The thought of preserving various legendary woods varmints in some permanent record form first came to me about thirty years ago when making a cruise of Sandy Bay Township for the late Roy S. Marston. It occurred to me then that these tales, originating chiefly in the logging camps and on the drives were a definite bit of American folk-lore, an integral part of the history of American logging and lumbering and well worth recording. So I have been collecting them for a good quarter-century.
Tall tales of adventure and hair-breadth escapes have always sprouted wherever the lumberjack has started timber operations. The logger, the North woodsman in particular, is an imaginative fellow, with an inborn fondness for practical jokery of various sorts. Hence, with the adventurous yarns there has appeared an array of woods animals frequently terrifying, sometimes vicious, sometimes merely unique, whose appearance, characteristics, habits and habitat have for long been told and re-told with a gradually increasing degree of astounding detail for the puzzlement and temporary terrorization of some camp greenhorn.
It is by no means unlikely that a number of these tales received their initial impetus through a woodman's being well startled by some odd noise, or perhaps by sighting some queer shape while travelling after sun-down. Such an experience, we've all had them, is as a rule quickly followed by a feeling of relief coupled with gratitude that our temporary panic has no witnesses. And the rest of the trip back to camp has often been employed in weaving the whole incident into a carefully-embroidered tale to be tested out at the first opportunity.
My first personal introduction to a specific “critter” was while fighting fire on Attean Lake in 1908. Dick Fisher had landed me a summer job in the woods, but the cruising work had been suddenly interrupted, by the bad fires which broke out that year. I was utterly new and green; but it just happened that the principal introducers, Sam Clarke and Walter Laurison (I wonder where they are now?) selected another youngster as a victim. This lad opened the way by remarking that on the trail back to camp that afternoon he had heard an extraordinary, screech-like cry which he could not identify. Given this opening, the teamplay developed between the two older men was simply marvelous. “How did it go?” inquired Sam, full of seeming fatherly interest. “Oh, I don’t think I could imitate it,” replied the lad. A moment’s pause. “Reckon it was one o’ them tree-squeaks,” put in Walter at the precise psychological moment ; “they’re common hereabouts in July.” “What’s a tree-squeak like?” asked the victim, deliberately putting his foot in the trap. ‘Wa-al—” drawled Sam, and the game was on. It was like watching two highly skilled bridge players. Sam would lead with a colorful bit of description, and Walter would follow suit with an arresting spot of personal experience, every detail being set forth with the utmost solemnity, and with exactly the correct degree of emphasis. At the end, so deftly had the cards been played that the listener was completely convinced of the animal’s existence. This method of presentation is widely used. For the best results, two narrators who can “keep the ball in the air” are necessary, and perhaps an occasional general question is tossed to someone in the audience, such inquiries being invariably accorded a grave, corroborative nod.
The surprising number of helpful letters received brings out several interesting points. It is clear that nearly all these mythical creatures originated, and still flourish to a considerable extent almost wholly in the Northern Forests.
Despite diligent inquiry, I have brought to light very few Southern species. It is stimulating to speculate on the reason for this scarcity. Of course, woods labor in the Southern camps is chiefly colored. Isn’t it possible that the Negro woodsman or logger, while possessed of plenty of imagination, is perhaps not given to this particular form of mental horse-play? His imaginings art apt, I think, to follow more serious lines, with a considerable dash of definite superstition in the mixture, and such fearsome creatures as his mind may conceive are very likely to be accorded a firm belief.
Another point for discussion is the actual age of these tales. I must admit that thus far I have not found a satisfactory answer. Some of my correspondents hold that they go back over many years, perhaps a century or longer, while others, men who were working in the woods in the ‘70’s and ‘80’s, state that they began to hear such yarns only along towards the end of the nineteenth century. It seems dear, however, that the Hodag, the Treesqueak and the Side-hill Gouger were well known in the Northeast fully seventy years ago, and have since migrated westward, exactly as the logger followed the virgin timber, across the northern tier of states to the West Coast. Granting the existence of these particular animals, it is not unreasonable to assume that they had various other companions. But whether they flourished as far back as the days when Thorea climbed Mount Katahdin I cannot say. It is a difficult point to prove, and perhaps I am yielding to the will to believe, but I do feel it to be more probable than otherwise that many of these tales are really quite old, and have been handed down verbally through the years, just as the old Scottish and English ballads have been passed on down in the Southern Appalachians. It is common knowledge that America has grown at a tremendous pace, so rapidly in that much true folk-lore was born, lived and died with no chance of ever becoming a part of our permanent records. Without doubt this has happened to a good bit of woods lore. Things have just come about too fast.
In sifting the host of letter sent me, I have tried to sort out such animals as seem to enjoy, or to have enjoyed, a fairly wide distribution. Creatures of limited range and only occasional appearance, unless possessed of highly unusual qualities have not been included. For instance, I think I should mention here, but without detailed description, the Cross-feathered Snee, Montana, which can exist only in subzero weather, the Linkumsinice, Maine, the Snow Worms, Washington, and the Timberdoodle of Pennsylvania, which bites savagely and won’t thereafter open his jaws until he hears thunder. With these should appear the Celofay of Maine. This is a unique beastie, and it is only after much consideration and chiefly because he doesn’t seem to be any too well vouched for that I have not accorded him a place among the “regulars.” He is a sort of phantom wildcat equipped with ventriloquistic powers, and can easily project his fearsome squall clear across a section, right up beside you, in fact Or he can reverse the situation and toss his ‘yowl into some distant cedar swamp while he stealthily stalks you with malicious intent. His name reveals his French-Canadian origin, being an obvious corruption of “C’est la fee.”
To the foregoing should be added the Will-am-alone, Maine, a small, squirrel-like animal of playful but vicious tendencies. He loves to roll up little balls of poisonous fungi and drop them on the eyes or in the ears of sleeping woodsmen, causing strange dreams. Parties well foxed with alcohol seem to be his especial prey. Then there is the Pomola, the Mount Katahdin area, the Wunk, mentioned in Riley’s poem “The Raggedy Man,” the fearsome Wendigo of Canada to which Dr. Drummond has devoted an entire poem, the Wympsis and the Whopperknocker. You can’t shoot this last-named fellow. His vision is so keen that he can see the sparks in the chamber of your rifle before the bullet leaves the muzzle.
I have striven to confine myself wholly to the woods animals. There are numerous other fields open for similar exploration. The lore of the cow-camps, for example, is richly studded with glittering accounts of most peculiar varmints. But I have consciously not included any of these, finding plenty to do in my own territory, that of the logger and the lumberjack.
To make proper and complete acknowledgment of the many courteous, interested and helpful suggestions I have had would fill a fair-sized volume. My most sincere thanks are herewith expressed to all of these good people who have helped make this book, and in particular to Mr. William T. Cox for permission to use certain information from his book “Fearsome Creatures of the Lumber Woods,” to Professor Fay Welch of the New York State College of Forestry Faculty, to Mr. B. B. Bickford, the veteran guide of Gorham, N. H., who has generously laid at my disposal his years of experience in the White Mountains, to Mr. Lake Shore Kearney for permission to employ certain abstracts from his book, “The Hodag,” to Mrs. P. M. Clemens for the fascinating data on the Yamhill Lunkus, and to Professor Charles E. Browne of the University of Wisconsin Faculty for a whole tote-load of accurate and authentic facts. Nor should I omit mention of the “Idaho Statesman” and Mr. N. C. Villeneuve, who has granted me leave to reprint both the story and the picture of that amazing feline, the Wampus Cat. Without the help of these, and literally dozens of other kindly folk, my collection would have remained a rather thin affair.
HENRY H. TRYON.
The Black Rock Forest,
Cornwall-on-the-Hudson,
New York, U.S.A.
