Kyle Kaatz stepped calf-deep into a tributary of Hickory Creek in Monee and sloshed his way to the far bank, where a small ledge created an inviting spot for passing muskrat, raccoon or maybe mink. He thrust in a narrow-bladed shovel and created a hole that he swiftly filled with dry dog food. Then he spread a crayfish-based paste on top and set the double-jawed, leg-hold trap.
“I like to give them a few things,” Kaatz said. A fourth-generation trapper from Oak Forest, he was accompanied by his dad, Kraig, on the Illinois trapping season’s opening day this month.
Despite the drizzle and temperatures in the 40s, the Kaatz clan was pumped. It is impossible to be a fair-weather trapper. Not only are many traps set in cold water with bare hands, but once the sets are placed, trappers must by law check them within 24 hours and every day thereafter.
“How different is that from hunting?” Kraig Kaatz asked.
“If it’s raining real hard, or if it’s snowing and blowing, you have to go because you have already made the commitment.”
The men worked both sides of the creek, setting a few traps in the chilly water.
A couple of miles down the road, they pulled their sport-utility vehicle onto another farm and surveyed the tall grass flanking water that was only a few inches deep. Kraig Kaatz spotted a trail to the water. Instead of digging a hole, he placed a blind set, one an animal might approach from the brush above on its way for a drink.
The work muddied boots and waders, but after 20 minutes the traps were set. Now the trappers had to be patient.
The fur flies
As America expanded west, the growing population relied on the labor of hunters who gathered fur. There was a romance to it, and dashing characters such as Jim Bridger intrigued, as well as clothed, city dwellers. Trapping continues today with a much lower profile and is often under siege from animal-rights activists.
The Humane Society of the United States contends that traps and snares cause distress, fear and pain to wildlife, and that some trapped animals die of thirst or exposure.
Trappers say things don’t work that way and that without predator control, animals would overrun populated areas.
“They’re the same ones who if a raccoon was in their fireplace would demand that someone be there immediately,” said Paul Kelley, president of the Illinois Trappers Association, who at 61 has trapped for 50 years. “You’ve got people now, they’re so removed from the land.
“They don’t understand Mother Nature provides an oversupply. Death is still part of the circle of life. It requires management of the resource.”
Illinois had 2,680 licensed trappers during the 2001-02 season spanning November to March. That represented an increase of about 500 trappers in a year, though Bob Bluett, an Illinois Department of Natural Resources wildlife biologist, said the state’s high was about 12,000 in the 1980s.
More significantly, according to IDNR statistics, there was an increase of nearly 85 percent in the trapping harvest, from 117,500 furs to more than 217,000, and the value of furs sold was almost $1.5 million.
Essentially, Bluett said, a resurgence of interest in fur coats around the world drove up stagnant or declining prices.
“Our guys respond to the market pretty quickly,” Bluett said.
Fashion is one thing. But a major portion of trappers’ business is nuisance control, calls from homeowners distressed because some animal is ruining their shrubbery, harassing their pet or disturbing their trash.
Raccoons are the most valuable furs taken in Illinois, Bluett said, with muskrat second. In all, 14 species can be legally trapped in Illinois.
Kraig Kaatz, 50, who works as a construction project manager and estimator, grew up trapping. But his son Kyle, 23, is the more enthusiastic, active trapper. He has trapped in Mississippi and Iowa, visited a trap line in Wisconsin, plans to trap in New Mexico before fall is over and has captured everything in size from mink to 30-pound coyotes.
More Top Picks Hemiplegic Migraine Warning Signs To Know
Trapping is rigorous. During a 12-day Iowa swing, Kyle Kaatz said he put in between 170 and 190 sets, drove the trap line 300 miles daily and trapped 416 raccoons and 30 mink.
He was 13 when he and his brother, Kellen, began trapping and was wide-eyed when a fox pelt brought $40.
Although neither his father nor brother kept up with the same passion, by high school age trapping was Kyle Kaatz’s life. He dreamed of moving to Alaska, where trapping is still more rooted in the subsistence culture.
But when Kyle trapped 20 coyotes and 43 raccoons during his senior year in high school, it dawned on him he could make it in the Midwest.
Trapping, editing Trapper’s World magazine and operating a lure-supply business are his livelihood.
He owns almost no fur clothing, just a $109 beaver hat that “had a dollar’s worth of beaver in it.” He acknowledges trapping’s heritage, but his fascination with trapping stems from the difficulty in outsmarting the animals.
“There is a sense you could never know it all,” Kyle Kaatz said.
It is unlikely many trappers are sentimental since their work involves dispatching animals by blunt trauma, drowning or shooting.
“They say it’s cruel, but it’s done as humanely as possible,” Kraig Kaatz said.
Not long ago protesters desecrated fur coats worn in public by throwing paint on them and pressured designers to leave fur out of their creations. Yet the fur market has grown lately.
Kyle Kaatz has a theory.
“The rap industry has helped tremendously,” he said.
Singers wear fur, and fans want to wear similar outfits.
Patience put to test
On opening day, father and son raced darkness. They covered nearly 50 miles in two hours, placing 21 traps and snares, the coiled wiring that catches animals by the neck. They planned to rise at 2:30 a.m. to check.
Kyle Kaatz predicted they would find one beaver, one mink and two raccoons, and maybe a muskrat.
“Just judging by sign [tracks], a certain amount of confidence and the weather,” he said.
But when the trappers checked in the middle of the night, they found just one beaver and two raccoons.
It was the first of many long nights in a long season.