In the fall of 1824, Étienne Provost followed the river’s whisper into the high basin we now call Heber Valley—a place that seemed untouched, even to a man who’d lived beyond the edges of maps. Frost on the grass caught the early-winter light, the kind that announces the season has already made up its mind. Not far behind, a wiry Frenchman named Eddie LeClair moved up Snake Creek with a trapper’s rhythm—eyes scanning, hands busy, mind balancing hope and survival.
They camped where the valley narrows toward Midway, near a river bend that still catches the morning light. Their fire hissed and snapped, green wood warming their hands as they talked of rendezvous, trade, and the promise of a good season. What went unsaid was clear: the valley carried something different in its bones. Clear creeks, plentiful beaver, mountains leaning in as if guarding a secret.
A storm blew in overnight, burying the world in silence. By morning, Provost found his traps sealed under ice. Eddie was gone, his rifle leaned against a stump, tracks fading into the white. Provost found him the next day beneath a pine, his traps stacked neatly as though he’d known he wouldn’t return. Folks say Provost built a small cairn before leaving. No one knows where it stood, but when the first winter wind rolls off the ridges, it’s easy to imagine iron on stone, echoing faintly across the years.
Two centuries later, that trapping legacy still threads through Heber Valley, carried by people whose work both differs from and echoes the old mountain men. Among them is Cameron Broadhead, a lifelong local who started down the trapping path long before he realized it.
He grew up knowing the backroads, fences, and bends in the creek before he could see over the dashboard. His dad worked as a taxidermist for nearly two decades, and Cameron spent his childhood helping—stretching hides, preparing birds, doing whatever was needed. “I never got paid,” he said, “but I picked it up fast. I just loved it.”
When he talks about his first real trapping seasons, there’s a spark in his voice. He and his brother started small, trapping bobcats and coyotes. “I didn’t think much of it at first,” he said. “It was just something fun to try.” But the first time he walked up on a live bobcat he’d successfully trapped, everything shifted. “It was beautiful,” he said. “One of the coolest things in the world. You set the trap, choose the bait, pick the spot—and then the animal chooses to step into the story you set.”
Utah’s bobcat season runs on a tight window—November 15 to March 15—and requires permits. Cameron bought three that first year, filled one, and learned everything he could from that single success. In time, curiosity gave way to craft. He approached furs like a craftsman—patient, proud, and devoted to the small rituals that refine raw material: hair combed just right, hides prepped for the sale, every detail honoring the animal.
The fur sale he attends each year draws buyers from everywhere—even as far as Russia. “Sometimes I don’t want to sell them,” he admitted. “They’re just so neat looking.” And that’s when you see the connection between those early trappers and the ones walking these hills now: the work has changed, but the feeling hasn’t.
Here’s where the story shifts. For Provost, trapping was survival. For Cameron, it’s about stewardship.
In addition to trapping, Cameron has a full-time job. He doesn’t rely on pelts to feed his family. What he does rely on is the purpose behind the work. “I do it as population control,” he said. “To keep things in balance. Mountain lions. Coyotes. Raccoons. Badgers. Some animals you can let go. Some you can’t legally release. Every species is different, and the laws are there for a reason.”
He explained how modern traps work. Utah requires offset jaws, with a built-in gap to prevent injury. “I can take a female or a young bobcat out and let them go,” he said. “You hold them with a pole, free their paw, and they take off.” He laughed, remembering the old days of mountain-lion trapping, when releases were done by hand. “I’m surprised I still have my limbs.”
Utah law prohibits relocating nuisance species like raccoons, skunks, and rock chucks—part of a broader effort to prevent disease and protect property. “People don’t realize trapping isn’t about killing everything,” he said. “You have to be smart about it. It’s how you keep next year’s populations healthy.”
This is where modern trapping in Heber Valley steps directly into the footsteps of those early mountain men: it’s about balance. Coyotes move in cycles. Bobcats follow the food. Mountain lions still patrol old corridors carved into the hillsides long before neighborhoods arrived. And someone has to understand how all the pieces fit together.
Taxidermy, for Cameron, follows the same philosophy. He doesn’t mount every animal he traps, and he’s quick to note he hasn’t taken on big commercial work yet. What he does do, and what he learned from his dad, is treat every skull and hide with precision. European mounts, skull prep, bleaching with peroxide—tasks that look simple until you watch someone who truly knows the craft.
“When you’re working on an animal,” he said, “you’re trying to capture what it really looked like in the wild. Pictures don’t always get it right. You have to see the animal—the way it holds itself, the way it moves.” It’s a sentiment that could’ve come straight from a trapper in 1824.
And while Cameron is modest—he insists Heber Valley isn’t uniquely special for trapping—the truth is the place shapes the person. He grew up on this land. He knows the terrain, the habits of the animals, the corridors they follow, and the water they depend on. Heber isn’t a trapping hotspot; it’s home. And home is where an art form like this becomes something deeper than a hobby.
Weaving Provost’s story, Eddie’s fate, and Cameron’s modern perspective together shows the valley for what it is: a place where old and new stand side by side. The tools have changed; the instincts haven’t. Motivations shift, but respect endures.
And maybe that’s the real thread worth following. The mountain men risked everything because the land demanded it. Modern trappers like Cameron work because the land still needs something from us—attention, balance, stewardship. If there’s a lesson buried in all of this, it’s probably the same one Provost learned the hard way: nature doesn’t bend to us. We bend to it. And the people who last longest out here are the ones who understand that their job is not to control the wild, but to listen to it.
On cold mornings when the mountains are rimmed with pink and the world feels paused, it’s easy to picture those early trappers moving through the snow, their breath hanging in the air. And it’s just as easy to picture Cameron stepping out of his truck, checking a trapline before heading to work, carrying forward a legacy he didn’t expect but treasures. Different centuries. Same valley. Same quiet respect.
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