The route for a time followed the course of Black River. Now and again Skipper Zeb paused and turned aside to set a trap, where the tracks of martens or minks indicated their presence. At intervals he took bunches of a dozen or more traps from trees where he had hung them the previous spring when the trapping season had ended. Charley wondered how it was possible for him to remember where he had left them, and asked:
"How do you ever find the traps where you left them? The places all look alike to me."
"Why, 'tis easy enough, lad. This bunch I hangs in the only hackmatack tree handy about. I just looks up and sees the tree, and there I finds the traps just where I leaves un."
Even still Charley could not understand how Skipper Zeb could know where to look for the particular hackmatack tree, standing alone among the spruces and quaking aspens, for at several points he saw lone hackmatacks in similar surroundings. Presently he was to learn that the woodsman by long practice learns to know every tree or bush that is even slightly out of the ordinary along his trail, and so trained is he in the art of observation that his subconscious mind records these with no effort on his part. Thus to the woodsman the trail over which he has traveled two or three times, and often but once, becomes as familiar to him as streets to the city dweller.
After two hours on the trail, Skipper Zeb announced that they would "boil the kettle," and have a "snack" to eat. Already the boys were ravenously hungry, and Skipper Zeb chuckled merrily as he observed their keen enjoyment as they ate.
"Settin' up traps makes for hunger," said he. "Fill up now."
"I was just hollow!" confessed Charley.
"And I was hungrier'n a starved wolf!" added Toby.
Their course now left the river valley, and presently came upon a wide frozen marsh, or "mesh" as Skipper Zeb called it.
"'Tis here on the meshes we finds the best fox footin'," he explained to Charley.