Vison, the Mink

by Jean Craighead George

  The sound of their footsteps as they crossed the road above Vison’s head was loud and alerting. A few shattering tremors and the steps faded away. Vison waited for further alarms and then curled up in the makeshift hideout and went to sleep. The water-washed rocks and gravel were not as comfortable as his pipe-den, but he was safe and fell asleep.

  He awoke later to feel the cool air of night seeping down the tunnel and across his body.

  Vison opened his eves and started off into the night. He had slept off the excitement of the morning and was out of the drainage ditch and up the gully in quest of the chickens again. And Al, in the diversion of the hunt and adventures in the field, had forgotten to mend his coop. Vison entered the henhouse with no trouble and took another meal. He left leisurely and traveled straight overland to Muddy Branch. Bounding over fallen logs and the matted debris of the forest floor, the outlaw took the trails across the land. His darting head and gleaming eyes followed the movements of the night. Above him the tree tops latched in a gray haze. Around him the cold leaves made holes through which to dive, and hurdles to vault. The mink came bounding back to his stream in the best of moods—well fed and playfully enjoying the barren winter floor. He was a rich mink, with miles of good territory at his disposal, and an exceptional ability to make use of it all, so he had leisure time to take pleasure in the night woods and play with swinging leaves and broken twigs that amused him along his trail home.

  No one was more amazed than Al when he discovered that a second chicken had gone the way of the first. Once more he set out to get Vison. This time, however, he got his hammer and a nail and repaired the coop. Sitting down before his completed task, he laboriously devised a plan to catch the woodland marauder.

  He was sure that the mink would return to the henhouse again. Carefully he figured out the route that Vison probably had taken. Then he placed a muskrat trap along the route at the corner of the henhouse. He placed a chicken leg beyond the trap, believing that Vison would cross it as he reached for this morsel. Al was satisfied with this contrivance and then went back into his house.

  Early that evening while reading a newspaper by his kerosene lamp, he heard the trap spring. Armed with a flashlight and gun, the man hurried out to take his prize. Pooch sensed what was afoot and crawled under the one-armed rocking chair.

  Al ran around the corner of the chicken house and threw his beam of light on the sprung trap. A large Norway rat struggled in the set; it had crossed the trap as it rounded the henhouse searching for food.

  CHAPTER SIX

  IN THE WINTER MONTHS that followed, Vison would often waken at dawn to the baying of the hounds as they crossed the hills and ravines in search of Vulpes. He had learned that the musically voiced dogs were not in pursuit of him and sometimes he would leave his den during the hunt to take advantage of the game that was startled by the chase. Rabbits loped down into the valleys as the dogs took to the hills, and the quail coveys ran ahead of the hunt and retreated to brushy shelters. With the hounds passing close enough to be smelled, Vison dashed after the frightened game.

  One dark dawn Vison awoke to the music of the hunt and lay quietly in his hideout while he noted its direction. The hounds were coming along the cliffs. He stole from his retreat into a land of white snow. Vison stood up and looked around in curiosity. He went back into his den and came out again. The snow was still there, thrown like a shawl over all his familiar roads and avenues. Quickly he forgot the hounds and the fox and the scattering game in the excitement of discovering the snow.

  Everything had changed. The leaves on the floor of the woods were gone, the limbs of the trees were white, the bank to the stream was smooth and even. Vison circled his den, hopped up on the foot log, and peered through the twigs of the bushes into the woods. He sprinted from his log, hit the soft snow, and slid down to the frozen stream on his stomach. He tried this again and again. When he had completely tracked up the woods around his den with footprints and slides, Vison set off to find food.

  He began his search at the edge of the stream. All his fishing pools were sealed under the ice. He went up the bank and into the woods to check the trails of the white-footed mice. These he located across the snow. Stuffing his nose down into a mouse-digging, he sniffed for scents. He snuffed in a noseful of cold flakes. Drawing his head back quickly, he sneezed, wiped off his whiskers, and pounced on the track again with his two front feet. He followed the trail of the rodent. There was no sign of food.

  Vison stopped and looked around the woods. Over by the blackberry thicket he smelled the delicate odor of quail. In three bounds he reached their tracks and followed them swiftly around the bushes until they vanished. The birds had taken off at this point, and their steps ended abruptly. Vison moved on. A spray of shattered bark covered the snowflakes at the bottom of a white oak. A woodpecker had been drilling the tree for insects. Curious as to what the bird had found, Vison climbed up to the newly chiseled hole where a pileated woodpecker had had a meal of carpenter ants. There was nothing but the woody smell of the old tree. He dropped to the ground again and with a slide and a bound, went back to the stream.

  He listened. Around the bend he could hear the rush of open water. With elastic bounds he came to the ripples that leapt free of the binding ice. Several yards below the ripples, the mink walked out on the frozen surface. Skidding and clinging close to the ice, he circled the top of the stream. He could see through the crystal covering to the bottom of the creek. He was standing over a sunfish that was lying quietly in the cold water. Vison cautiously scurried to the open water and dived in. Swimming swiftly, he circled a large stone and swept down on the inactive fish. Then he looped and swished toward the surface. With a thump he hit the firm ice covering the water. He realized he must go back the way he had come. He turned into the current and pulled his way toward the open water. The sunfish was flopping in his jaws, and its bulky body held back his advance. Vison dropped down to the bottom of the dark waters and, with a shove on the stones, slowly moved upstream toward the open water. Although he was down for a long time, Vison did not become panicky, but swam calmly and easily. When at last he reached the open water, he surfaced smoothly as if he had not been in danger of drowning. He carried the fish up the bank, leapt upon it and dined eagerly. Having eaten and freed the freezing water from his guard hairs, Vison continued his journey in the snow. Under a pin oak he found the remains of an acorn that a squirrel had opened, and leading up to it were the tracks of a mouse that had come to take the fragmentary pieces. The meager leavings had not satisfied the mouse; his trail meandered off to the foot of a holly tree. Under the glossy canopy of leaves he had dined lavishly on the red berries that had been knocked to the ground by cedar wax wings. Vison looked over the deserted banquet hall that had served the birds in the day and the mouse in the evening. The green leaves reached over the feast hall like a shimmering tent, protecting the diners from the talons of the Cooper’s hawk and the great horned owl. The dense cover of prickly leaves, however, was no hindrance to the agile Vison. He slipped in and searched for clues that would lead him to the feasting guests.

  The mouse had left under an arched limb and had gone off to a clump of laurel. Here his footprints were lost on the snowless floor beneath the roof of oval leaves. The scent was too cold to follow. Vison rushed back to his stream and hunted the dens and niches all the way down to the canal.

  Will Stacks awoke somewhat later than Vison this morning, but before sunrise. He looked out at the snow in the early morning and was glad to see the tracking season had begun. Dressing hurriedly, he pulled on his green woolen trousers and checkered shirt. A big bowl of cornmeal mush was his breakfast, and he was out in his lean-to, packing his lures and traps in his basket when the sun rose behind the dark clouds.

  Stacks left for the woodlands with a swinging gait. It was freezing, but he was properly dressed for the snow and winds and felt stimulated by the brisk December weather. The snow lay clean and unspoiled across the rolling field. Here a
nd there were tracks of mice and quail on the snow. He read their hunting stories with interest and strode on toward Muddy Branch where he knew the adventures of the winter morning awaited him.

  He hesitated as he climbed over the fence into the woods. Far back in the hills, probably at the crest of the cliffs, he heard the having hounds racing along the trail of a fox. Will Stacks smiled for he knew Buck Queen had arisen to this morning with the same thought. It was an excellent hunting day.

  Upon reaching Muddy Branch, he found his first set of tracks. The old trapper excitedly crossed the ice of the stream and jumped to the bank. He carefully studied the paired prints. “Mink,” he mumbled eagerly. Rounding the base of a sycamore tree, he came upon the cavorting slides of Vison. In this spot, not many hours earlier, a mink had frisked in the snow.

  Following the footprints intently Stacks worked out Vison’s dawn excursion. He found the remains of Vison’s fish and noted his trip to the empty banquet hall. At the holly tree he stirred the birds who had returned with the sunlight, and they flew from the leaves with a rustic of wings. He heard their plaintive “seed, seed” fading in the muffled winter forest.

  Will went back to the open water and studied the tracks once more. Vison’s circling footprints and successful hunt, convinced him that here was a spot often used by the mink, and in all probabilities an excellent place for a trap.

  Selecting the point where Vison had come out of the water with his catch, Stacks took out his tools and dug a hole at the water’s edge. In this he slipped a piece of old catfish and then pried open the jaws of a trap. He placed it carefully under the water several inches from the baited hole. He secured the trap to a stake.

  This particular set was one of the trapper’s favorites. It was efficient and prevented suffering by pulling the animal under the water to drown. Looking over his handiwork, Stacks was now ready to add the last touch to the set. He let a few drops of the mink lure trickle over the bait. He rose and tramped swiftly away.

  As he walked off toward the muskrat pond, he looked back over his shoulder at the picture in the snow. There were mink tracks and his own lying under the snow-bent trees. There was nothing to betray the trap that lay veiled beneath the water. The morning was off to a fine start.

  As he walked along, Stacks again picked up the sound of the fox hunt. The hounds were sticking to the hills; their voices came to him on the wind like the sound of a trumpet. He must remember to place his traps well, that he might not injure his old friend’s dogs. This was an unvoiced understanding between the hunter and the trapper.

  He passed the muskrat pond but made no sets, for these valuable furbearers were still out of season. He traveled far overland to set traps along the fence rows where the foxes ran.

  It was afternoon when the trapper completed his line and started back to his shack on the hill. The season had begun and now he must be up each day at dawn to check his traps so that the animals would not suffer unduly. The stride of the returning trapper was not as free as it had been at daybreak. He was tired and the pull up the hill was long. He stopped occasionally to listen to the shifting calls of the winter birds as they moved from tree to tree calling to each other as they went. Stacks knew he had done a good day’s work and the thought carried him on up the steep climb toward his chair by the fire.

  Vison came out into the evening woods early. He was eager to hunt the snow-filled forest. Rocketing along the stream bank toward the muskrat pond, he passed the open waters of the falls. His search led him off his trail to the ripples where he checked for fish. Leaning out as far as his long neck would stretch, he watched the rushing water. Then the wind diverted his attention. It carried the scent of mink. Holding his nose to the draft that brought the reeking odor, Vison crossed the stream on the ice, and stole up the far bank. Cautiously, he came down on the cache of some intruder.

  In rage, the outlaw of Muddy Branch sniffed the fish, left, he believed, by some rival mink. Vison paused uncertain. Mixed with the odor of mink and fish was the faint smell of man. This strange scent kept him from angrily taking the food. He descended slowly to the hole where the catfish lay.

  Beneath the open water, distorted in the sparkle of the swirling ripples, lay the trap with its hair-set trigger. Hard and metallic, it lay among the rounded stones of the stream bed. Vison did not see the trap, he was interested only in the cache of the invading mink.

  The hole slanted up from the water so that Vison would have to stand in the stream to get the fish. He scratched at the frozen earth and then swung to the side of the bait. He braced himself on a fallen branch that jutted out over the stream. Vison still could not pull the food from its hole. He thrust his head in and smelled the lure. Again, the scent brought a warning to the outlaw. But the sight of the large catfish replaced the feeling of caution with one of rage. The mink that could bring such a prize from his stream was a giant and a threat to Vison. Angrily, he clawed the ground with his front feet. He edged himself farther out on the branch. His weight dipped the branch into the water. The current swept it toward the bank. Vison shifted heavily on the twisting branch to keep his balance, pushing it deep into the water. It grazed the treadle of the trap. The water churned forcibly as the jaws of the trap closed on it.

  In one bound Vison was on the bank, crouched close to the earth, ready to meet his swirling enemy. The stream rolled in rectangular patterns over the trap. Vison waited, staring into the water. Nothing emerged from the spot where the trap had sprung. Inching slowly backwards, his eyes still fastened on the lure and the trap, the mink moved into the brush and out of sight. There was something wrong about the cache of the mink, the smell of the man, and the churning of the water. He would leave it tonight and come back later to see if the rival had returned.

  Vison withdrew up the stream to hunt, then returned to his foot-log den and curled up in the dry leaves. He slept soundly through the clattering arrival of dawn. The blue jays screamed through the trees, the squirrels raucously descended from their bunchy leaf nests in the limbs, the chickadees called wistfully as they hunted the cold treetops. Whatever Vison did, he did to perfection, and sleeping was among his many talents. He did not even hear Will Stacks on his dawn patrol of his trapping line.

  Will went first to his mink trap, eager to see if he had been successful. Hurrying along the trail, he searched the snow for fresh signs of wildlife. Again he picked up Vison’s footprints, and broke into a run as they wound down to the stream where his trap was set. Bursting through the bushes, he crossed the frozen stream and waded to the site. Vison’s tracks were all around, but the mink was not there.

  The trap was sprung. A branch was locked in its teeth—Stacks was deeply disappointed. The old trapper reset the trap. He would get that mink, if they had to fight it out all winter.

  Vison awoke at noon and jumped from his hideout to slide on his stomach to the stream. Then he bounced off to the open water to see if perhaps the mysterious enemy had returned. There were no scents leading to the cache, no indications that a mink had been on his territory—yet the scent still remained strong and reeking. This time, however, the odor of man was almost as heavy as the smell of fish and mink.

  Vison lifted his head, started toward the trap, and then stopped. The snow beside him was moving. Plowing along in a zigzag line between the loam and the frosted leaves was a mouse. He pounced on him and set upon his meal. No longer hungry enough to be curious about the cache, Vison bolted around the woods and back to his hideout. He denned for the rest of the day.

  The day passed in its constant rhythm of light to dark. Even in his den, Vison knew the time of day by the colors of the hour. The dawn was gray gold, the hour of the birds; the morning was yellow, the diurnal animals were feeding and racing over their woodland trails; noon was white. Then came the gold of the afternoon, the hour of the stirring fox and raccoon; the vermilion evening and the awakening of the nocturnal woodland. And at last, the protective night; Vison’s hour, Vulpes’ hour, Procyon’s hour.


  The red passed out of the evening and Vison bounded off into the night woods. He went up to his muskrat pond, boldly hunted the lodges and bullrushes, and then raced back to Muddy Branch once more to look for the mink of the reeking cache. There were still no messages from the stranger, the cache lay untouched at the brink of the stream. Vison did not go near it; he was still not hungry enough to take the food.

  The next day and night followed the same pattern. The alert, cagey Vison constantly watching for the return of the mink that was invading his land.

  One day Will Stacks left his mink traps until last. It was afternoon before he came up Muddy Branch to the underwater trap. Ahead of him was Vison, racing over the roots of an elm tree toward the cache of the elusive mink. Vison felt the footsteps of Will Stacks on the earth and ducked behind a bank of snow. He saw Stacks cross the creek on the ice and walk to the bank where the fish lay buried. The man leaned down, saw there was nothing in his trap and strode up the stream until he was lost in the crisscross of trees and limbs.

  Vison popped his head up and smelled the wind blowing from the direction of the man. He looked across the stream to the cache and back to the empty footprints of the trapper.

  Cautiously, he slid over the snow, down the bank, across the ice and up to the cache. Pawing at the ground half-heartedly, he looked first at the food, and then sniffed the wind. All Vison’s instincts told him something was not right about this fish and the smell of mink.