Braiding Sweetgrass

days, and they maintain detailed records of their harvest. Lionel
keeps a thickly penciled notebook in his vest pocket; he takes it out
and waves it, saying, “Wanna see my new BlackBerry? I just
download my data to my bush computer, runs on propane, don’t
you know.”
His traplines yield beaver, lynx, coyote, fisher, mink, and ermine.
He runs his hand over the pelts, explaining about the density of the
winter undercoat and the long guard hairs, how you can judge the
health of an animal by its fur. He pauses when he comes to
martens, whose pelage is legendary in its silky-soft luxury—the
American sable. It is beautifully colored and feather light.
Martens are part of Lionel’s life here—they’re his neighbors and
he is thankful that they have rebounded from near extirpation.
Trappers like him are on the front line of monitoring wildlife
populations and well-being. They have a responsibility to take care
of the species they rely upon, and every visit to the trapline
produces data that govern the trapper’s response. “If we catch only
male martens, we will keep the traps open,” he says. When there is
an excess of unpaired males, they are wandering and easy to trap.
Too many young males can leave less food for the others. “But as
soon as we get a female, we stop trapping. That means we’ve
skimmed off the excess and we don’t touch the rest. That way the
population doesn’t get too crowded, none will go hungry, but their
population will continue to grow.”
In late winter, when the snow is still heavy but the days are
lengthening, Lionel drags down the ladder from the rafters in his
garage. He straps on his snowshoes and stomps out into the bush
with the ladder on his shoulder and hammer, nails, and scrap wood
in his pack basket. He scouts out just the right spots: big old trees
with cavities are best, as long as the size and shape of the hole