This came to me courtesy of Doug Doty.

There was this old trapper I heard of. Nobody's seen him in years. He lives way up north of Circle someplace. Just him and his dogs. No one knows much about him other than his nearest neighbor, Tanner. That isn't his name, but that's what he does, so that's what everybody calls him.

Tanner would see the old trapper sometimes when he brought his skins to him. He never had much news and the old trapper had none, so they didn't ever talk much. The trapper would leave his skins and a list of supplies to trade for. Tanner would sell the skins in town, take his cut and gather up the supplies on the list. Sooner or later the old trapper would show up, take his stuff, any leftover money, and disappear again.

A couple of shouts at the dog team and away he'd go up the trail on his sled. Just him and his eight dogs. Those dogs were the only ones ever did hear that old trapper say much. That's why I don't know where this story comes from, but Tanner tells it and he ain't smart enough to make something up.

This old trapper works pretty hard, for a trapper anyway, and does okay by it. He's got himself quite a nice little log cabin he built, a few sheds and whatnot. He never buys anything but bullets, traps and grub mostly. So he must have some little bit of money out there he don't care too much about.

There don't seem to be a whole lot he does care too much about except trapping, and it's hard to guess what he does out there all the time. He must hunt some, of course, moose and caribou mostly, sometimes bear. And he fishes, gotta fish. He's got piles of 'em frozen solid and stacked like cordwood in one shed.

That's all he'll feed those dogs. Every night he makes a mean brew in an old fuel drum. The dogs yip and cry and hang against their lines when he starts dumping those frozen fish in the boiling water. He throws 'em each some when it's good and warm, goes back in the cabin, and that's it. Except one night every year.

It's always at that time of year when the days are as dark as they're going to get. The lion's share of the trapping is still left to do and the coldest weather is yet to come. It's those dark nights right around then he looks his dogs over closest. He checks their feet and mouths, feels their strong shoulders , and pats them on the rump.

He'd be sunk without those dogs. He knows that. Without them he couldn't go nowhere and couldn't take hardly nothing with him if he did. He couldn't live out there like he does without them, and it's during those bleak and darkest days he knows that best.

There's a night around then that's always different. He fires up the ol' fuel drum like usual, but instead of tossing in just a few fish, he drags out one big ol' moose leg and dumps it in there after he's hacked it up some with an ax. The dogs kind of coo and gurgle like huskies do when they smell stuff like that cooking. He gives them all a little more than he should and lets his lead dog in the cabin for the night to sleep by the fire just this once. He gives them all an extra pat on the rump in the morning and feels good about having them around.

Tanner tells this story every year over at the lodge on Christmas. He says it's a true Christmas story, but I don't know if it is, or if it even makes a difference.