November's Beaver moon hung low in the night sky. Our family lives in a cabin in the Wisconsin not far from the headwaters of the Chippewa River. We settled in the area in 1841. We found Northern Wisconsin to be much like our homeland near the Black Forest with rolling hills covered by forests punctuated by scores of small lakes. I just turned 14 years old, Dad said, “You will be on your own tonight with the traps, my leg isn’t healed enough to help. Can you handle it?”

“Sure can, you’ll see,” I boldly responded.

I lugged four iron traps to the river and began setting one of the traps under the water. I anchored the short chain to a stake and use oil from dead beavers to bait the trap. As I was about to set the trigger, the mechanism sprung, the jaws cut deep into my arm. I pulled; blood gushed. I became faint and then all went black.

I awoke in a birch bark wigwam; a Menominee Indian mother and her daughter tended my arm, swabbing it with a sandy colored paste. I later learned the paste was made from sunflower seeds. When my arm was healed, the girl took me to a forest trail, she held up two fingers, the sign for peace, I did the same. I have recorded this event in the family bible so that those who come after will have reason to thank the Menominee Indians for saving their ancestor.