Again Once I Used to Ruthlessly Hunt Down Small Rodents as a Enjoyable Pastime

I didn’t grow up mole hunting, only became acquainted with it in my early twenties. My father didn’t buy his property until long after I left home, but he still lived a stone’s throw away.

Okay, it was a bit further than a hop, but considering the vastness of Alberta’s countryside, it could have been a hop, relatively speaking.

My hometown was a place called Sylvan Lake, but that’s not what this story is about. Growing up in Sylvan is destined for a different story, a different time. Even though Dad didn’t buy the farm until I was in my early twenties, I knew the place well. It had been my grandfather’s property and Dad had bought it when grandpa died.

It was an exciting time for me. I was a young mother with so much energy and ideas that were bursting at the seams. I wanted to help undo the insane mental and emotional turmoil I put my parents through when I was a teenager.

Those poor bastards. When I say my parents put me through a lot of shit, I’m not exaggerating. From fleeing home at 16 to moving out at midnight from an apartment I could no longer afford because I was a broke teenager with absolutely no life skills, these people have still managed to support me through all of my time and to love bugs.

Now, as a 36-year-old woman, I am amazed at the shenanigans my parents put up with. So it feels like I’m paying back the rent for my teenage missteps forever.

This is where the mole hunt comes in, later called: Moling.

Dad sowed the fields alternately from year to year. The problem was that vermin often invaded the areas, digging massive tunnel systems everywhere. This caused problems in cultivation and field work.

It quickly became my job to take out the quad with over 15 mole traps and spend my morning scurrying across the vast expanse of land setting traps.

I got to the farm around 10am and got straight to work. Once I set the traps, I went back inside for lunch and helped Dad with whatever other chores he had to do. Often enough this work consisted of picking rocks from various fields or hauling logs for the wood-burning stove he kept in his shop.

Around 3 p.m. I went in search of my catch.

Well, if you are a PETA member or any other animal rights organization I would suggest you stop reading. Mole hunting can get pretty gruesome. Sometimes the moles were half alive with only their hind end caught in the traps, and that’s when my caveman-like survival brain kicked in, and heavy rocks and some good old-fashioned grit were put in.

I didn’t particularly appreciate having to kill the moles. I don’t like killing things, period. Not even the bugs scurrying across my kitchen floor. Killing just isn’t my thing. So I finally realized I needed some Molin buddies.

Much like a certain Tom Sawyer once persuaded Ben Rogers to whitewash a fence, I managed to convince my friends that catching moles on a clear fall day was about the coolest thing a bunch of young 20-year-olds could do spend their time.

After a whole Summer of the Mole with friends, this activity became something of a lore in our history together. To this day, when one of us in our small group mentions those days of plaid jackets and countless hours in the fields, we all smile and have a few memories to share.

Mom and Dad hosted my wedding reception (after we got married in Mexico) and guess what the girls and I did while we all got dressed up in our fancy clothes?

You have it; We checked our traps.

Some might say (and probably did back then) that we were a bunch of bored girls just looking for attention. Because I can’t deny it, we’ve posted our mole adventures all over our social networks without shame.

But the real truth I see now as I share these memories was that it was a time we had to spend together in an increasingly complicated life. We tried to hold on to our puberty a little longer. Maybe it was that mole hunt that helped us go from being giggly wayward girls to the women we are now.

After a hard day’s work, we got something to drink while Dad grilled steaks and Mom cooked a feast, and we took a bath in the dugout just down the road.

For the layman, this may all sound a bit too rural. But at the time, it filled me with a kind of togetherness that I will never forget.

Good friends, family and hard, honest work filled my summer that year. Well, maybe the moles wouldn’t have honestly thought so, but as every farmer knows, a mole in the field is nothing but trouble. Still, I can see why this kind of bucolic lifestyle appeals to so many.

I’ve now moved to the city from my dad’s farm, and every once in a while I still long for those country sunsets as we sat around a wood stove, talking about the day’s work and planning what tomorrow might bring.

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This post was previously published on it’s just foam.

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