“I’ll watch where I walk, thanks.” Matt felt an urge to search the forest, disabling whatever traps he could find. This wasn’t the frontier anymore. People didn’t need to kill these critters in such a brutal fashion to survive the winter.

“Trappin’ in the Yooper’s a tradition, guy,” the man said, his left eyelid twitching.

The stench of stale beer, the kind of smell that slowly takes over a keg party as the night wears on, wafted towards Matt. He waved, as if that would dismiss the man and the smell. “Okay, thanks, but I have no interest in trapping.”

The man’s face scrunched up and reddened. “Bullshit you ain’t trapping, guy. You got a set in your truck? I saw it back at the lot.” The man held up his left arm. A series of trap lines clanked from it, little plates of death rattling at the bottom.

Yeah, things were starting to get slightly uncomfortable. Why was this stranger poking around his truck? Weird bordering on unsettling. “I don’t trap,” Matt said. “Don’t plan to, don’t want to.”

The trapper listed to the left and slurred his words. Then he laughed, revealing a fermenting wad of chew in the back of his mouth. Black specks plugged the gaps in his teeth.

“Well, whether you do or ya don’t, be careful of what you trap up here fella. You may not like what ya catch,” he said.

Matt kicked his boot toe into the gravel. “I’ll take that into consideration.” Matt looked up the ravine, then kicked his boot into the gravel again, clear signs he was done with the conversation. Did he need to actually turn his back on the guy so he got the message?

The man’s eyes narrowed. “By the way guy, what’s your name? I saw your plates and I know you’re a FB.”

“FB.” was a term some Northwoods locals used to describe visitors from Illinois. It was short for Freaking Illinois Brat, or Fucking Illinois Brat if so inclined.

Matt straightened his posture and glared at the man. Maybe now he’d get the message. “I’m Matt, not FIB. And FIB has become sort of a cliché, don’t you think?”

The man spit a black globule onto the dried log, just missing a scurrying black ant. “Ain’t no quiche if it’s true. By the way, name’s Skeet. Skeet Ackerson. I’m over on Jessup Road, last graded till the Hurons.”

Matt chuckled. Quiche? The gaffe put him at ease and made him hungry at the same time.

“Alright, nice to meet you, Skeet. Good luck on your hunt,” he said with as much enthusiasm as a boy telling his parents that yes, he’ll eat the green beans after all.