As spring approached, the towering snowdrifts, which had sheltered the huskies and provided refuge from the brutal -50°F to -60°F temperatures, began to melt. I don't have many memories of playing outside during that first winter, perhaps because it was deemed too dangerous for a child my age. Back then, children weren't just bundled up and sent out to play. Dressing a child for the harsh winter, especially in temperatures below -25°F, was a meticulous process. Failure to do so could result in frostbite, a terrifying prospect that could lead to amputation.
Our new home was a far cry from modern conveniences. There were no light switches or indoor plumbing. We children used a bucket, a far cry from the toilets we know today. Older children, aged five and up, had to grab a metal lantern with a storm glass, wick, and coil oil to light their way to the outhouse, a quarter-mile walk through the snow and cold.
During the summer and early fall, the long days and bright nights made lanterns unnecessary. Growing up in the wilderness, our eyes adapted to the changing seasons, except for the occasional snow blindness. The outhouse had two different-sized openings, one for adults and one for children. My first encounter with the icy seat was a memorable experience, one that my mother didn't soon forget.
A few years later, around the age of five or six, I faced a daunting nighttime trip to the outhouse. It was dark, and I was filled with fear of imaginary monsters. My mother, trying to encourage my independence, handed me a lantern and sent me on my way. I froze, paralyzed by fear, as I peered into the darkness. She urged me on, but I was too scared to move.
Finally, I mustered the courage to take a few steps. The moonlight began to illuminate the path, and the outhouse loomed ahead. Just as I was about to reach it, a terrifying roar echoed through the night. I was terrified, and in my fear, I had an accident. I ran back to the house, seeking refuge from the imaginary monster. My mother scolded my brother, who had played the trick, and promised to punish him.
From that day on, I was afraid of the dark. It took many years to overcome this fear. My mother tried to explain that I should have gone sooner, but the damage was done. The incident left a lasting impact on me.
Despite the challenges of winter and the occasional scare, I had a wonderful time with my new family. We played games, told stories, and explored the wilderness. Although my mother would occasionally disappear for a few days, there were always other adults to care for me. The wilderness was a harsh but beautiful place, and I was lucky to have experienced it firsthand.
As the seasons changed and my family's circumstances evolved, so too did my life. The memories of my early years in the wilderness would forever shape who I am.
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My Trapper Mom
AdventureMY TRAPPER MOM Prologue A Canadian Wilderness Odyssey I was born in 1965, a forgotten soul left at Toronto General Hospital. Or perhaps I was taken, snatched away for profit by the Catholic Children's Aid of Toronto. Back then, it was a lucrative...
