If you'd rather place an order by talking to one of our cheerful order desk clerks, please call 1-888-232-4444 (USA and Canada only) or 250-383-6864. From Europe, ring our UK order desk clerk at local rate number 0845 230 9601 (UK only) or 44 (0)1865 722 113.

North to Slave Lake

by Stan A. Morton

321 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #03-0861; ISBN 1-4120-0492-6; US$28.00, C$31.70, EUR23.00, £16.00

A 76 year old man tells his life story from when he was a young boy thrust into the unknown wilderness of northern Alberta. He describes in vivid detail as a hunter and trapper, an affinity to the bush and the living he harvested from it.

Read more!

about the book      about the author      sample excerpts or Table of Contents      catalogue info

About the Book A family leaves the relative comfort of a small farm to seek their fortunes as trappers in the far north. A lack of knowledge and proper equipment leaves them far short of their intended destination, and they are forced to seek refuge in an abandoned house in the bush, miles away from any town. Trapping was the only means of survival for this family, and the two boys learned its secrets by trial and error. From catching the fur, preparing it for market, and training dogs to pull the toboggan, nothing came easily. This is the family's story as told through the recollections of the youngest son and last surviving member, a man who is still living in the same area. He reflects on his years of working outside in the bush to support his 16 children, but never forgetting his years of trapping in the bush. As a freight trucker into the northern Native communities, he relates his experiences with the people, the various stores, and the Catholic mission and staff. He eventually finds work close to home, and gets back into trapping, acquiring more trapline areas as time progressed. He still traps and hunts today as his health and opportunity allows. This is his story and legacy that he endeavors to pass on.

---

About the Author I am the eldest of Ted Morton's children, born on April 5, 1949. Although not an author by any means, I was convinced by a friend that Dad's story had to be told. I have tried to relate his story as he has told it to me. Dad continues to pass on his knowledge and respect for the forest, its animals, and what they can provide to a person for survival and enjoyment. I continue to trap and hunt with my dad today, even though it becomes more and more of a challenge as time goes on for him. Dad still lives on the home place and I presently live twenty-two miles away in the town of Slave Lake, which is situated on the northern end of our trapline. My full time occupation is as an Industrial Mechanic for a local pulp mill. --- Stan Morton

---

Sample Excerpts or Table of Contents

TABLE OF CONTENTS

THE TAYLOR PLACE
MOVING NORTH
THE ARMSTRONG PLACE
THE RANGERS
TRAPPING FEVER
BACK TO THE TRAPLINE
THE VILLENEUVES
BEARS AND DOGS
SELLING FUR
HOME FOR THE SUMMER
ANOTHER TRAPPING SEASON
THE NEW PLACE
SPURFIELD
BEAR ATTACK!
HACKING TIES
MY FIRST HUNTING LICENSE
STARTING A FAMILY
HARD ROCK MINING
TRUCKS
POLIO
LOOKING FOR WORK
TRUCKIN' TO THE NORTH
LOOKING FOR WORK, AGAIN!
SEED BUYER
DAD
THE ACCIDENT
LOUIS "SHORTY" WEINBURG
GRADER OPERATOR
BEAVER TRAPPING
LESSONS LEARNED
FUR BUYERS AGAIN
LYNX AND THE FISHER
BIG GAME GUIDING
THE LOSS OF A SON
TRAPLINE CHALLENGES
CANCER

******

from Bear Attack!

Suddenly the lead dog ran ahead and under a low overhanging spruce tree and came out with a brown object, shaking the hell out of it. I wasn't sure what he had until it started screaming, and my blood ran cold. It was a grizzly bear cub. I quickly scurried across the remaining distance to the shore. I hollered at the dog, but he was trying to kill it by shaking it by the loose hide on its back. As the hide ripped, the cub broke free and was flung in a high arc, landing in the frazzled limbs of the dry spruce I had just crossed the creek on. There were wretched screams of pain and terror coming from the cub. Then I heard the sow coming. This time we were in grave danger, as a wounded grizzly cub meant a mother grizzly was going to kill or be killed to defend it. It was then I realized there was another cub with her, and probably was under that same tree with the other one before the dog attacked. I had no other cover so I hustled in under the spruce tree and brought my .22 up to a firing position. I wasn't going to die without a fight.

The bear reared up on her hind legs, thrashing her head back and forth, and facing where I was under the branches. I could see her nose pulled back and those huge teeth as she snarled with the most formidable roar I had ever heard. I could feel her putrid breath against my face as she exhaled and bellered. I still remember the froth hanging from her mouth, and as she threw her head back and forth it flew in globs out either side of her mouth. I figured that at any second she would drop down and charge in under the limbs and be right on top of me. I had little choice but to shoot her. I aimed for her forehead, just between the eyes, which were looking right down on me. I fired at the same time as the cub in the creek started screaming. Blood spurted out of her nose. I had hit her square in the nose! I just knew that I was going to be a dead man in about three seconds after missing my mark with that shot. Blood was spurting, and she was oblivious to the injury. The screaming from the cub continued, and once she located where it was, motherly instinct took over. She swung in an arc, throwing up dirt and leaves, and ran snarling over the creek bank to her cub. I scrambled out and headed out of there. I knew there was little time before she came back to finish the job, and the dogs and I ran up along the creek.

I hadn't gone far when I caught a glimpse of her following me. There was only one cub with her. I don't know what happened to the other one, but it wasn't part of the picture anymore. I was scared half out of my wits, because it was only a matter of seconds before she caught up to me. I crossed the creek and hurried along the other side. The dogs quietly followed, and sometimes they led. They knew how serious this could be, too. The bear followed on the other side, sometimes standing and looking, trying to smell through her shot up nose. I could distinctly hear the pig-like snuffling and grunts as she frantically searched for us. She must have caught sight of us somewhere, as she was back on our side again. I crossed again. A short time later, I spotted her on the opposite bank, still going, slightly ahead of me, but constantly hunting for me. The dogs were watching too, and not a sound did they make. It wouldn't be long before she figured out which side I was on. I had to keep moving.

I was getting really tired, and so were my canine companions. We crossed back and forth several times, and then I couldn't see anything. I carried on, totally exhausted. I came to a large spruce tree just about dusk and slid in underneath the limbs. I was done for. I slid off the pack, scrounged around, finding some part loaves of bread, and shared what was left with the dogs. Every once in awhile I would stand still, hardly breathing, listening for sounds of shuffling feet, or snorts from the bear tracking me. I heard nothing. I pulled the packs off the dogs and just lay back and closed my eyes. Just for a second, listening for any sounds of the approaching bear as I rested. God, I was tired!

I must have dozed off, I thought, and woke with a start. I could feel warmth on my face. I opened my eyes, glancing in every direction and nothing moved. It was morning and the sun was shining in my face. There weren't any sounds of a bear, only that of a squirrel chattering off in the distance. The dogs roused up, taking a quick look around, then stretching as they stood up. We had lost the bear at about the right time and were fortunate it had given up, or went on by on the other bank of the creek. Either way, I couldn't have gone on.

We turned for home without any beaver in our packs, but never the less, happy to have survived two bear attacks in the same trip. As near as I could figure, the dog had figured he had a groundhog, and by the time he realized what it really was, it was too late. I often wonder what happened to that cub. Did the mother have the instinct to finish it off? Did it drown in the creek or just die from the wounds? I'll never know. One thing I know for sure was if I had shot her in the forehead, I wouldn't be here today. It certainly wouldn't have done much damage, but the bullet in the nose gave me the edge. That was probably the best shot I could have made with her facing me.

---

Catalogue Information

---