As CEO of FurCanada I am thrilled to announce that our very own master furrier and production manager Panagiotis “Panos” Panagiotidis is running a new series of workshops for aspiring designers at our facilities in Nanaimo, BC. Panos has teaching credentials from the Fur School of Kastoria, Greece, and three decades of experience in the fur trade, in Europe and now here in Canada. He is knowledgeable and resourceful, and his skills are beyond measure.

Before I talk about our new workshops, let me tell you about my journey with Panos. It all started In early 2014 when I contacted Professor Pia Blomström of the Centria University of Applied Sciences in Pietarsaari, Finland. She was teaching a wide-range of world-class degrees and workshops designed to further the knowledge and understanding of fur designers and furriers from around the world.

Later that year my partner and I flew to Helsinki to attend a sale by Fur Harvesters Auction held in conjunction with Saga Furs. After the auction concluded, we took the train to northern Finland to meet Pia. We toured the university and fur workshop, and met some of the students and even the mayor. My reasons for meeting with Pia were twofold: to gain knowledge on running workshops, and to seek out one of her students to join us in Canada as a furrier. Our then long-time furrier from Vancouver, Achilles Michoulous, was wanting to retire soon, so I needed to act quickly and find a replacement.

“Is This a Joke?”

After trying unsuccessfully to attract one of her former students, Pia called her good friend at the Royal College of Art in London, Professor Vasilis Kardasis. “There’s this guy,” she explained, meaning me, “who is seeking a furrier to join his team in Western Canada. But he doesn’t manufacture garments. All fur companies produce garments, but not this guy! His main lines are home decor and taxidermy.”

The good professor told her, “Pia, I have the right person for Calvin. I’ll call you in a few days and let you know the results.” The person he had in mind, of course, was Panos, with whom he had created, produced and taught the Greek Summer Fur School program for seven successful years.

Well those “few days” turned into a month or so, because when Vasilis first called Panos, it didn’t go quite as expected! Vasilis thought this position in Canada would be a good opportunity for Panos and his family. But Panos just started to laugh and continued laughing for the next five days! “Is this a joke?” he asked Vasilis. “A trick question? Are you drunk? What’s wrong with this Calvin guy? Doesn’t he know how to advertise for a furrier in Canada? There’s a furrier on every street corner in Canada. Canada is the fur trade!“

But that was only half the joke.

Eventually Panos arrived in Nanaimo to join our team, and for his first two years we hired an apprentice to assist him. The apprentice was shaping up so well, with talent and attention to detail, that Panos wanted to send her to the Summer Fur School in Greece. So he called the powers that be in Europe to discuss the process of sending a young lady as an apprentice furrier to the school. Needless to say, they were shocked by the request and asked Panos if this was a joke! Canada had not produced a furrier in decades, we were told.

It’s not strictly true that Canada has not produced a furrier in decades, but it’s not far wrong. So that’s the whole joke, and it could make a blog post all on its own!

Ultimate Goal

Since Panos arrived in Nanaimo in 2019, we’ve embarked upon producing our 10-day Learning Hub of Education & Design School in conjunction with West Coast Indigenous First Nations, and now we have our new five-day workshop.

We’ve always kept Vancouver Island University, Nanaimo in the loop on our various programs, as they requested, as our ultimate goal is to produce a Bachelor of Business Administration (BBA) degree majoring in fur, located in British Columbia.

Young fur students can then take their degrees and become furriers, fur designers, or marketers of fur products, and take their knowledge and love of fur back to their home communities in rural or urban Canada. They can introduce fur to their friends, family and the general public, one person at a time.

We believe this is an important part of ensuring the future health of Canada’s fur trade. For several decades now, many of us – myself and FurCanada included – have been so busy chasing export sales that we’ve forgotten to pay attention to our domestic market. Our workshops are one of many stepping stones for students to learn how to work with fur and then, hopefully, convince the Canadian public to continue buying home-grown fur products.

Our New Workshop

So here’s what we’re offering in our new workshops:

• Program period: October 2021 to April 2022.
• Duration of each workshop: Five days.
• Class sizes: There are a minimum of three students per class, and a maximum of seven.
• Levels: Students are divided into three skill levels from novice to expert, with no mixing of levels. To help us pick the appropriate level, participants first fill out a questionnaire about their current level of knowledge and skills.
• Skills to be taught include: Treating furs before they can be used, grading, pattern making, cutting with a furrier’s knife, opening skins, repairing damaged skins, blocking, sewing by machine and by hand, and caring for and cleaning the final product.
• Skin types: Students will work with seal, beaver, fox, wild mink, Canadian sable (marten), bobcat and lynx.
• Covid-19 protocols: All participants must be fully vaccinated. Social distancing and other safety protocols are observed.
• Cost: A course costs 892 CAD inclusive of tax, with a 200 CAD deposit due at registration time and the balance payable on arrival. Refreshments and all fur supplies are covered, but accommodation and travel are at the participants’ expense.

If you would like to learn more about our new five-day workshops studying under master furrier Panos Panagiotidis, please visit FurCanada’s website.

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Fur Trade Tales feature real-life stories from real people of the fur trade. This is our third Trapline Tales, but look out for Fur Farm Tales, Furrier Tales, and more to come. If you'd like to contribute, please contact [email protected]

I love reminiscing about the wholesome way of life I experienced growing up in British Columbia on my parents' trapline in the 1960s and '70s. In this instalment of Trapline Tales, I'll introduce an old trapper who played an important part in our lives, even though none of us even know who he was: Greasy Bill.

Our trapline was registered in my father's name only, but rest assured it was every part my mother’s trapline too. Often she was a weekend widow throughout the winter months, but after I left home, both my parents spent many a day on the trapline, and great times they were.

SEE ALSO: Trail-building in the high country. By Calvin Kania for TruthAboutFur.

So one November, Ma and Pa (as they called each other) headed for a trapper's cabin located at the confluence of Grizzly Creek and Greasy Bill Creek to get ready for the season that was upon them. The cabins on Dad's line were built in the 1940s by old-time trappers, this one by a trapper called Greasy Bill.  I'm not sure why he got that nickname, but I can only imagine!

SEE ALSO: Ski Doos and marten scent. By Calvin Kania for TruthAboutFur.

The cabins were small, built from large timbers of western red cedars and roofed by hand-split cedar shakes. They were low-rise structures typically fitted with one window, one door, a table or bench and two chairs, a bed, and a wood-burning stove. Flooring was made of wood planks, and a large overhang extended out the front of the porch to keep the firewood dry and to provide a place to hang furs while they were drying. Furs were also dried inside the cabins, but sometimes the ol' wood stove would be pumping out so much heat the furs could dry too fast.

My father liked getting out in November for beaver trapping so he would have marten bait later in the season. For the beaver trapping, he would take the truck back out of Grizzly Creek and head up into the main valley of Koch Creek to a place called Camp Eleven, an old logging camp of the 1940s. Just down the road at Camp 10, which was the main logging camp, is where David Suzuki’s father almost lost his life in an avalanche. My father's trapline has a lot of colourful history. You could never see any beaver activity from the upper road, but once you got down into the main creek, there was beaver logging everywhere.

At the end of their beaver trapping day, my parents settled into their evening of playing a couple of card games, probably whist or pinochle as that’s what we grew up with, and a shot of rye whiskey was course for the evening. It being November, the rains started to fall, the fog rolled into the narrow valleys and a dampness set in, but with the wood stove burning, Greasy Bill's cabin was toasty warm.

Wood is the best heat as it’s the most comfortable. My home on the west coast is electric baseboard as back up, but I have wood-burning stove inserts upstairs and downstairs. If it gets too warm, I just open the doors to outside and don’t feel the least bit guilty.

As my parents' evening of playing cards came to an end, they settled into bed. The coal oil lantern was turned off and left on the kitchen table across the room. It was pitch black. My father could not see his own hand in front of his face. As he was getting comfortable, my mother was already sound asleep and blowing the horn. He chuckled to himself, lying thinking about what and where wolverine and lynx cubbies he was going to build over the next few days. Then he realized that darned wood stove was pumping out the heat again, so much so that he reached over and unlatched the door to the cabin, which slowly opened and a coolness wafted in. 

Mystery Visitor

He was lying there thinking of tomorrow when all of a sudden he heard footsteps - four of them. It was right there beside the bed, beside him. It took a few sniffs, walked into the cabin, and sniffed around some more.

My father lay there, thinking out loud in a whisper, “Coal oil lantern on the kitchen table, flashlight on the cupboard bench, rifle standing in the corner on the other side of the room. Hmmm, what now?"

He thought, “The nearest light is the pack of matches in my pants pocket at the end of the bed. Any slight move is going to spook or provoke this animal in perhaps not a good way. What do I do?"

It was either a lynx, wolverine, coyote, bobcat or young black bear. Its footsteps were heavy enough to be any of those. He was anxious to see what it was that so innocently entered the cabin, but if he made a dash across the floor to the flashlight on the bench, there was a good possibility of a mid-room collision. Nah, not a good idea.

He had to be quick, so the matches at the end of the bed were his best bet. He abruptly sat up, grabbed his pants, twisted them upside down, right side up, fumbled for the matches, only to find they were a bit damp and didn’t want to light right away. At the same time the four-legged creature made a quick exit out the cabin door and into the darkness.

While all this commotion was taking place, my mother snorted lightly a couple of times, woke up, and in a groggy voice said, “Huh, what’s going on?” My father replied, “Ahh nothing, I’ll tell you in the morning.”

It being November and the rains upon them, snow had not quite reached the cabin area, so there weren't any tracks to look for in the morning. The mystery animal will be a mystery forever.

Changing Times

They were great times. Everyone was accepting of the lifestyle, and the Hudson’s Bay Company (HBC) ruled the fur market in Canada from buying trappers' fur pelts to selling fur garments in their department stores from Victoria to Halifax. Although HBC Point Claire Quebec Auction House did have competition from rivals Dominion Soudak in Winnipeg, Ontario Trappers Fur Auction in North Bay, and Ted Pappas at Western Canadian Fur Auction Sales in Vancouver, they still ran the show. Oh, how times have changed.

Today, I find myself criss-crossing China and other parts of the globe searching out markets for our furs. We have to, as many Canadians no longer understand our trapping heritage. That’s right, our fur trapping heritage.

Canada does have a unique fur-trapping culture which is one of the building blocks of our nation, but it seems that many Canadians are ashamed of it. I will probably take flak for this, but much of the blame lies squarely at the feet of the Canadian fur industry as we allowed this to happen. Companies like Canada Goose should receive the Order of Canada for promoting fur to Canadians. Instead, they’re scapegoated by animal-rights terrorists and an ill-informed public. There is nothing more natural than fur.

SEE ALSO: 5 reasons why PETA won't make me ditch my Canada Goose. By Alan Herscovici, TruthAboutFur.

Canada is the leading nation when it comes to international trapping standards. We are signatories to the Agreement on International Humane Trapping Standards (AIHTS). I sat on that committee in the early years when Canada was forced to adopt trap standards in order to meet European Union legislation on the importation of wild fur.

Sharing the Land

Speaking of the changing world, I want to share a story with all trappers across Canada. Be very aware of your trapping rights. It’s your heritage and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

You have to protect yourself against the possibility that, despite following all proper procedures, a domestic animal or pet could unfortunately be captured or harmed. With modern trapping standards this doesn't happen often, but it can happen. I cannot reiterate enough the importance of having liability insurance on your trapline to cover any eventuality.

Be very aware of your trapping rights. It’s your heritage and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

This past winter we found ourselves in a difficult situation. My assistant on the trapline accidentally caught a pet dog in a bobcat set. He was cleared of any wrongdoing by the Provincial Conservation Officer Services; he had followed the law and proper procedures to the letter. My trapline is on Crown Land as all Registered Traplines are in British Columbia. It's also on Sinixt First Nation Traditional Territory for which I sought permission to be on and was granted permission. However, after a few months we were served with a civil lawsuit by the pet owners in the Supreme Court of British Columbia in Vancouver.  

As more city people move into rural areas, the potential for problems increases and trappers are doing what they can to avoid conflicts. For the 2019/20 season, for example, all Registered Traplines across British Columbia will be posted with "Active Trapline" notifications. The BC Trappers Association is working with the Ministry of Forests, Lands, Natural Resource Operations and Rural Development in rolling out this program.  

I would also urge fellow trappers to consider posting a notice in your local paper, advising the public about trapping seasons and reminding them of the importance of keeping dogs on-leash - for the welfare of ground-nesting birds and prevention of harassment to other wildlife, and reminding the public about their own responsibilities in the woods.

Trappers also need to put your local Conservation Officer Services on notice that you expect them to enforce the law under the Wildlife Act and lay charges against anyone interfering with legally set traps. If you are worried about interference, trail cams can help to document unlawful acts.

As for our lawsuit we have reached an agreement with the plaintiffs in which the details are locked up in a confidential contract and cannot be disclosed.

Return to Greasy Bill Creek

My father passed away in November 2015, on his 97th birthday. A few days before he died, I took my mother to visit him at the seniors home, she knelt down beside his bed and asked, “Well Pa, do you have any regrets?” "No Ma, I don’t," he replied."We did everything we wanted to do in life and more. Heck, we pretty much outlived all our friends. What about you Ma?” She answered, "No Pa, none."

The service for my father was two weeks later, family and friends attended from far and wide. Through the whole ordeal and for several months after, I never once saw my mother mourn or grieve. Was it shock? Or was it just because they had been together so many years and it was time to go?

The following summer the family arranged a week-long gathering to celebrate my father's life.  The whole family - children and spouses, grandchildren and great grandchildren, uncles, aunts, cousins, in-laws and out-laws - converged on the family homestead. A celebration it was!

We arranged one of our favourite family outings, heading to Greasy Bill Creek for a fish fry. Kids and adults were fitted with fishing licences, fly rods and flies, and were dispersed in all directions up and down both creeks to catch lunch, with instructions to return by 1 p.m. As we approached Greasy Bill's old cabin, we found it had seen better days. A large hemlock next to the creek had decided to lay its timber across the roof of the shack, and it had caved. But the door was still upright, and above the doorway a sign read, "Trappers Cabin, please respect it and keep door closed. Ed Kania - Trapper".

As soon as my mother read that, was the moment she broke down and grieved and mourned. It was then and there that took her back to those marvellous days on the trapline with a man she had married 72 years earlier.

Welcome to Fur Trade Tales, our series of real-life stories from real people of the fur trade. This is our second Trapline Tales, but look out for Fur Farm Tales, Furrier Tales, and more to come. If you'd like to contribute, please let us know at [email protected]

As a teenager growing up in the Selkirk Mountains of British Columbia, trapping with my father in the high country was exciting and fun. He taught me to respect the animals we trapped because they gave their lives for our livelihood. For him, it wasn't how many he caught, but how he caught them and in particular how humanely he could do so. He felt there had to be better methods of trapping and better tools than were on the market.

SEE ALSO: Trapline Tales: Ski doos and marten scent. By Calvin Kania.

While Dad pursued his dream of making a better mouse trap, I was more inclined to pursue the next marten or muskrat. I loved marten-trapping because we did it in the high alpine country. It was always a struggle to get there in January, with the steep inclines of the logging roads and the fresh powder snow, but it was worth it – pristine country, brisk, fresh, pure white and untouched, under a clear blue sky. We would find a big ole spruce or hemlock tree with the boughs drooping down to create shelter from the five feet of snow that lay around, then under the tree we'd build a fire and make a pot of tea.

But make no mistake, trapping in the high country is anything but easy. As you will hear in the tale I'm about to tell, it requires perseverance and stubborness.

One Sunday in the summer of 1974, when I was 15, my parents and I headed up Airy Creek, a pristine area we had not trapped for five years, for berry picking and a fish fry. Picking berries has always been one of Mum's favourite things, and along the way her eagle eyes were hard at work. "Stop the truck," she cried. "I see some huckleberries!"

Now a few years earlier, she'd wanted to pick wild strawberries and dragged me along to help because that's what kids were for in those days. Do you have any idea how small wild strawberries are? About the size of a small button on my golf shirt. So imagine how long it took to fill an ice cream pale. All day. So when Mum got excited about picking those huckleberries on her own, we stopped the truck right away. "Yep, no problem Mum! Way you go! See you later!"

Fish Fry

Dad and I then ventured on up the old logging road until we came to a spot where a bridge used to be. The timber company had not logged here since 1970, so they hadn't kept up with road and bridge maintenance. Most logging roads in British Columbia are "de-activated" if the logging company is not intending to log the area again for some time, and with the total loss of this bridge, you could definitely say it was de-activated. The creeks here are not that big to traverse, but big enough to keep our truck and snowmobiles out when there's no bridge. Anyway, Dad decided if we were going to trap into the head end of Airy Creek, we needed to find a way to cross it come winter time.

Since it snows very heavily in the Selkirk Mountains, it wouldn’t take much to make a bridge to hold a snowmobile. So we got busy cutting three good-size hemlock trees and fell them across the creek side by side. We then winched them up onto the road bed on both sides of the creek, and cabled them to some larger trees on the bank.

By this time it was getting late in the afternoon and Mum finally caught up to us with her bucket of freshly picked huckleberries. She looked around and asked where the fish were. "In the creek," says Dad. "Are they cleaned yet?" "No, they're still swimming around." "Boy," she says, "I send you two up here to catch some fish for supper and you're fooling around with logs. Don’t you get enough of that around the farm? If I have to do your work and mine, so be it." And off she went with her fly rod.

About an hour later she emerged with a few trout and saw no fire or tea pail boiling. Yep, we dropped everything in an instant and got on that fire and cleaned the fish!

Let me tell you, there is nothing better than a fish fry on an open fire on a beautiful summer afternoon. The fire is ready, the black cast-iron pan is hot, and half a pound of butter is thrown in to melt. The fish are gently laid in the pan, but before you know it, they curl up so fast. With fresh home-baked bread, tartar sauce, fresh cucumbers and tomatoes from the garden, those little trout tasted so good with our freshly boiled tea.

The day came to an end and we were all full of Mother Nature's bounty.

Bridge-Building

That fall, Dad and I drove up to check on our bridge, hauling along some 1x4 wood planks Dad had sawn up on his portable sawmill. The three timbers were still in place, and we laid the planks across them so they looked like a railroad track.

But those planks were still two feet apart from each other, so we spread some hemlock boughs across them. In this high country in winter, the snow falls gently in big flakes and accumulates very quickly. By the time we were ready to trap, there would be four feet of snow piled up on that makeshift bridge, and our snowmobiles would have no problem crossing.

We never trapped the high country until after Christmas. Snow in December came hard and fast, accumulating at two or three feet a week, and that made it almost impossible to break trail to check the line every few days. So we usually left it until mid-January when the snow eased up, started to settle, and gave us a good base to travel on.

Trapping Time

January was now here and it was time to trap some marten, lynx and wolverine up Airy Creek. I was so excited as we got our gear together – traps, bait, hatchets, nails, snowshoes, extra gas, and a sled to pull our supplies.

And for goodness sakes, we couldn’t forget our eau du toilet marten call scent (see recipe here). After all Mum had endured during our creation of this fine call scent, we'd darn well better not forget it! It was such a wonderful scent that it was stored in a quart jar with a lid and a very stiff 12-inch metal wire handle wrapped around the base of the lid for carrying. Even us trappers didn’t want to get any of it on our mitts or clothes!

With both snowmobiles mounted on the trailer – our vintage Bombardier and the newer Ski Doo Elan – and all the supplies loaded up, we started the truck and headed down the road. We reached our destination within half an hour because the logging company had kept the main road open. There we unloaded our equipment, fired up the snowmobiles and off we went, breaking trail over the old logging road.

It was pretty easy at this point as most of the road bed was level. Then we started to climb, and the machines slowed as we were now pushing snow, but we finally reached our bridge without having to break out the snow shoes.

"Wow! Look at that bridge!" I yelled. It was a thing of beauty. At least four feet of snow was piled up on it and it had a bow in it, but not to worry, Dad said. We got out the snow shoes and carefully walked across, packing the snow so it would be easy for the snowmobiles to cross.

Dad went first with the Bombardier. It was smaller and lighter than the Ski Doo so it could stay on top of the snow better and was easier to break trail with. He fired it up, gunned it, and was across in no time.

Now it was my turn, and I was pulling the sled. "Don’t go so fast," warned Dad. "If the sled slips off the bridge, you’ll be going with it into the creek." Oh gee thanks, wasn’t that something to look forward to! I was also scared of heights even at that early age. "Don’t look down," he said, "just straight ahead. When you get to this side you can gun it 'cause we have a steep hill ahead and we need as much traction as we can get before we bog down."

I let him get a couple hundred yards past the bridge before I started across. "Don't look down!" I kept telling myself, and lo and behold, I was across and feeling exhilarated. Now the work begins, I thought, because I knew those snow shoes were going to get a good workout breaking trail further up.

My machine was doing well because I was following in Dad's broken trail. He was already out of sight around the first bend because we were not to stop. We were gaining elevation fast and had to break as much trail as we could. Then I came around the next bend and there he was, stopped! What the !? We hadn’t gone a quarter of a mile. "What happened to the road?" I asked. "There isn't any," he replied. "It's down there at the bottom of the creek."

Mega Project

All of our summer work, gone in a flash. There it was, no road, for all to see. Over the years since the timber company last logged there, one spring the creek must have been high and washed 100 yards of road entirely away. All that was left was a barren hillside of sand and gravel with a drop of 300 feet to the creek below. "Now what?" I asked. "I guess we just start building a makeshift trail across the hillside along the bank," Dad said.

Well, if you think the bridge-building was a project, this was going to be a mega project. But first we had to build a trail under the trees that came off the hillside and piled up on this side of the road where it ended in mid-air. Of course it would have been a whole lot easier to have checked out this road last summer before we went to all the trouble of building a bridge.

It took us all day to build a trail across that embankment. It was a good thing we always carried a snow shovel, and Dad knew a few things about road-building having worked on the Alaska Highway during World War II.

We decided to break some more trail before daylight ran out, but we'd only gone another half mile when I'll be darned if we didn’t hit another washed-away road. We shook our heads in bewilderment. "We've come this far and done this much work," said Dad. "There's no turning back now. We’ll just come up tomorrow and work on this section."

Well, we eventually found our way to the head of Airy Creek, and that winter caught 35 marten, two lynx and three wolverine. There were remnants of old logging camps scattered about, some going back to the 1940s, and an old collapsed cookhouse and bunk house were great locations for our lynx sets. No more washed-out roads, and our bridge held up through the season.

We did it for income, of course, and it helped that Dad knew how to stretch a penny. But we also did it for the love of trapping, and for simply being out there. And we couldn't have done any of it without Dad's perseverance and stubborness, qualities which he passed on to me and which have helped me survive close to 50 years in the fur trade.

Welcome to Fur Trade Tales, our new series of real-life stories from real people of the fur trade. We kick off with our first Trapline Tales, but look out for Fur Farm Tales, Furrier Tales, and more to come. If you'd like to contribute, please let us know at [email protected]

Everyone in the fur trade has tales to tell, and I am honoured that Alan Herscovici – the creator of Truth About Fur – thinks mine are worthy of launching Trapline Tales. It’s the least I can do. Alan has devoted his working life to the trade, sometimes at great personal cost, and has been a passionate spokesperson to the media on behalf of us all. We owe him a great debt of gratitude.

Today I run a company called Fur Canada, making a range of fur products, museum-quality taxidermy specimens, and traps, but my journey in the fur trade began long ago, in a place called the West Kootenay, in British Columbia. I grew up there in the 1960s and '70s, and it had to be the best childhood any kid could experience. With my parents and siblings, I learned the ways of living off the land. We grew every kind of vegetable, had milk cows, chickens, horses and beef cattle, and in winter I would assist my father on his fur trapline.

Snowmobiles – and a Missed Opportunity

Every weekend during winter was a new experience. My father's trapline was 100 kilometres long, and it took us five years just to rotate every corner of it. In 1963, we also acquired the area's first snowmobile.

One day my mother and I were shopping in Nelson when I spotted a parked truck with two big, yellow snow-plowing machines on a trailer. "What are they?" my mother inquired of the gentleman attending them, who happened to be a distributor. He graciously explained how they worked and their advantages over snowshoeing. He called them "snowmobiles", and they were made by a Quebec company called Bombardier. She said her husband was a trapper and might be interested in one, so he followed us home. My father quickly took a liking to these machines, and since it was late, invited the gentleman to stay the night.

Next morning, my older brothers and father road-tested the machines, and by lunchtime the deal was made. We were the proud owners of a brand new Bombardier snowmobile! I still have it to this day, and one day will restore it to its original state.

During that winter and the next, the gentleman made follow-up visits in case repairs were needed. He was very impressed with my father and his success with the machine, because within that first winter, he had contracts with the power company and timber company to check on their power lines and spar tree equipment that was inaccessible in the back country.

On one of his visits he told my father that he was the sole distributor for Alberta and British Columbia, and the territory was now more than he could handle. Would my father like to take over the distributorship for BC? My father pondered for a moment and could only envision the excessive work ahead in promoting, selling and servicing the product during the trapping season – the most important part of the year for him. His answer was an emphatic "No!" I'm not sure he gave much thought to setting up his two teenage sons and me, then just six years old, in the snowmobile business, as fur trapping was his passion. You could say, there was a great missed opportunity for the family, as hindsight is always 20/20.

Breaking Trail

A few years later my father purchased another snowmobile. At this point Bombardier was selling them under the brand name Ski Doo, and our new Ski Doo was called an Olympic.

At 10 years old, I was operating our original Bombardier and my father ran the Olympic, because it was much bigger and heavier. We were trapping in the high Selkirk Mountains, so it was common to get 40-60 centimetres of snow in a week. He would break trail and I would follow. When the snow became too deep and the machines bogged down, out came the snowshoes and I would start breaking trail one step at a time. In that deep, fluffy snow it was difficult, so I would only go about 300 metres and return to the snowmobile. I would get it unstuck, fire it up and away I went. Straddling my freshly broken snowshoe trail, I would get the machine up to full speed until that ole Bombardier hit the virgin snow, go 20 metres and come to a stop, stuck again. Out came the snowshoes and the process started all over again.

Many a Saturdays were spent breaking trail. We would return the following day to set traps. Then a few days later return to check the traps. This kind of fun went on from December to the end of February, when the high-country trapping season ended.

Stinking Rotten Scent

In the summer there was no trapping, of course, but it was still on our minds, and one of the highlights was making call scent for marten. There were two goals. First, it should not freeze. And second, it should be a stinking rotten scent, and the hot summer weather was perfect for this.

Here's how we did it:

1. Take 10-20 mink scent glands, and 10 complete beaver castor glands. Chop and mash them into a fine paste, then place in a glass gallon jar.
2. Add 2 cups of herring fish roe.
3. Add 1 litre of fish oil – herring or salmon works great.
4. Stir ingredients until fully mixed.
5. Place the jar atop the roof in full sun with a light lid cover.
6. Every 30 days give ingredients a stir.
7. After 90 days, remove the jar from the roof and secure with a tight lid until trapping season starts.

During the summer, our recipe would cook and percolate on the roof. It was one of those odours that had to be acquired in order to appreciate the effort that went into making this eau du toilet scent.

All trappers understood the value and creativity of such a fine call scent and its importance in trapping marten. My mother, on the other hand, did not have the same appreciation for our efforts. She had a few choice words for us during those hot spells when she was hosting summer garden parties and the marten eau du toilet scent would waft its way down from the roof top and into the party.

Parting Shots

• Shame on provincial governments! Shame on Air Canada! Canada has a free trade agreement with the USA, Mexico, Korea and others, but we don’t have free trade and free flow of goods within our own country! And can you imagine? Our national airline has an embargo on a wildlife species that the Inuit people of the Canadian Arctic legally harvest for sustenance!

• Sorry Mum! The first critters my father trapped, back in the 1920s, were skunks, when their fur was highly prized. He always joked that his wedding day, November 10, was also the first day of the skunk-trapping season. He told that joke for 72 years until he passed away on his 97th birthday. My mother did not quite see the humour. She says the joke wore off after the first five years.

• Squirrel surprise. When I was about 10, a chum and I ventured into the realm of squirrel cuisine. After hours setting up a spot in the woods, including a makeshift rotisserie, finding dry wood in three feet of snow with wet matches, smudge smoke in our eyes, wet clothes and cold feet, we were ready. We skinned and eviscerated that little critter, then stuffed it with hazelnuts and roasted it over an open fire. Surely this would be a mouth-watering meal, the best-tasting squirrel ever! Well, let's just say that it sounded better than it turned out. It was several more years before I ventured back into the fine cuisine of squirrel cooking.

SEE ALSO: Top 5 tasty furbearers: Muskrat stew and more

• Name-dropping. Among the many products my company makes are coyote fur collars for parkas, and one of our clients has an impeccable pedigree: Amundsen Sports of Norway. The name rings a bell, right? CEO Jorgen Amundsen is carrying on a family tradition of adventurers started by his great uncle, Roald Amundsen, the first man to set foot on the South Pole in 1911!