found it 
interesting that, as we pushed away from the dock, all of us were quiet 
and all turned to look back at the setting as it faded from our view. I 
was moved in a way that I could not explain then nor can I now. On one 
hand, I felt that I had invaded the sanctity of someone's home. 
However, from that day to this, I am glad that we made the effort. 

We had an uneventful return trip and actually stopped along the way for
some fishing. Our associates that had stayed behind were so taken by 
our tales that four of us returned the next day. After the second trip, 
we discussed the trappers with the young manager again. We were able to 
learn the bittersweet ending to the lives of these men. 

In the early autumn of 1975, both of the men, then in their early 80's,
made their customary journey to Thunder Bay. While there, one of them 
became ill, was hospitalized and died a few days later. The other one, 
overcome with grief at the loss of his life's companion, returned to 
the lake in late September. He stopped at the camp where we stayed, as 
he had known the owners since they had purchased the camp about twenty 
years earlier (they fed the sled dogs during the trappers' annual 
trip). He told them what had happened and indicated that he could no 
longer live alone at the village and he was going back into his camp to 
collect his dogs, some personal effects and then planned to burn the 
entire village before returning to civilization. 

The camp owners quickly volunteered to accompany him and help with his
figurative and literal closure. He thanked them but emphatically 
declined, saying that he needed to be alone to do what had to be done. 
He indicated that he needed a few weeks but to watch for smoke on the 
horizon which would be a sign that he would be coming out within a day 
or two after the incineration. Respectful of his need to grieve in 
private and to close this long experience in his own way, they honored 
his request, wished him well and watched him motor away toward the 
place that had been his home for 55 years. 

They waited and watched and when three weeks had passed, they became
concerned. In those climes, winter comes early and they feared that an 
early freeze of the lake waters would be ominous. Early ice on the lake 
would affect his ability to motor out or their ability to motor in to 
check on him. Then, they would have no choice but to wait several weeks 
for a hard freeze when the lake ice would support a snowmobile. In the 
face of their concerns and seeing no smoke, they went there in 
mid-October. 

Arriving at the pier, they called for him to avoid surprise. No response
came back. They saw a few of the sled dogs lying in the grass but 
quickly realized that they were dead, apparently from starvation. They 
hurried to the main cabin, observing two more dogs barely moving. As 
they entered, their worse fears were realized. There on the floor was 
the trapper, apparently dead for several days, a victim of old age and 
probably a broken heart. Two of his dogs, also dead, lay against his 
body, faithful to their master to the end. ~ © 


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