Muskrat By Mail

From time to time in my online travels, I stop in on a thriving community dedicated to discussing and sharing information on fly fishing in Pennsylvania. Now and then, I’ll run across an old buddy or associate from my PA days and that’s always nice. Other times, I’ll see that a relative beginner in the sport is posting questions about where to fish, what gear to buy to get started or simply wants to tell everybody he finally caught a trout on a fly and he’s now hooked for a lifetime. Every once in a while, I’ll log in under my user name and answer a question or two or congratulate the newly successful fly fisher. For the most part though, I just read what the guys have to say without commenting. There are more than enough knowledgeable anglers hanging around to field most of the beginner’s questions and there are more than enough young guys with a few years experience under their belts who race each other to answer every question in order to, I would imagine, make sure everybody is aware of how much they know about the sport. Having been a young guy myself at one time, I understand this. Young males, whether they are roosters, grouse or accountants from Scranton often have a need to display their plumage. So, I mostly just read and let the other guys do the strutting.

A couple weeks ago though, I responded to an inquiry on this forum that led to a delightful little episode at the local post office. A fellow posted that he was in the market for a muskrat skin for fly tying purposes and if anybody had an extra one around they were willing to part with, he’d pay the postage to send it to him. I happened to have a spare muskrat hide that was given to me by my brother-in-law who is an avid trapper and usually has a few skins every year that he cannot sell. Now, a standard size muskrat hide has enough fur on it to last the average fly tier the better part, if not the entirety of a lifetime. I’m still trying to use up a muskrat skin I got in 1977 and I tie a lot of flies. Its slow work, but I’m gaining on it.

Anyway, I responded to the inquiry on the web community and sent the guy a private message letting him know I had a hide that could be in the mail the next day after he gave me the address where I should send it. Which he did in relatively short order. He wanted to assure me that he would reimburse me for the postage. I wrote him back and told him not to bother and just “Pay it Forward”, that is, do something nice for another angler. I could take credit for magnanimosity and generosity, but the truth is I didn’t want to ask him for a check for $4.71. It seemed sort of petty somehow.

So, I bagged the hide up in a standard-issue plastic grocery sack and drove on down to the post office to mail it. There was a long line for the counter, so I opted to use the self-serve kiosk where you answer a bunch of questions on a touch screen, plug in a debit card and then it spits out your pre-printed, paid postage. I had the hide sealed up in a large Priority Mail envelope. My brother in law treated or cured the hide with a salt or borax method that does an excellent job, but makes the skin pretty rigid. As a result, I had to fold Mr. Muskrat over at a point about two inches behind his (former) eye holes, in order to get the hide into the envelope.

So, here I am at the self-serve kiosk with a bent muskrat hide that is making big lumps in the shape of the Priority Mail envelope. An odd looking package to say the least. I hit the touch screen and start answering the questions. Zip code, check. Regulation size USPS envelope, check. “Does your package contain any flammable, explosive, perishable materials or materials of plant or animal origin?”. Well, yes. I’m trying to mail a muskrat hide. I decided I’d better go to the counter after all..

After a few minutes wait in line, it was my turn and I placed my lumpy envelope down on the counter in front of a nice young lady in a USPS uniform. I said, “I need to mail this muskrat hide to Maryland, but when I tried to use the self-serve kiosk and the question about materials of animal origin came up, I decided I’d better come to the counter to be sure I’m in compliance with all the USPS regulations. She nodded and said: “What’s a Muskrat?” It occurred to me that if I were back in Waterford (PA), I might not have to field this complex question, but I live in one of the northern suburbs of Chicago and I shouldn’t be surprised that nobody knew what a muskrat was. “Well, it’s a small aquatic animal that lives along the shorelines of lakes and streams. About yeah long (forming a gap of roughly 20 inches between my palms) and very furry with a long tail. Its fur is very good for tying fishing flies”. She wrinkled her nose and said, “Yuck”. Then she asked me how long it had been dead. “About three years”, I told her. She wrinkled her nose some more. Then I followed up: “Look, if it’s any help, its sort of like mailing a mink hat. It’s a part of an animal, but it isn’t going to stink or anything like that. It’s been dead a long time.” Then she touched the lump in the envelope where I had been forced to put a crease in Mr. Muskrat in order to make him fit inside. She asked, “Is this his head?” I said, “Well, his head is actually long gone, but that’s about where his eye holes are, umm, were, well, you know.” She nodded, did some more nose wrinkling and announced, “I’ll be right back”. I told her I’d hang on to the muskrat and wait. She did some more nose wrinkling and disappeared around the corner.

Momentarily, she reappeared with the Postmaster himself in tow. So, I explained it to him. I don’t think he knew what a muskrat was either, but he didn’t let on one way or the other. He just nodded a few times and then turned to the clerk and said, “OK”. And he was gone back to his office, maybe to watch for terrorists or check out the new commemorative issue of stamps featuring great Maine lighthouses.

Back at the counter, the clerk ran the postage and affixed it to the envelope just a little to the left of Mr. Muskrat’s right rear paw, or so I approximated. Then out of nowhere, she started talking to me about fishing and her Grandmother in Alabama and how the old woman had loved to sit and fish for catfish and the talks they had and how much she missed her. She grew animated in her descriptions and her eyes seemed to be seeing beyond the confines of the Post Office to another place, another time. Moonlight and lantern glow shimmering on the surface of the river. The deep bass rumble of the bullfrogs all around them. The tap, tap, tap of the rod tip as a catfish picked up the bait. Simple times and simple joys. I smiled, thanked her for her help and I told her that fishing was all that and a whole lot more. Because it is..