that big."
Telford stood up. He studied the prints, then raised his head to look off ahead and right. "I'd bet he crossed that footbridge up there and went back toward those loblollies." He nodded that way.
The tall yellow pines, topped at about a hundred and fifty feet by rounded domes, stuck up on the west horizon a quarter mile away. Crossing the footbridge, they followed the dust traces.
"Look where they've chewed the bridge. This has to be a common route for them."
May through July were mating months, and the males staked out territories. Soon Telford pointed at one tall loblolly. The flat red ridges of bark, separated by deep furrows, had been chewed and rubbed on. Dried white sap streaked the lower trunk.
"He's left some hair as advertisement."
"Well, where is he?" Chip asked, scanning in a circle.
"He's not about to tell us. Let's go back to the truck."
Since seven o'clock, when they'd rendezvoused across the lake, Chip had been happier than he could ever remember. Here he was, for
once
doing something useful and unusual. But he was also worried that he might fail, not having worked very often during the past three years. For four months after the last skin graft he didn't even leave the house except at night. His grandfather had arranged a job programming computers for a Columbus insurance agency, working at home. This job with Telford was perfect; it was fun, and he didn't have to appear in publicâshow his face. He could stay safely hidden in the bogs and marshes.
Please, God, don't let me screw up,
he said to himself.
Please, God....
The weather was beautiful over the coastal plain, sky cornflower blue, sun lancing down through the trees, warm, light wind ruffling the trail grass as they moved toward the footbridge over the rush-lined ditch.
Chip, limping along on a gimpy left leg, pushed himself to keep up with the long-legged man. He was pleased that Telford was making no allowance for knee damage. There was nothing he hated worse than those looks or gestures or words of sympathy. He could cope just fine, even run a little in an awkward way. Cope just fine.
Returning to the chewed-up loblolly, equipment in their backpacks, they unloaded, then Telford began to set up the snare.
"You can use a snare or a culvert trap, a steel barrel with a door on one end that drops down after the bear goes in to eat the bait. I prefer this spring-activated snare. Better than lugging the culverts around. Okay, find me some small logs and sticks. Branches a couple of feet in length, sticks about pencil sizeâa few inches long."
Plenty were on the ground in the yellow pine grove.
By the time Chip had rounded up a small pile of wood, Telford had laid out the three-sixteenth steel cable, commonly used in aircraft controls.
"Strip the dead stuff off those branches," Telford instructed. "We'll arrange them in a V-fashion out from the trunk and then put the bait at the point where the V closes...."
They'd backpacked in several pounds of stale cinnamon buns.
"Pretty simple, eh?" said Telford, as he straightened up from looping the cable around the loblolly. "Now, let's do the V. Start it about two feet from the trunk."
"Won't that cable hurt the bear?" Chip asked.
Telford shook his head. "Old-fashioned leg-hold traps did hurt. Some states have banned 'em. This'll just hold him in place by a forepaw."
Soon, the five-foot V was formed, and then the working end of the snare was laid down. "Like humans, they don't like to walk on small sticks in their bare feet, so we'll place 'stepping sticks' around the
loop to limit the area and make him put his paws down where we want him to, right on the trigger."
Chip carried the sticks over and watched as Telford arranged them.
"Okay, trigger next. Well hide it under pine needles, test it. If it works okay, we'll set the bait, then come back tomorrow morning to see if we've caught ourselves a live Carolina black."
They finished the snare in another twenty minutes,
Telford stood up. He studied the prints, then raised his head to look off ahead and right. "I'd bet he crossed that footbridge up there and went back toward those loblollies." He nodded that way.
The tall yellow pines, topped at about a hundred and fifty feet by rounded domes, stuck up on the west horizon a quarter mile away. Crossing the footbridge, they followed the dust traces.
"Look where they've chewed the bridge. This has to be a common route for them."
May through July were mating months, and the males staked out territories. Soon Telford pointed at one tall loblolly. The flat red ridges of bark, separated by deep furrows, had been chewed and rubbed on. Dried white sap streaked the lower trunk.
"He's left some hair as advertisement."
"Well, where is he?" Chip asked, scanning in a circle.
"He's not about to tell us. Let's go back to the truck."
Since seven o'clock, when they'd rendezvoused across the lake, Chip had been happier than he could ever remember. Here he was, for
once
doing something useful and unusual. But he was also worried that he might fail, not having worked very often during the past three years. For four months after the last skin graft he didn't even leave the house except at night. His grandfather had arranged a job programming computers for a Columbus insurance agency, working at home. This job with Telford was perfect; it was fun, and he didn't have to appear in publicâshow his face. He could stay safely hidden in the bogs and marshes.
Please, God, don't let me screw up,
he said to himself.
Please, God....
The weather was beautiful over the coastal plain, sky cornflower blue, sun lancing down through the trees, warm, light wind ruffling the trail grass as they moved toward the footbridge over the rush-lined ditch.
Chip, limping along on a gimpy left leg, pushed himself to keep up with the long-legged man. He was pleased that Telford was making no allowance for knee damage. There was nothing he hated worse than those looks or gestures or words of sympathy. He could cope just fine, even run a little in an awkward way. Cope just fine.
Returning to the chewed-up loblolly, equipment in their backpacks, they unloaded, then Telford began to set up the snare.
"You can use a snare or a culvert trap, a steel barrel with a door on one end that drops down after the bear goes in to eat the bait. I prefer this spring-activated snare. Better than lugging the culverts around. Okay, find me some small logs and sticks. Branches a couple of feet in length, sticks about pencil sizeâa few inches long."
Plenty were on the ground in the yellow pine grove.
By the time Chip had rounded up a small pile of wood, Telford had laid out the three-sixteenth steel cable, commonly used in aircraft controls.
"Strip the dead stuff off those branches," Telford instructed. "We'll arrange them in a V-fashion out from the trunk and then put the bait at the point where the V closes...."
They'd backpacked in several pounds of stale cinnamon buns.
"Pretty simple, eh?" said Telford, as he straightened up from looping the cable around the loblolly. "Now, let's do the V. Start it about two feet from the trunk."
"Won't that cable hurt the bear?" Chip asked.
Telford shook his head. "Old-fashioned leg-hold traps did hurt. Some states have banned 'em. This'll just hold him in place by a forepaw."
Soon, the five-foot V was formed, and then the working end of the snare was laid down. "Like humans, they don't like to walk on small sticks in their bare feet, so we'll place 'stepping sticks' around the
loop to limit the area and make him put his paws down where we want him to, right on the trigger."
Chip carried the sticks over and watched as Telford arranged them.
"Okay, trigger next. Well hide it under pine needles, test it. If it works okay, we'll set the bait, then come back tomorrow morning to see if we've caught ourselves a live Carolina black."
They finished the snare in another twenty minutes,
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