The Trap

The Trap

3.8 6
by John Smelcer
     
 

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Seventeen-year-old Johnny Least-Weasel knows that his grandfather Albert is a stubborn old man and won't stop checking his own traplines even though other men his age stopped doing so years ago. But Albert Least-Weasel has been running traplines in the Alaskan wilderness alone for the past sixty years. Nothing has ever gone wrong on the trail he knows so well. When

Overview

Seventeen-year-old Johnny Least-Weasel knows that his grandfather Albert is a stubborn old man and won't stop checking his own traplines even though other men his age stopped doing so years ago. But Albert Least-Weasel has been running traplines in the Alaskan wilderness alone for the past sixty years. Nothing has ever gone wrong on the trail he knows so well. When Albert doesn't come back from checking his traps, with the temperature steadily plummeting, Johnny must decide quickly whether to trust his grandfather or his own instincts. Written in alternating chapters that relate the parallel stories of Johnny and his grandfather, this novel poignantly addresses the hardships of life in the far north, suggesting that the most dangerous traps need not be made of steel.

Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher

“An unforgettable story. Brilliant!” —Ray Bradbury

“In THE TRAP, John Smelcer takes his readers into a frozen world, and keeps us there with a gripping example of talented storytelling. Unforgettable.” —Tony Hillerman

“THE TRAP is a lovely story, beautifully told, the kind that makes you wade in and sink warmly into the cold, cold north of Alaska.” —Winston Groom, author of Forrest Gump

“First novelist John Smelcer takes readers to the Alaskan Arctic Circle for an unforgettable survival tale.” —The Horn Book

Children's Literature - Sharon Oliver
This simple yet haunting novel portrays the best and the worst of the lives of the modern day Alaskan Native Americans. The story focuses on men of two different generations: seventeen-year-old Johnny Least-Weasel and his elderly grandfather Albert. Albert has been checking his own trap lines for sixty years and sees no reason to stop, until a freak accident traps him. Trapped and chained to a tree mere feet from his snowmobile and survival equipment, Albert has plenty of time to ponder his fate and contemplate his life. Johnny is worried about his grandfather's prolonged absence, but other community members convince him that his concern is unnecessary. Johnny waits as long as he can before anxiety overcomes him and he sets out to look for his overdue grandfather. Written in chapters alternating between Johnny and Albert, the similarities and the differences of the two men's lives stand out in icy relief. Johnny wants to improve his life and moves toward that end by taking high school correspondence courses, necessary because the village has not been able to keep a teacher. Johnny points out the high suicide rate amongst teens, caught between a world of plenty they can see on cable TV and the frozen tundra they are ill equipped to leave. Albert is holding on to the old ways in a world where they are no longer enough for survival. The journeys of both men are compelling and dramatic in addition to the no-holds-barred portrayal of the Alaskan wilderness. A fantastic read that transcends genres to appeal to many different YA readers.
VOYA - Matthew Weaver
Beauty abounds in this tiny epic, similar to the sad song that Johnny Least-Weasel's grandfather has sung to his wife throughout their many years of marriage. In this story, Smelcer, of Ahtna Athabaskan Indian descent and the only surviving speaker, reader, and writer of the Ahtna language, seems to straddle the line flawlessly between an ancient legend and contemporary fiction. When Albert Least-Weasel gets his leg caught in a trap in the dead of winter in the middle of the Alaskan wilderness, readers hear the story from both his perspective and that of his grandson left worried back home, even though his grandfather has long been the strongest man that he has ever known. Smelcer never hits a wrong note, particularly when he strikes the more somber ones. His characters act with quiet dignity, either as Johnny frets or as Albert works to survive against the wolves and the looming frost. There is grace to their motions, even when they are sitting still or as they race the clock. The suspense is played on an everyday level, which is why it works; Smelcer never goes for thriller status, electing instead to tell a tale of contemplative melancholy. How long the story lingers in readers' minds really depends on them; one gets the sense that for the author, this is a modern-day Indian story that simply had to be told.
School Library Journal
Gr 6-9-Johnny Least-Weasel worries that his grandfather hasn't returned home from checking his trapline. The elderly Indian packed ample supplies onto his snowmobile, but has been out far too long in the plummeting temperatures of the Alaskan winter. Cultural pride and reluctance to disrespect an elder get in the way of search plans until Johnny's grandmother can wait no longer, and she sends him out to find her husband. Only readers know that Albert Least-Weasel has caught his leg in a trap, several feet away from his supplies, and is unable to free himself. Chapters alternate between Albert's dilemma and Johnny's failed attempts to raise concern among his uncles, creating a suspenseful page-turner in which the old man's survival becomes a race against time. Albert's wilderness skills are sharp and described in detail, such as fending off wolves with a spear made from a cedar branch and creating a rabbit snare from a shoelace. Excerpts from a folktale about a warrior named Blackskin appear at the beginning of each chapter, illustrating how present-day life for the Least-Weasel family is still the same, in many ways, as it was for their ancestors. A great addition to survival/adventure collections or Native American fiction.-Vicki Reutter, Cazenovia High School, NY Copyright 2006 Reed Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
Readers will be clinging to the pages of this graceful, haunting story about a 17-year-old Alaskan Indian searching for his lost grandfather, and about the grandfather trying to survive in the freezing wilderness. Old Albert Least-Weasel still maintains his trap lines, still going out alone, when he finds himself caught in one of his traps. Johnny, his grandson, helps his grandmother and works at his job while worrying about the old man. Smelcer tells their stories in alternating chapters, building suspense as time runs out for Albert. Meanwhile, Johnny reflects on the tiny, dying town in which he finds himself trapped. How rare to find lyrical writing combined with real suspense. Smelcer accentuates the humanity of his characters as he reveals how the strengths of their ancestors survive in these modern people. Equally memorable and enjoyable for children, teens and adults. A small masterpiece. (Fiction. 10+)

Product Details

ISBN-13:
9780312377557
Publisher:
Square Fish
Publication date:
12/26/2007
Edition description:
Reprint
Pages:
176
Sales rank:
601,155
Product dimensions:
6.21(w) x 8.19(h) x 0.51(d)
Lexile:
1100L (what's this?)
Age Range:
11 - 14 Years

Read an Excerpt

The Trap


By John Smelcer

Holtzbrinck Publishers

Copyright © 2006 John Smelcer
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4668-7216-5



CHAPTER 1

Back before white men were searching for gold in the hills and streams of this North Country, there was a village much like any other small village nestled along the great river. One fall, several young men went moose hunting. A man asked if he could join them, even though he was very old and slow. Reluctantly, the young men let him come along.


Off in the distance, in a place far away from anyplace else, a yellow snowmobile pulling a long sled was slowly coming down toward the wide river through a valley of white hills, winding around trees, traversing over knolls and rises, sometimes becoming visible, sometimes moving unseen. The sun was already at its highest point, which was barely above the rim of the blue-edged horizon. That's the way it had been for the past month and the way it would be for at least another month to come. Winter this far north was a series of short days and long nights, with mostly cold and silence in between — a time when most living things huddled or slept through the intolerable cold and dark.

It had snowed during the night, which, like the prolonged darkness, was nothing new. It always snowed here, more so in the mountains, and the wind swept the whiteness against trees and deadfalls and the steep banks of streams or lakes. To escape the pitiless wind, sled dogs learned to dig down into the snow and to curl up into tight balls with their long, bushy tails covering their noses and eyes like fur quilts. They'd sleep that way all night, cold and dreaming of summer and sunlight warm upon them.

Sometimes the snow buried sleeping moose or cabins, drifted over backcountry trails, and concealed treacherous openings in the great river far below, the river that wound itself through the floodplain to the sea.

They say the People of the North have a hundred names for snow. This may not be completely true, but anyone who has lived any time on a frozen land knows that snow has more than one name.

There is sleet, and hail so big around that the sound of it falling on a tin roof is deafening. There are dry, soft flakes that fall gently without hurry or anger, like the lazy flakes in a Christmas-card scene. There is wet snow that sticks to the branches of trees, turns to ice, and breaks their limbs when too much has gathered. Some snow falls straight down, some slantwise, and some from everywhere, even from beneath, as if the freezing earth itself is storming. There is powder snow, which, when loosely settled on a field or valley, creates an almost religious experience for those fortunate enough to be the first to break trails, leaving their long, unbroken signatures on the snow-clad landscape.

Sometimes, when conditions are right, there is granulated snow, like sugar, loosely packed and crystalline, which gives teeth to the wind. After a very cold night, when the cold pulls out all moisture from the air, there is dry snow. On a warm winter day, a rare day, the low sun melts only the thinnest layer of snow closest to the surface and then refreezes it at night. This is crusted snow. After a trail is broken into the backcountry, the next morning there will be packed snow, hard and unyielding — a narrow road through the wilderness used by man and animal alike.

In high winds, when little snow is falling, the wind can sweep up snow from fields, shake it loose from trees, and swirl it about the world like a blender. This is a flurry. Add a great deal of new snow and you have a blizzard — so dense the earth and sky seem to merge into one whiteness.

In late spring, when the sun hangs on the horizon longer and longer each day, there can be slush, more water than ice.

Only the foolish would say there is one word for snow. Anything that lasts so long and buries a world must be many-named.

* * *

Rounding the last turn, disappearing for a minute and then coming into view again, the snowmobile dragged itself and its sled up to a stand of trees and stopped. For an instant, the only sound in the hills was the gentle push of a breeze and the groan of a man rising from the machine.

He stood and looked out across the great land that his ancestors had lived on since the beginning. How long, he did not know. No one knew. But he knew this was his land. Every single place had a name. The names were ancient, and sometimes no one could remember what they meant or why, but that did not matter. The land had always known its place. The names given to it by man only comforted man. They mattered not at all to the hills or the far white mountains, the quiet river below or the large tree in its winter sleep, gently swaying and creaking in the wind.

When he stepped from the machine, he sank almost to his waist in snow. It was loose, the way snow is in the first hours after it falls, before it has time to change its mind and become something else. With his teeth, he pulled off his sealskin gloves, which fell and hung loosely, one at each hip because they were tied together across the shoulders of his parka.

The sun was so low it reflected off the icy crystals of snow, nearly blinding the man who held a naked hand against his forehead and slowly turned to look out across the world. Small clouds of breath billowed and faded as cold began to settle in his fingers.

He squinted hard and for a long time watched and listened. The sky was dark blue and contrasted against the blanketed white of the earth. It was a beautiful place, lovely and deadly all at once, a land of great power. Its voice seemed to ring out from its highest mountains, to be carried by the wind off glaciers down toward the sea, and to say that it could kill you in a second. Those who perish here cannot hear the voice to heed its warning.

Most men have become deaf. They can barely hear each other anymore, much less nature's whisperings. Nature is not tailored to man. It exists for itself.

After a few minutes, the man turned toward the trees, pulled off his brown fur hat, and placed it on the black seat of the machine. The seat was cracked in a few places, and the back part was entirely covered in gray duct tape. The machine and the man had covered many miles together. He was old, with fairly long dark hair and only a whisper of a black mustache. A shadow of a rough beard was just beginning to grow, black and gray, salt and pepper, the stubble from a few days without a razor. His face was weathered, and deep lines ran across it like the ever-changing channels of the river in the valley below. It wasn't a face forged simply by age, but a face that had been exposed too long in a land where time is measured not by the slow ticking hands of clocks, but by the quiet changing of seasons. It was a face weathered by erosion, like canyons or deserts.

The old man looked at something hanging from one of the lowest branches of a tree, a rabbit dangling from a string tied around one leg. It was frozen rigid and swayed slightly in the breeze pouring down from the mountains, across the hills, and out across the flats where villages nestled along the wide river's edge. He could see that it was whole, that no animal had tried to pull it down from the tree.

He had strung it up a few days earlier as bait to trap fox or wolverine, lynx or wolf. At the base of the tree, secured by a rusted chain bolted to it, he had placed a steel trap, its sharp teeth spread apart and open in wait for a paw to step on it, for the furred weight to trigger a latch that would send the metal teeth crushing into flesh and bone.

He had set such traps under trees all along the two branches of his trapline, each some twenty miles long from beginning to end. He would set them a mile apart, hang the rabbit, and return in a few days to see what had been drawn in by the scent. Most of the time, there would be nothing but the rabbit, but sometimes there would be another animal. Sometimes it was still alive and its leg would be bleeding, the snow red all around the trap, and, in some cases much of the paw would be chewed away in the animal's attempt to break free. Sometimes the animal was already dead and frozen stiff, having fallen victim to the cold.

All up and down the valley and the surrounding hills, such traps were set, their springs tight, their teeth sharpened, waiting patiently like winter, with neither memory nor regret.

This is how he had done it all his life. This is how his father had taught him. It was the way of the trapper, part of life and death in these white rolling hills.

Underneath the swaying rabbit, the perfect snow was undisturbed except for an almost imperceptible trail of a shrew, which had run across the snow beneath the tree, stopped here and there, and then turned back on itself before disappearing into a small hole.

The wind lifted the man's hair and blew it into his eyes. He swiped it away and trudged the few yards to his sled, where he untied a pair of snowshoes and pulled a short flat-head shovel from alongside the runners.

Strapped into the belly of the metal-framed cargo sled were two frozen quarters of a moose, each weighing over a hundred pounds. The man had shot it the day before near one of his trapping cabins. Now it accompanied him on his journey home. The rest of the moose meat was hanging from the rafters inside the cabin so that animals could not get to it. It would stay frozen inside the small log house, and the old man would come back in a few days or a week to haul it home on the same sled. That was one good thing about the long deep freeze of winter.

A strong white cord crisscrossed over the quarters and through the sled's frame to hold them down during the bumpy journey. On top of the meat, held down tight by black rubber cords, was an old army knapsack stuffed with those things important to surviving winter on this land. There was a hatchet, a dented old pot blackened from years of hanging over small campfires, utensils, a metal cup, a handsaw, extra dry socks, matches, toilet paper, and food — unsalted dry biscuits called pilot crackers, a half-filled container of oatmeal, dry salmon strips, jerky, salt and pepper, and always a can of Spam and a jar of dark instant coffee.

It was the kind of pack anyone who knew this country would carry out into the wilderness. The pack was a common thing, like carrying an extra five gallons of gas on snowmobile or boat trips between the river villages.

The man carried the snowshoes and the shovel over to the still-hot snowmobile and jabbed them into the snow so that they stood almost straight up, casting long shadows down the trail. He sat on the seat and pulled a piece of jerky out from somewhere inside his fur-trimmed parka. As he tugged with his teeth at the dried meat, he looked around and smiled. His teeth were white and strong, perhaps wider than most, but there were few cavities for such a broad smile. He smiled because he was home. He was always home in this country. This place was where he had lived out the many years of his life and where he would one day die and be buried in the small cemetery on the hill overlooking his village and the great river.

They say it is enough for animals to know existence. But for Indians, they must also marvel at it. Perhaps that is the difference between them.

Albert Least-Weasel sat eating his jerky and watching the white world for a long time, smiling and squinting at the bright landscape. When he finished eating, he grabbed the short wooden-handled shovel and tossed it toward the tree and the trap. It landed close to the tree, but not too close, and stuck upright, its worn and faded handle looking like a thin grayish tree with no limbs. He would use the shovel to remove snow from around the base of the tree so that the trap would be exposed, free to show its teeth and shine in the sunlight.

The old man trudged through the deep snow until he was almost under the dead rabbit swinging stiffly in the breeze. He looked at it closely. Its white fur was ragged and full of holes where camprobbers — small, intelligent light-gray birds of the north, had pecked at it. Perhaps a raven may have been at it as well. It was hard to tell the difference. The old man cut the string tied to the rabbit's hind leg with his single-blade pocketknife and tossed the carcass far away. He would set fresh bait above the trap, a long piece of moose meat laced with brown hair and sinew. But first he would clear the area beneath the tree and check to see if the trap was still set.

The old man always placed his traps directly under the bait, so he was careful not to stand too close to where the trap lay beneath the soft new snow.

He studied the snow. It wasn't all that deep. The great boughs of the tree protected the base so that only a portion of snow had filtered down to the ground beneath. The snow was not even up to his knees, while out on the field a dozen yards away it was almost waist-deep. He wouldn't need the shovel. Instead, standing close to the tree with one hand firmly set against its trunk, he kicked away the snow using the flat side of his boot and leg, the way an ice fisherman clears snow above the lid of a frozen lake. Before long, he had cleared away much of the snow, except for the area directly under where the frozen bait had hung.

It wasn't really hard work, but he grew tired quickly and stopped to catch his breath. He was hot from the labor and unzipped his parka until the metal teeth let go of each other and the parka swung open like a tent door. Albert stood beneath the tree for a few minutes until his heart slowed down and he felt cool.

He was almost eighty. The years had been catching up with him, not slowly like the ticking second hands of his old wind-up wristwatch, but in great leaps like spawning salmon jumping waterfalls.

When he was ready, he turned back to the task of removing snow with his boots. Again, he placed one hand on the tree to steady himself and kicked until he could see the frozen moss and grass underneath the snow. He was working his way out from the base of the tree when it happened. There was a soft click as the teeth of steel closed on his leg. The foot or so of snow covering the trap may have slowed its speed. The snow must have muffled the sound too, because he didn't recall hearing it when it clamped down on his leg. This was a sensation he had never felt before. He had always wondered about a moment like this. A moment he had assigned to the suffering of others but never to himself. The steel of his own trap now gripped his right leg — but not as quickly or as sharply as he would have imagined. In fact, it didn't really hurt all that much. It was more a tightness, like when the doctor who flew into his village took his blood pressure. The way his arm felt when the doctor pumped up the black band.

For the first time in his life, Albert understood what an animal must feel, what every animal he had ever trapped must have felt.

The old man raised his foot to see with his eye what he saw in his mind. When he did, the chain pulled itself out of the snow and drew a straight line from the man to the tree trunk only a few feet away. With his foot off the ground, he could see how the steel teeth had closed only an inch or so above the knob of his ankle. There was no blood. The sharp teeth had penetrated the thin brown leather of his boot but not the thick lining or his wool socks that kept his feet warm even to thirty or forty below.

With the low sun so near light's last breaking, skimming on the bulging edge of the world, Albert Least-Weasel put his foot down and laughed. His situation wasn't really a funny thing, but it wasn't as bad as it could have been, more irritating than dangerous. He would simply remove the trap, reset it, and be on his way home, where by late evening he would sit beside a crackling woodstove with his wife, sipping hot black tea and eating moose-nose soup with hardtack for his supper.

From the far side of the wide field came the soft hoot of an owl.


A long time ago, all the men in a small village along the sea wanted to be warriors. Each morning they ran down to the sea and jumped into the freezing water. They stayed in the water until they almost froze to death, thereby proving their strength. Afterward, they beat one another with branches to learn endurance of pain and to toughen their skin. They all wrestled and boasted of their strength. Then they took turns trying to pull a great tree from the ground. Try as they might, none could tear the tree from its roots.


A young man quickly closed the cabin door and leaned against it with all his weight to make sure that it was shut tight. He was around seventeen, tall and lean, with long black hair hanging halfway to his waist. It was warm inside the small log house, and he didn't want the warm air with its smell of wood smoke to escape. When he was sure that he had secured the door, he took off his parka, fur hat, and gloves and laid everything on a wooden crate full of split wood sitting near the rattling black woodstove. He could tell from listening that the stove was burning too hot and too fast, so he turned the threaded damper a few turns until, nearly starved for air, the fire settled down and fell upon itself. Soon, the split birch logs whispered only to each other, the way they were supposed to, once the heavy iron door was closed.


(Continues...)

Excerpted from The Trap by John Smelcer. Copyright © 2006 John Smelcer. Excerpted by permission of Holtzbrinck Publishers.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Meet the Author

John Smelcer's work has appeared in more than 300 magazines, including The Atlantic Monthly, and he has written over 20 books. His novel The Great Death was published by Henry Holt in 2009.

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The Trap 3.8 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 6 reviews.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Well, I basically hate it. :/ Sorry to ruin it for y'all, but I'm 13, I've had the book for two weeks, and I'm only on pg 75. I usually can read A LOT. I'm a reader, I love reading. I can read 200 pg books in a few hours, if they're good! It's boring. I see no plot. Albert is stuck in the cold, and I'm just thinking "oh. wow. sucks for him. yawn." It's just so boring. I can't get through it! Everyone says they were immediately captured. Well, I'm most definitely NOT trapped in this book.
CandyTalksToStrangers More than 1 year ago
Put on a long-sleeve shirt, a vest, a puffy jacket and depending on your fashion, a scarf or a hoody because we're going to one of the coldest places on earth, the Alaskan Tundra. I was a chap that didn't like reading at all. I picked a book from my school's library shelf, read 2 pages, and threw it across the room. Until one day I was in the library (again trying to pick ANOTHER book) when I saw "The Trap" in the floor, lying, dead. I picked the book up and I actually liked the cover, so I read the summary in the back, and in the panels and I felt an attraction for the book. So, I checked it out and I just couldn't stop reading. Actually, the book caused me some problems with my teachers, for I was always reading the book in the middle of classes. After reading half of the book I knew that this was one of the best books that I have ever read and I have made a new literary friend, Johnny Least Weasel. Johnny takes us through a fantastic journey of trust, respect and will. The Weasel family has been hunting all of their lives, especially Albert Least Weasel, an old man whose age has given him experience in hunting. Normally he'll go and check on his trap lines daily and return when the sun sets. But when Johnny's grandparent doesn't come back for 4 days Johnny will put on his Superhero suit and try and save his grandpa. 2 thoughts came to Johnny's mind before he leaves on his journey. Either 1, trust his grandparent's experience or two (and wait patiently until he gets back) or leave and try save him. This is where the reader begins shaking and biting his lips and nails. There are factors that may act as barriers for Johnny. The weather, in which the cold can get to 60 degrees below cero, may destroy Johnny's fragile body. The wild life can eat Johnny entirely, for he doesn't have the necessary experience to go in the wild alone, as his grandma says. Lastly, he doesn't know where in the tundra his grandpop is. Either Johnny comes back with his grandparent and becomes the hero of the Alaskan Tundra or he dies along with his grandparent in the wild and get eaten by wolfs or bears. The emotion I felt all through the book is how Johnny, as the book advances, gets tougher and tougher each time. This makes the reader stick to the book as if the book was the paper, and Johnny was the glue stick. If I could lift all my thumbs up (feet thumbs and hand thumbs) I would say 4 thumbs up for this book, unfortunately I can only lift 2, which makes me say this expression: 2 thumbs up for "The Trap" and John Smelcer.
Guest More than 1 year ago
The Trap, written by John Smelcer is an adventurous and action-packed story. Albert Least-Weasel is an old character who has been checking his own trap lines for nearly seventy years now. He¿s an Indian man who¿s in his mid-eighty¿s. Most men stopped checking their own trap lines by the time they were sixty years old. Albert has a grandson named Johnny Least-Weasel. Albert has taught Johnny everything he knows. When Albert hadn¿t returned after four days of being out on his trap line, Johnny and his grandma began to worry. Where they lived, the winters were very harsh. At times, the average temperature would reach thirty degrees below zero. Johnny decides to go out on his snowmobile to look for Albert. To find out what Johnny finds on his long and frigid journey into the wild, you¿ll have to read the book yourself. I enjoyed this book. I could connect well to the stories that Johnny told about hunting and fishing through my own experiences. The Trap was easy to follow and understand. I liked this story¿s setting out in the snowy wild or in a cabin warmed by a wood burner. The Trap kind of reminds me of the wilderness and survival books written by well known author Gary Paulsen.
Guest More than 1 year ago
Old aged Albert Least-Weasel had the perfect life. He had a hard-working and achieved grandson, his sons, and a warm, comfy cabin where his wife prepared his meals and spent time sewing gifts for her family. However, one day, things started to go wrong for this Indian and his family so that their lives would never be the same. In fact, things started to go very wrong. Because he lived in the cold, lonesome land of Antarctica, Albert needed a trap line to trap animals for food. On one trip on his trap line, though, Albert makes one little mistake that would change lives. Although very skilled in trapping animals, at one of the traps he accidentally lowers his foot into the dark metal teeth that were waiting and pleading impatiently to clomp shut. With a chuckle, Albert attempts to remove his foot, now trapped between the teeth of the metal. This book is good for those that enjoy suspense. Throughout the book, I found myself wondering, ¿Is he going to get his foot out of the trap?¿ In fact, the suspense was so strong that the book was hard to put down! Also, this book can be good for boys and girls, men and women of any age, because it was touching, while gripping at the same time. So don¿t let me hold you up, go out there and get this book! It¿s worth all of your time.
Guest More than 1 year ago
The Trap by John Smelcer is a thrilling and suspensful story of survival that all should read if given the chance. When Albert Least-Weasel finds himself trapped (Literally)in the heart of the Artic wild, the reader finds themself anticipating if he can dodge the next potentially fatal obsticle Mother Nature throws at him. I also find the concern one specific character feels for another extreamly relatable therefore the reader becomes emotionally attached to the story and its characters. Although short and seemingly simple this book will leave you contemplating the meaning of life and death long after you have read the last page.
Guest More than 1 year ago
The Trap was an excellent book. It was always exciting and fun to read. I would recommend this for boys who like an adventure and exciting journey.