The name ‘My Trapper Mom’ gave me was Kevin, I was a throwaway baby in 1965, left by my birth mother at the hospital or stolen for money by the Catholic Children’s Aid of Toronto. Back in the day and maybe even more so today, stealing newborns legally from young mothers was big business for the outcast society. (I named them that myself, Outcast Society) and for a good personal reason.

My adoptive mother (Doris), found me listed up for grabs in a local neighboring city newspaper, I believe the Toronto Star, in early 1966, a couple months after I was born. She and then-husband Soren (both had just located to Canada from Copenhagen, Denmark) apparently decided to adopt and present me as a somewhat birthday present for my would be big brother Jimmy who had also just been adopted not much earlier than I, maybe by a few months or so. In any case, he was just three years and a tad couple months older than me.

Later in life, I understood the plan was to create a little family by way of adoption because the woman that saved us two ‘Outcast’ money tickets, was barren. The soon to be Trapper Mom who adopted me was Danish, a hard working faithful woman that bled tears, blood and sweat to raise and nurture her pride’s and joys, and not all in that order. She will take you from hand making moccasins, knitting for days on end in spare times, to washing clothes in a river, to making the world’s most delicious pies, pastries, and donuts not seen anywhere today. In fact, to this day I sometimes still make her ‘Special Pancakes’, a delicious and very fattening recipe she taught me around the age of four, now and then for family members. Trust me, I very highly doubt you have ever tried these!

My Trapper Mom will skin animals for the fur buyers of Hudson’s Bay, curse at the fleas running through her long black hair, paddle up streams deep into the wilderness and pull gill nets from frozen rivers to feed the family and dog team. She will show you what a real woman was back in the day. She will make you laugh, cry and at sometimes want to kill someone, as sometimes I wanted to.

She will raise a little boy on this fur-bearing trap-line in far Northern Ontario, 33 some miles from the nearest town called Hornepayne Ontario, a then small but thriving Forestry Pulp Mill and CNR community of just over 1500 people. She would have to travel over six miles of river and then flag down a train to stop and pick us up, so we could then ride over twenty-seven miles to town.

This river travel entailed either by boat/canoe in the warm seasons and then by ice-covered surface during the brutally cold winters. My Trapper Mom was an unknown soldier, a majestic powerful woman with more love than the universe could thank her for, yet she would die without a soul knowing her deeds. Except for the few that dared not to speak, and a little boy that promised never to tell. She had a secret that she took to her grave, and only I know how terrible a secret it was, and how damaging it has been for many years.

Anyways, I may as well tell you everything now and spoil the whole story or end this introduction with a last but VERY least statement. And that is, this story and entirety are dedicated to my mommy, best friend, and faithful confidant, Doris Boyes who passed away from MS in January 2000, Vanderhoof BC Hospital. Thanks to all the Dr’s and Nurses for the care.

Hold on now, not done yet…in last words of dedication it also goes to the woman who has put up with me for over 25 years, Karen, and my oldest son I haven’t seen since he was three months old, Kurt, My second oldest son Michael, next Justin, then Seth and of course but not least, the three girls, oldest to youngest, Ruth, Kerry, and Melissa. Oh and the only friend I had (besides our dogs and cats) that would visit us on the trap-line once in a scarce while, Johnny…more on him later.

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