A tale of a reluctant trapper

Jamie startled me awake in the middle of the night. She nonchalantly informed me, “You have something in your trap.” We peered shoulder-to-shoulder into the backyard. The moon illuminated a rectangular silhouette just off the back steps. Sure enough, the live trap I had set was tripped. The trap door was slammed shut, and the skunk we had been after for weeks was locked inside.

Great, now what?

Admittedly, I hadn’t played the scenario completely through. When we decided the skunk had to go, neither one of us wanted it dead. We settled on live trapping the beast and transporting it elsewhere. The live trap we borrowed was pretty simple, essentially a big wire box with a place to set bait (we settled on cat food) and a tripping mechanism to trap the unsuspecting critter.

I figured my chances of getting sprayed would be reduced if I covered the trap. I designed a cardboard lining that would prevent the skunk from locking eyes with its reluctant trapper. I also planned to throw a blanket over the entire contraption to further calm the animal.

After we confirmed the trap was tripped, I tried to slip back to sleep. “You’re not leaving that poor skunk in there all night?” Jamie asked.

This is one of those questions husbands will recognize as more of a statement of fact. I woke up my youngest son Joshua and we headed for the backyard.

Josh has a keen interest in all animals, and he loves to observe them. Just the evening before he was bellied up to the front windows watching a pair of fox kits working their way through the yard. He demanded I wake him up if the skunk was caught; he wanted to supervise the proper release of the animal.

We approached the trap slowly. The back porch light confirmed our observation. The trap was occupied. I nervously crept towards the box. I unfurled an old blanket over the trap, trying not to startle its tenant. I tucked the entire mass under my arm. The weight of the skunk startled me as he slid against the walls of the trap. We worked our way slowly to the bed of our truck and slid him inside. So far, so good. The skunk hadn’t sprayed, hadn’t snarled, hadn’t hissed: all was going according to plan.

We decided that we would take him for a ride. No sense in releasing him a few blocks from home. We drove through Cloquet looking for a suitable place to set him free. We ended up at the Scanlon park-and-ride. It was almost 4 a.m. We parked and worked quickly to lower the skunk from the tailgate. We positioned the trap just a few feet from the edge of the tall grass. We hoped he would calmly waddle off in that direction. Josh backed away hoping to film the release.

My mind raced trying to recall how to open the trap. As with anything mechanical, I was clueless. I straddled the trap, trying to decipher the puzzle. Luckily the skunk was calm and hadn’t released its stench. After taking inventory I reached a startling conclusion. With my right hand, I would have to reach down and push the door inward. This would allow the skunk to make its escape, but it also meant it would brush against my hand in the process. I wasn’t thrilled about this plan.

With trepidation, I bent forward over the front of the trap. My hand worked to release the aluminum door. I tried to commit. I failed. My heart pounded as I thought of the skunk latching onto my hand as a parting gift.

I gathered myself determined to free my captive. I pushed hard on the trap door, lifting it high atop the cage. The weight inside the trap shifted. Like a rocket, a blur shot from the trap. It was not a mopey skunk shuffling into the darkness — it was a cat shot from a cannon! The fastest, most wild-eyed feral cat I will ever encounter was halfway to Barnum by the time I exclaimed to Josh, “It was a cat!”

Josh laughed, wide-eyed. “What did you expect?” He quipped. “You put cat food in there.”

We still have a thriving skunk population in our neighborhood. Or maybe they just frequent our yard? I’m pretty sure they den up under our front porch. Each night our cats line up on one side of the living room window and the skunks on the other, and curiously they paw at each other. The skunks somehow know they’re safe. The cats are more suspicious.

Bret Baker is a lifetime resident of Cloquet. He is a proud husband, father, educator and outdoorsman. Bret began guiding fishing trips when he was 16 years old. Today, in his 40s, his passion is to introduce people to the tremendous outdoor adventures available in our region.