Freetrapper D.S. & Durga 2011

The large, low-hanging sun painted the sky in rich shades of orange as he finally reached the cabin. And although it resembled a ripe, unfamiliar fruit and still radiated enough warmth, he would not be deceived by this apparent friendliness. He knew - at this time of year, the color of the sky indicated a strong oncoming wind. And what surprise the wind would bring remained to be seen.

He pushed the heavy wooden bar aside, opened the door, and stepped inside. Everything seemed to be just as it had been many weeks ago when he set out on his rounds of the traps on Blackbear Island. Through the cloudy little window, the sun cast its last fruity-colored ray and painted a bright square on the wooden floor. A curious squirrel peeked through the window from a lower pine branch and then disappeared again.

The dry wood he had prepared before leaving crackled minutes later in the fire. He sat down on the hard bed, grimacing in pain as he took off his jacket and shirt - the bandage around his ribs was dry, the wound no longer bled. From his shoulder bag, he pulled out a decorated wooden jar - a gift from the old Cree woman who had found him and tended to his wound in the past weeks. The salve smelled bitter, of herbs and roots known only to the Cree. He applied some salve to the wound and rewrapped the bandage. It grew dark. Meanwhile, the water set to boil over the fire was ready. A handful of dried herbs in the cup, infused and slowly swelling, released their soothing scent. After the meager evening meal, consisting of two dry flatbreads and the bitter herbal broth, he fed two more logs to the hungry, smoking fire and lay back on his hay-filled mattress, hands behind his head. His gaze wandered over the cabin walls, where the beaver pelts were hung up to dry. This year's catch looked modest. Due to his injury, he would not be able to make up for much. The roughly 65-mile canoe trip down the Albany River to Fort Albany would also be a challenge with his injury. With a few coins that the Hudson's Bay Company pays trappers like him for the many pelts, they would then return to their wintering places before the first snow. Hopefully, the money would at least be enough for ammunition; he could forget about a new rifle for now. Lulled by the crackling of the resin drops in the fire and the mixed scent of smoke, wood, resin, fur, salve, and tea, his thoughts slowed down, and he sank into sleep... He dreamed of a new shiny rifle. Of dancing beaver pelts. In the bright lights of the salons. On the pretty shoulders of ladies and proud heads of gentlemen... And he saw the old Cree woman. She looked at him reproachfully in the eyes.