After much procrastination (we blamed unusual weather, poor trail conditions, busy schedules and so on), we're heading into camp over Washington's Birthday weekend (sorry, “Presidents' Day”).

Come Friday, a motley crew will convene in my barnyard to try to make sense out of snowmachines, freight sleds, snowshoes, water containers, firearms and assorted gear and grub, and head up South Hill Road and onto Route 145 and on to Pittsburg's Murphy Dam, where we will assemble a caravan and try to snowmobile as far into camp as possible (the snow-pack tends to begin settling about now, theoretically making off-trail snowmobiling possible, but we never know, hence the snowshoes). Being a pragmatist if not a fatalist, I heavily expect that we'll be trudging the latter part of the trip on snowshoes.

In which case, on the way in I expect to see (a) snow fleas, (b) maybe a snow spider, (c) fox, fisher and coyote tracks, (d) partridge and rabbit tracks, and (e) maybe even those piles of little snipped-off fir-bough tips that always occasion discussion and mystery. (Squirrels after tiny buds? Birds after tiny insects?)

At camp, assuming we ever get there, we are certain to find (a) lots of snow on the porch, blocking the heavy storm door, (b) a buried woodpile and (c) a camp so cold that it'll be an hour, even with a fire going full-tilt, before we can even take our heavy mitts off, let alone our boots.

We also will find, without a doubt, dead mice, courtesy of D-Con. And as soon as the camp warms up, live ones. Very live, as in scampering upside-down on roof-beams and, later, across sleeping bags and, inevitably, sleeping faces, hopefully not in mid-snore.

Dead mice and live mice and the promotion of one over the other are part of camp life. A lifetime in various camps has taught me this. At least, we rationalize, we have not yet had interior-dwelling squirrels, which can make a mess that would put all of Mousedom to shame.

After we've warmed the camp up and hauled in thicker parts of the snow-pack to melt for dishwater and hauled enough wood for a subarctic night and stored the grub in mouse-proof containers, talk will inevitably turn to mouse traps. We've tried all kinds and invented others, and readers have sent their equally Gonzo versions in, and some have even worked.

Before I wrote this, I Googled “mouse traps” and hit upon an urban-oriented site suggesting bait at the end of a toilet or paper towel tube balanced on a table over a very deep trash bucket, the responses to which made me glad I'm not an urban psychiatrist.

On the other hand, legend and lore are rife with accounts of cabin-bound trappers and the like spending long winters scheming on The Perfect Mouse Trap, and going, well, squirrelly, and I wonder how far along we already are.

John Harrigan's column appears weekly in the New Hampshire Sunday News. His address is Box 39, Colebrook 03576. Email him at hooligan@nci.net.