The answer is always in the entire story, not just a piece of it.

I’ve never shot a coyote… or any other predator, for that matter. In fact, I’ve always had a kind of complex when it comes to thinking about killing something I have no intention of consuming. Fear, morality, unfamiliarity, I’m not sure. Blame my father, who made my brothers and me clean, cook and eat every squirrel whose life we ever took; blame my becoming a “real” hunter later on in my years, when my father’s death imparted a need to exert control over some part of my life – a part that connected me to him spiritually; or maybe blame my passionate love affair with all things found out of doors – slow, merciless murderers of my favorite animals to hunt included. Long story short, I’ve made long lists of reasons why not, and shared plenty of excuses with fellow hunters and conservationists on the topic, my closest blood relations even. But, the truth is, I’ve always lacked the knowledge required to be able to make any kind of decision one way or the other.

As a kid, I remember my dad telling all manner of outdoor stories – from hunting down whitetails and showing up for class covered in blood and filling buckets with eels which he dumped in the girl’s bathrooms at school, to trying stew made from snapping turtles and honeymooning with my mom in a two-person tent during what turned out to be one of the wettest, rainiest and most miserable weeks the Adirondack Mountains of upstate New York have ever seen. But one story I remember above the others had to do with one of his greatest passions as a high-schooler – trapping. The story involves a tripped trap containing nothing but a fox foot since, due to their sheer will to survive, a fox (among other predatory species) will gnaw through their own flesh and bone to free themselves from the steel jaws of a trapper’s most trusted instrument. Personally, I am still unable to comprehend that kind of fear. I’ve attempted to bargain with whoever the “big man” is residing upstairs, the supposed creator and controller of all things, don’t get me wrong. But I’ve never known the fear that comes from realizing your own mortality and from being forced to choose one of two impossible options – those being to 1) wait for death or 2) risk killing yourself in an effort to escape it.

Curious by nature (my interests are many and I have this annoying habit of asking a lot of questions), when I had the opportunity to learn a little bit about trapping animals, I was all over it. But, I was told, here’s the deal: if I wanted to ride along to the secret spots, hang around while the line was laid and sets created, observe the catches alive, dying, dead, during processing, and ask any questions that arose during said bunch of experiences, I needed to write about them. So, after a month or so of riding, watching, digging, baiting, asking, note-taking, assisting, and even running the line solo for a handful of days, this is what I know…

Trapping is an art. It’s not something a person decides to take on as a hobby to fill their spare time. One cannot simply purchase a dozen foot holds, a handful of baits, lures, and a decent small-caliber rifle and go at it. If you want to trap, actually catch critters, there’s a learning curve – a long, steep, unforgiving one. If you want to trap, you had better love to learn (and read, write, try, fail, hurt yourself physically and mentally and… all that other good stuff that goes with it).

Trapping ain’t easy. The expression, “sly as a fox,” true. True times 100. Trust issues? No girl you’ve ever dated has trust issues like a dog making his living out on the plains. If something feels off – the look, the feel, the smell, the location of a rock or twig or clump of dirt – that coyote is outta there, and you’re shit outta luck.

Trapping isn’t for Sally’s. Commonly used traps exert more than a hundred pounds of pressure, which means they require at least that to be pried open and set. They’re powerful and fast, faster than most of us humans are at yanking our gloved hands the hell out of the way. Depending on the animal a trapper is targeting, a mishandled trap can leave behind anything from bruised and broken skin to a broken digit.

Baits and lures are hands down the nastiest things you’ll ever sniff, but you’ve gotta do it and the stuff works. The rare, once-in-a-lifetime kind of human being – that guy you know moments after meeting will leave you forever changed – he actually enjoys the way this goop smells. And, trust me, chances are, he knows a little something about what it takes to catch a predator or two. 

No matter what you already know, there’s always more to know. Sometimes you’re after fox and you end up with skunk. Why? I don’t know, you figure it out.

Trapping teaches you a lot about yourself. When you come upon a trapped animal, see the panic in its face, watch the deep rising and falling of its chest, and watch the metal jaws draw blood as it jerks and pulls on that front leg, you quickly come to terms with… everything. Whatever suffering you’ve experienced in your own existence, it wasn’t really suffering. Whatever fear you’ve felt in your own 20- or 30-some-odd years, none of it compares to this. Any pride you’ve taken in your past successes, the pride felt in that moment – after hours of exhaustive effort, weeks without so much as a paw print in the immediate area, not to mention the money and time that you have invested… this is the payoff. You’ve outsmarted, or at least made one fewer mistake than, one of the smartest predators out there. The offspring of that doe you shot last month, you saved their lives. That panic and pain you come upon, that is the payoff.

Trapping teaches you a whole damn lot about yourself. Given that, when you come upon a trapped animal there are only two real options, doing what needs to be done requires no thought, no second-guessing. If you’re anything like me, if there is but one single compassionate bone in your body, shooting a trapped critter is easy. It’s easy because there’s so much already invested. It’s easy because there is no other choice. It’s easy because it’s the right thing to do.

I’ve shot a coyote. One coyote. I came upon it in a trap, in December, at dawn. Her face was panicked and her chest rose and fell in deep, desperate breaths. Her front leg bled. The set had been completely erased, the dirt hole filled in from hours of struggling in the sand. What I did required no thought. I walked to within feet of her, talking the whole while – “I know, I’m sorry. It’s ok, it’s going to be ok.” I said thank you. I told her I was a good guy, how beautiful she was and how this was all new to me but that she shouldn’t worry, she could trust me to make the right decision, to do the right thing. She lowered her nose to the sand and stared at me. She stopped struggling and lay there, still. I placed my crosshairs between her eyes, and squeezed the trigger. I stood there, who knows how long, watching her body relax. Her ears slowly fell, her eyes went soft, and her jaw stopped working to suck air.

I had no plans to trap. I had no plans to learn about trapping. I had no plans to shoot a coyote. But that morning, standing in the sand that had been kicked up by a desperate dog, sun rising in my face, I was a hunter, an outdoorsman, the real deal. Not because I put a bullet in her head, but because of what I experienced. Feelings of normalcy and routine washed away by hot rushes of fear and adrenaline. The anguish for all I knew that animal was going through while it waited. The weight of the job I was responsible for carrying out. The calm and compassion with which I took her life.

I had no plans to do any of the above, but I’m so glad I did. And, while the traps have all been pulled in light of the coming holidays, they’ll soon be back – and so will I.