My Mother’s Daughter

I am my mother’s daughter.  As I scoured the trapper’s camp for good angles on the long abandon rowboats and food cashes, I suddenly found myself drawn to the midden heap.  Ok, it was really the dump or garbage pile but midden heap sounds much more historical and less icky so I’m sticking with it.  I was reminded of walks through the woods with my mother, finding little cabins long abandon and searching for hidden treasures.  A maple syrup tap was one of our greatest finds and I can still see it held high in my mother’s triumphant hand today.  

I held up a rusted key from a tin of sardines, square nails, a rusted fork and a wine bottle with a hand carved stopper.  I can just imagine the trapper on a cold winter night, carving that stopper after his sardine meal.  Saving the last bit of wine for another night.  No Internet, no TV, no Twitter or Facebook.  Just a man and the elements.

Remains of a meal

Unlike my mother, and after hearing the sage words from Paul, “You can’t steal history”, I left my pile of treasures where I found them.  As an historic site I’m certain it will see many more visitors over the years.  You never know, there might be someone else who likes garbage as much as I do and these items will be there for them to explore.

Were these discharged at a threatening polar bear or simply to dispatch a reindeer for dinner?