"The Hodag" That Haunted Muskoka Homesteaders and Loggers

 

Original Depictions of "The Hodag" by Sarah Cole, Gravenhurst

Part 2: The following originally was posted prior to Halloween 2019

THE “HODAG”  - MUSKOKA HOMESTEADERS AND LOGGERS HAUNTED BY TREE-TOP BEASTS

THE HODAG KNOWN AS A MYTHIC BEAST BEYOND OUR DISTRICT

By Ted Currie

     “The wall of the church faces to the manse, but the churchyard is on a level with the top of the wall, that is to say, some eight to ten feet above the garden, and the tombstones are visible from the enclosure of the manse. The church, with its campanile (free standing bell tower) was near the edge, so that on Sundays we could see the cluster of people about the door. Under the retaining wall was a somewhat dark pathway, extending from the stable to the far end of the garden and called ‘The Witches’ Walk,’ from a game we used to play in it. At the stable end it took its rise under a Yew (tree), which is one of the glories of the village. Under the circuit of its wide, black branches, it was always dark and cool and there was a green scarf over all the trunk among which glistened the round bright drops of resin. This was sufficiently gloomy commencement for ‘The Witches’ Walk,’ but its chief horror was the retaining wall of the kirkyard itself, about which we were always hovering at even with the strange attraction of fear. This it was that supplied an Arcady with its gods; and in place of classic forms and the split hooves of satyrs, we were fully of homely Scottish superstitions of grues (dark and mysterious figures), and ghosts and goblins. Often after nightfall, have I looked long and eagerly from the manse windows to see the spunkier (will-o-the-wisp manifestations of strange mist), playing among the graves, and have been much chagrined at my failure; and this very name of spunky recalls to me the most important of our discoveries on the supernatural walk; Henrietta, Will and I, just about dusk, discovered a burning eye looking out from a hole in the retaining wall, in the corner where it joins the back of the stable.” Was it the eye of a bird looking out the opening? Or was it a hole all the way into a human’s grave, and from a coffin, the occupant sitting up to look at us on the outside. “The fact is, we would have given anything to have seen a ghost.”

     The above passage was written by the young Robert Louis Stevenson, author of “Treasure Island,” published in the biography written by Graham Balfour, in 1901; “The Life of Robert Louis Stevenson, Vol.

     There is little denying, that without the paranormal, supernatural, and all its delicious attachments from the so called “dark side,” and mysterious nether-world, there would have been untold literary disadvantage, weighed upon the world’s revered authors, who have so greatly benefitted over the centuries from such a wide array of such curiosities and hobgoblins, banshees, fairies, good and bad, witches, assorted and sundry demons, trolls, gnomes, vampires, Frankenstein monsters, and many other malevolent entities that have created such cultural pillars in old and dear superstitions; some of which have been written about by Stevenson. I could go on and on, but today’s conclusion of the three part Halloween series, is about one of our homegrown mythical creatures, of considerable acclaim, known to the pioneer community of our district, as “The Hodag.” We are thankful to have had the art contribution of Gravenhurst artist, Sarah Cole, who has given us our first full depiction of this creature of folklore; the only representation for our region specifically, although there were reportedly Hodags in areas of the northern United States at around the same period of the later 1800’s, each being associated with the fervor of the logging industry as it stripped away its habitat. Or so we guess. We are grateful for Sarah’s interesting profile of The Hodag, and we are certainly pleased to announce it as a first in regional history; the undisputed honor going to her.

 

     When the mass of emigrants arrived in Canada, settling in Upper Canada, (soon thereafter Canada West), being the present Province of Ontario, the mixed European, Scandinavian, Germanic, Dutch, Irish, Scottish, and British folklore along with religious beliefs, came with the eager but pessimistic settlers, their concerns heightened by the first panorama of the vast pine forests, swampland, waterways and rock. Many superstitions and local lore in their own native countries were transplanted into the Canadian wilds for obvious reasons. It’s possible then that “The Hodag,” the subject of this story, was one of the wee beasties that generated from old rural superstitions and fear of the unknown, and it was given credence by the wild, primal conditions in the harsh environs of Muskoka in the 1860’s through to the 1880’s.

     The folk tales and lore that have been, for time and time rooted, for example, in the logging industry, one of the harshest, most damning industries in the earliest years of habitation in Muskoka, did not solely acknowledge The Hodag, that cat-dragon like creature that was said to live in the tree tops of the tall pines, the subject of a logger’s careful scrutiny for what financial reward could be had by felling it for lumber. There were quite a few bandy legged creatures and ghosts that may be said haunted logging camps, and considering the large number of deaths associated with this most dangerous industry, there is no surprise it had many resident superstitions, like those situations of good and bad luck on sailing ships on the high seas. The Hodag was just one of the little gems of folk lore that was shared with other regions in North America, and other logging operations amidst the tall pines. The Hodag’s reputation even went further than this, by appearing in references about mythic creatures in English history.

      Realities emerging from beefy and strange fictions told in the north woods from the beginning? Even today when taking a stroll through the autumn woodlands around here, in South Muskoka, down through the misty moors, of the expansive bogland, swamps, uplands, valleys and down steep hillsides, would gently prevail upon the voyeur, a more occupied domain than what pleasant realities of sunlight and blue sky might initially suggest. That such a fine place as this couldn’t possibly harbor a creature that might jump upon our backs, and strangle the life out of us in only a few moments of conflict. Where is the evidence that such a creature of mythic proportion actually exists, and ambles along these same trails that are used throughout the year by children and adults alike, with nary an incident of injury or death as caused by something similar to a cat with a dragon’s body?

     The sounds. There is no wild howling, screaming, or even detectable scurrying of a large creature, mythic or otherwise, that would send us running for cover, or even looking upward into the tree-tops, where it is said The Hodag huddles closely to the trunk of the home tree, balancing on the thick branches at their base. But in the dead of night admittedly, there are sounds that even the nature-expert has to pause and reflect on whether it is the racket of an owl, a hawk, or the audible evidence of a conflict between animals losing out in the battle for survival with a predator.  At this time of writing, I am overlooking a breathtakingly beautiful scene in the geographical embrace of South Muskoka, enjoying the last bold rays of afternoon sun breaking through the now mostly bare hardwood branches, that front the open space in our neighborhood, known as The Bog. I don’t believe there is anything resembling a Hodag in these pleasantly appointed autumn woods, but then again, I am a stalwart supporter in the preservation of folklore and as The Hodag falls into this category, I won’t entirely rule out the possibility one might turn up at some time, when this voyeur dropped defenses even momentarily. I’ve been a watcher of the tree tops from childhood, when I first heard local old-timers talking about the existence of The Hodag, a rather ruthless creature that fed off human assets. Seeing as I didn’t fancy the idea of being eaten while out enjoying a walk through the woods, I did, out of habit, keep up keen observation of what was happening around me, and of course, above the pathways that wound through the various forest lands I used to haunt as a kid thrilled by adventure.

     As an initial introduction to “The Hodag,” as it relates specifically to the Muskoka District, we must consult the well known heritage classic, written by Frederick de la Fosse, otherwise known as Roger Vardon, his book being entitled “English Bloods,” and insightful glimpse back into the pioneer era of the region. He had been exposed to homestead life as a young student-emigrant, sent by his family to learn about life in rural Canada, in the 1870’s. He was situated at a fledgling homestead near the present Town of Huntsville. Mr. De la Fosse arrived in Canada and North Muskoka in 1879, and it was during the adventure by train, steamboat, horse drawn cart and on foot, that he heard references to the existence of “The Hodag,” a most fearsome adversary, that made a nasty habit of jumping from overhead branches onto unsuspecting traveller along the narrow pioneer trails. The folklore that accommodated and nurtured the story of The Hodag obviously then, existed well before 1879, especially being enshrined as part of logging lore as it was in at least one region in the northern United States.

     Consider that in the year 1893 it was reported that an actual Hodag had been found in the woods of Wisconsin by timber cruiser, Eugene Shepard, a land surveyor, and known prankster. According to published reports, attributed to claims by Mr. Shepard, the beast in question had the head of a frog, face of a grinning elephant, thick short legs, huge claws and the back of a dinosaur, with a long tail with a spear shaped finial. Shepherd even initiated a full hunt to capture at least one live Hodag, near the community of Rhinelander, Wisconsin, and in 1896 he claimed to have captured one, still alive, and even decided to put the creature on public display at the Oneida Country Fair where thousands came to visit the great beast, which had been, without any of the visitors noticing it, wired together by Mr. Shepard, so that he could move it at his discretion, with full believable manipulation of the joints. But when the fine folks at The Smithsonian Institute asked if they could inspect the captured Hodag, Shepard had to confess that it had all been a hoax on his part. As The Hodag was such an entrenched and curiously celebrated non-entity, but folklorish at the same time regardless of the hoax, it has long been an established civic symbol of the home community of Rhinelander. In 1928, as a sidebar to the handiwork of Mr. Shepard, a book by Shore Kearney was released in the United States entitled “The Hodag and Other Tales of the Logging Camp,” which you can access online to read it in full. In 2012, to bring you up to contemporary times, The Hodag was used as a villain in a cartoon, a “Scooby-Doo Mystery.” The episode was entitled “The Hodag of Horror,” and was also listed in the 2017 edition of “Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them,” by celebrated author, J.K. Rawling of Harry Potter acclaim

     In a more recent release of “English Bloods,” there is the suggestion included by the publisher, that what The Hodag most likely represented, in real life, was either a common forest Lynx or Bobcat, embellished by the lumber camp folklore spinners, looking to enhance the whole aura of lumbering in the north woods. Hodag references were also included in the 1916 promotional publication, “Paul Bunyan Stories, of the North American Loggers,” compiled by William B. Laughead, paid for by the Red River Lumber Company. Laughead had worked as a student researcher with K. Beatrice Stewart, who was investigating the “Woodsmen in the Mideast.” To the best of our knowledge, a genuine Hodag was never photographed or even illustrated based on what it is said to have looked like. Here then are some quotations about The Hodag as found in the text of “English Bloods,” first published by Roger Vardon (de la Fosse), released in 1930 in Canada, by the Graphic Press, of Ottawa.

     “Young man,’ he said (author’s pioneer guide on his trip north to Huntsville from Bracebridge), when he saw me engaged in constant skirmishes with mosquitoes, ‘You’ve come to one of the best countries in God’s world for a young gaffer like yourself to keep out of. Why, you complain about these here skitters! Sakes alive! They is only infants to what they grows to about the middle of June. And the deer flies grow as big as butterflies. Why, I’ve known one of them to kill a fresh blooded young fellow like yourself, dead by poisoning his system. But wait till you see the Gilliloo birds! Some folks make a living around here by training them to catch the mice in barns. They’re called Gilliloo birds because their cry goes ‘Gil-lil-oo’; like if they take a dislike to you and peck your leg. They will take a chunk clear out of you. Then there’s The Hodag. There’s lots of them around but they don’t attack you openly. They climb trees and watch for you and spring on yer back and choke you. They jump forty feet at a leap, they do, and the way they howl is fair devilish. You don’t need to be afraid of bears and wolves much. But he solemnly concluded that “you do need to keep your eyes skinned for them there Hodags’.”

     According to the author, “It may be as well to mention here that I never saw the old gentleman (guide) again, although I heard of him many times. He has been dead these many years but I hold in as a grateful remembrance as when we parted on the Stisted Road more than fifty years ago (1879). I venture to express pious hope that in the land to which he has gone, no ghosts of Gillilloo birds or Hodags dog his footsteps.” “Following the directions given me, I took the road which led to the Martin inhabitation (his destination to work on the owner’s homestead). Squirrels chattered at me from the branches and strange, prettily striped little creatures called chipmunks scampered across my path. The mosquitoes and black flies were awful. I thought I would never come to the end of the trail. The least noise in the woods made me wonder if a bear or Hodag was on my tracks, and I glanced fearfully at every overhanging tree to see if some beast of prey was lying in wait to descend on my shoulders. At one time every hair on my head started up and I perspired with horror when a screech owl suddenly gave vent to its diabolical cry about a foot above my head. My teeth chattered and my knees knocked together. Never in the whole course of my career have I been so thoroughly frightened to see what was coming upon me, fully expecting to have to grapple with a Hodag hiding behind a tree.”

     Vardon adds to his story, “My friend, Mr. Wardle, told me that they (bears) are not dangerous at all, and that the beasts to look out for are The Hodags. He says they are something dreadful. They climb trees and watch for you, and jump on your shoulders and strangle you. Harkins (a friend) was quite impressed. He said he had never heard of them Hodags but that he would look into his natural history, when we got home and read up about these.” Harkins asked ‘How do you spell it - HODAG OR HODAGUE,’ I should imagine it is a French word’. I told him that I hadn’t the faintest idea but remembering the old man’s loose use of the aspirate, I thought it possible it might have been “ODAG.”

     On the ever-haunted, and deliciously magical evening of this October’s Halloween, as a sign of respect for our folklore in these parts, I will look up on my nightly jaunt, to see once again, if on this annual celebration of myth and enchantment, whether at least one remaining Hodag might make its eerie howl from the thick tree tops of venerable old pines, that date well back in history, to a time when, well, it was quite possible there were strange critters lodging above; awaiting unsuspecting travellers to walk beneath, enabling their human feast once more.

     Is there truth lurking within the realm of folklore? You bet! Just listen for the cry of the Gilliloo Birds still very much in evidence in the same mist laden forests at this very haunting time of the rolling year.

     Happy Halloween to all of you folks, from the Currie family, lovers of all things folkish.

Tree Top Demons Of Our Pioneer Past, a Folk Tale?

 

Photos by Suzanne Currie

A RECKONING WITH THE TREE TOP DEMONS OF OUR PIONEER PAST

A TWO PART FOLK TALE ABOUT HAUNTED PLACES AND STRANGE BEASTS IN THE FOREST

NOTE: This three part Hallowe’en series was created for Birch Hollow Antiques with art and photographic work provided courtesy Suzanne Currie and The Hodag, by Sarah Cole.  This is part two.

     There are many hundreds of time honored folk tales that had as a base, the District of Muskoka, dating back to the earliest settlers to brave the wild frontier of 1850’s Ontario. The problem for us, who adore these olden times yarns and family legends, is that most were orally told, and retold, and embellished, but never actually written down. What a shame that so much of our social / cultural heritage has been lost, for the lack of foresight, a reliable ear, a pen, and a few sheets of writing paper. It’s why I have read so many historical accounts, and pioneer period journals written in, and about Muskoka, retrieving even small amounts of story-line if it has something or other to do with the “outside the box,” unorthodox heritage of our region.

     Take for example some of the ghost-sighting tales that have been retrieved from the thin air of casual conversation with some older citizens I have known over the decades; such as the truly chilling story of the railway conductor who was killed on the C.N.R. line north of the hamlet of Falkenburg, (north of the urban centre of Bracebridge), and who, it is reported, comes back to the place of the accident in an attempt, like the famous headless horseman of Washington Irving’s creation, is searching for his lost crown. His head! Lost when, with his illuminated lantern, walking along the tracks that dark autumn evening, got too close to the passing cars, and was hit by something protruding, that sliced off his head. It has been said, and I mean this in the oral sense, that the railway employee can be spotted by the fact his lantern still swings, illuminated, in the deep black of the forest night, along that stretch of rail line. This by the way, is a ghostly sighting that is not limited to the rail line in Falkenburg. There have been many ghost-light sightings in many other communities and regions in North America and beyond, even to this day in this new century. Long since dead railway workers, who were killed on the job, in a most dangerous profession, carry on their employment apparently, with their own signal lights on desolate stretches of railway. Strange but true. Is it the ghost of a lost and forlorner railwayman? Or just an unexplained wavering light against the enclosure of night.

     As a hobby ghost sleuth, I’ve heard dozens of stories about wayward spirits, such as the one of a long deceased woman, who was seen, in a most ghostly white gown, trying desperately to exit from a Milford Bay cemetery; if not for the fact the hem of her flowing attire had caught on a big of downed wire fencing, holding her within the hallow ground. The witnesses were credible and were about to make a rescue attempt, and free the poor woman from entanglement, when she suddenly turned to witness their approach, and vanished into the night’s atmosphere. Was it a deceased inmate of the cemetery wishing to rejoin her past life in the community? Possibly. But it was obviously then, an impossibility, to escape the barrier of hallow ground, and thus, it might be expected, that a witness, one day again, will also come upon a damsel in distress, but be unable to free her back to the land of the living.

     Muskoka history is more than facts and hard realities. It is full of delicious folk tales, apparent hauntings, hobgoblin sightings, and yes, even encounters with the fabled beast of the virgin Muskoka woods, known as the tree-top “Hodag.” We asked Muskoka artist, Sarah Cole to provide us with a first ever image of what a “local” Hodag might have looked like, to someone from, say, the 1860’s. You will see this depiction if you view the companion video on our Facebook page.

     The macabre and the deliciously horrible, partnered, as it is social, on such enchanted eves as this, with scary clowns, witches, devils, ghosts and related hob goblins, to mix about in the cold night air, in that grand time honored tradition of “trick or treating,” for a bounty of candy treats as fair exchange.

     Ah, those Tim Burtonesque Halloween festivals that come to life in such fascinating shapes, colors and malevolence, overseen by the flaming eyes of carved pumpkins on house porches, to welcome the onslaught of seasonal spirits, unburdened of daily toils, to dance in the moonlight of the October candy-night.

     As a kid, traversing these town streets, on Halloween, regardless whether prevailing rain, snow, chill of wind or bluster of an autumn thunderstorm, we were part of a folk-culture that was also very social, at least back in my own childhood when I only got hit with tossed eggs two or three times out of dozen years of trick or treating. I was particularly tuned to the conditions of the nights Halloween fell on, each year, Saturday and Sunday being my least favorite, and I was even then, a student of local history. I took seriously the stories told by some of the local old-timers, who warned us, in our wayward potentials, to watch out for a nasty creature of considerable irritability, that was said to live high in the tree-tops throughout the Muskoka woodlands, awaiting a casual passerby to pounce upon, and most likely strangle to death. I assumed it was a tall tale but it seemed worthy of my attention, if nothing more than to use and embellish to scare my contemporaries. Funny thing, thought, because I still stare up at the tree tops on Halloweens like this one, wondering if there are any of these mythic creatures left, haunting the forests, if of course, they were ever actual entities. Or were they just the strange fictions concocted by story-tellers over the ages to make life a little bit more interesting.

     Looking up into the residential lamplight that has softly illuminated our urban neighborhood, the still falling, spiraling, tumbling down leaves silhouette in the pooling light, rolling along the laneway in the gusts of wind arising from the hollow of the lake only a block removed from our abode here at Birch Hollow. There is intermittent rain that at times gives every appearance of a light snowfall, but it doesn’t yet show on the sleeves of our outerwear. The moonlight wished for on such haunted nights as this comes and goes depending on the fast moving heavy clouds, and when it does emerge, it casts a perfectly eerie glow upon old pines and leaning birches of the woodland across the road. It is mesmerizing at times, watching the transitions of the prevailing weather pattern, that has certainly enhanced the magic of Halloween, and made distant and haunting the voices of approaching youngsters, candy bags in tow, shuffling in pleasant cheer through the windblown piles of maple and birch leaves rippling up and down the lane. These marching, half running, half dancing silhouettes add such a vigor of Halloween history and tradition, that it could raise a tear in the eye of the voyeur who remembers those same happy-go-luck jaunts with brothers, sisters, and friends, far back in time, and faded in memory; suffering in pangs of remembrance of those who have since passed and their faces and voices as thin now in fond recollection as a fleeting vapor, a spirit, a ghost without much more substance than a flickering and gentle affection. We might believe it is their voices we can hear resounding through the chill night air, but alas, it is the present, and that was the distant past.

     The shadows of Halloween’s magical nightcap enthrall us to re-live all its revelry and spirit, and recall the sensation of costume and plastic mask clinging tight, digging into the flesh of our upper ears, the heat making the wearer sweat from our brows to our underwear, and beyond, but we couldn’t find the ambition or cause to complain about our circumstance. We just pulled up our clown pants, or hobo overalls, refastened our hats from the wrong side to the right side, and did the best we could to keep the sweat out of our eyes. Then there were the youngsters carrying around twenty pounds of extra clothing, insisted upon by overly protective parents, my mother Merle being the champion at this excessive attention to my warmth, making the bearers fall back of the pack, and causing them to stop frequently to undress from what distressed them, tossing surplus sweaters into the candy bags for the return trip home. Eventually. Most of the youngsters in our neighborhood got home late, with stretched sacks (pillow cases) of candy and such, plus assorted items of clothing pulled off for reasons of Halloween flexibility. The idea was to get to as many houses and apartments as possible, and being weighted down by too much clothing on top of costumes, meant that our progress was severely limited, and thusly, a deficit to our abilities to harvest the treats being handed out to those who could do the mileage quickly.

     I always adored the first smoky scent of a candle-lit pumpkin, as the flame cooked the meat of the cut-out lid, and with thirty or forty of these icons of Halloween festivities, situated on pedestals and front porches, window sills and on brick walls, it was such a spectacularly appointed fiction, that cuddled us in the warmth of cultural legend and lore; momentarily giving us the splendid opinion of being part of an other worldly environs, where witches flew on broomsticks across the face of moonlight above the tall pines, and angels with outstretched wings glided to earth with silent grace, and mostly good clowns and sundry vampires pushed and shoved all in good fun, trying to arrive at the next homestead doorway ahead of the other, just in case the treat supply was getting thin. Ah, what a panorama it all was, as I can so clearly recall, and impose upon this same evening, awaiting the first trick or treaters to arrive at the old homestead, where our own boys once used to depart, in various theme and period costume, to meet up with mates out on the Halloween hustings. I miss those days most of all, and in the echo now of kids on the hillside above, I can’t help but to slip into my own paradise of fantasy, to imagine that both our sons are still of that magic age, that precious childhood electricity of imagination, to still believe in all the curious fictions, be it those fantastic places down this winding road, like the storied Narnia, Oz, or my choice, Neverland, where one never need grow up, or touch the very fingertip of adulthood. Forgive me for waxing nostalgic this moment, but I did so enjoy all those preciously enhanced Halloweens because of the youthful exuberance and celebration it all represented. It was a social, cultural thing, not a conflict against religion, as I often hear as a complaint today from those who believe there is really something malevolent going on out there during the several hours of trick or treating.

     It is an annual event for me; a now private occasion of quiet contemplation, while I sense, with some latent regrets, my own hourglass sands running thin, to enjoy in this save alcove against the night, at a keyboard on a desk overlooking the woodlands across the road, to recognize subtly, and without exaggeration, just how much I adored this life, so free flowing of interest to pursue such situations as Halloween, and why we need these cultural intrigues and adventures. As author Washington Irving once wrote, that while it is important that the biologist explore the existence and functioning of life, it would be such a detriment to the potential of imagination, to have every mystery of life exposed as a truth; without, at the same time, acknowledging that not everything can be explained by science, nor by the enchanter, spiritualist, or the soothsayer despite convincing arguments to the positive. The “what ifs” of life will never fail to attract me, and it is on nights like this, when I am most energized to imagine all the amazing possibilities of this old and dear earth and universe, and what we are yet to learn about ourselves and environs that we currently misunderstand and misrepresent.

     I am tonight, in the warming yellow glow of this trusted antique oil lamp, flickering at the side of my keyboard, reminded of that long ago fearsome cat-dragon-like creature that haunted the dark and misty primal forests of the north woods. Preying upon unsuspecting traveller, on foot, in horse-drawn carts and sleighs, hiding high in the tree tops, awaiting the perfect opportunity to jump down upon a victims shoulders, in order to wrap its claws and strong arms around the neck, soon rendering the individual unconscious from near suffocation. This is the stuff of legend, and it has taken until this time in Muskoka history, to have a good look at a mythic creature that was known to attack loggers working in the bush, during the lumber book in Muskoka of the 1870’s and 1880’s. But there are those old-timers who still won’t walk through the woods, even along familiar pathways, without studying the tree tops, in case one of these creatures has survived for all these years, to once again unleash its terrors upon the unsuspecting traveller heading this way and that!

     Please join me tomorrow evening, for the second part of this Halloween special story, when I will reveal the tree top monster, the attacker from above, known to these Muskoka woods as “The Hodag.” Legend? Folk lore? The real McCoy? I’ll let you decide. This is a recorded but under recognized part of our local heritage, and you will have the privilege of learning about a local mystery long forgotten, but having no less significance than when it first made the rounds of story telling by rural dwellers as far back as the 1870’s when log shanties were still stylish dwelling places, and the smell of woodsmoke, the sound of axe blades cutting into pine, and the hooves of horses filled the atmosphere that was, by any other name, pioneer times.

      Hope you will enjoy meeting a Muskoka legend, the Hodag.

Introducing From Muskoka Folklore, The Hodag!

 

Photos by Suzanne Currie

Gravenhurst Artist Provides First Glimpse in Muskoka History of What the Legendary “Hodag” Might Have Looked Like When it Roamed the Area Woodlands

Written by Ted Currie (in Three Parts)

Illustration by Sarah Cole

     As we take this journey, writer, and guests, the curious and the doubters, the hobby historians and watchful folklorists, it is most necessary to pre-condition the adventure, by first noting the very great relevance of having an unfettered imagination. Whether you are a hardcore, hard-fact historical type, who finds satisfaction refuting the lilt of the folksong, as it relates to the time-tested durability of fact, contrasting the sentimentality of sweet fictions, there is something for everyone in the unfolding of the present Halloween series about the evasive, potentially deadly, “Hodag.” Right from the pages of Muskoka history, and the folk stories from the yarns shared and embellished by the earliest settlers, and loggers, toiling at great peril, in the regional lumber industry, there is the powerful conflict between reality, and the facts known to the folklorists, who have an equal platform to claim authenticity; each in their own way, each in their own coloration, or not. But the Hodag, let there be no mistake, is a fact of history, by the fact it is included in historical record. For one, Roger Vardon’s well known journal, “English Bloods,” a cornerstone of any Muskoka reference collection. Did it actually exist as a wildlife entity? Was it actually a Lynx? A mix of Lynx and Bobcat? Or was it a paranormal quality and quantity that haunted the dark Muskoka woods like the Irish Banchee, that was most loathed by the rural populations in Ireland of old. Did the Irish immigrants to Canada, and to the Muskoka region, bring with them the belief in such malevolent creatures, and is it possible, that with some folksy crafting, and embellished interpretations of its screams in the late night, that the Hodag got its Canadian character in mix with the regional creatures that habitated here in the north woods? Was any settler or logger killed by the Hodag? Well, that’s left for speculation of course. But whether or not it ever existed, in fact, we are delighted that it lived in the words of story-tellers, spinning tales at hearthside on cold autumn nights as this one. Please enjoy the tour of the Muskoka woods.

     “I am dwelling too long perhaps, upon a threadbare subject; yet it brings up with it a thousand delicious recollections of those happy days of childhood, when the imperfect knowledge I have since obtained had not yet dawned upon my mind, and when a fairy tale was true history to me. I have often been so transported by the pleasure of these recollections, as almost to wish that I had been born when the fictions of poetry were believed. Even now I cannot look upon these fanciful creations of ignorance and credulity without a lurking regret that they have all passed away. The experience of my days tells me, that they were sources of exquisite delight; and I sometimes question whether the naturalist who can dissect  the flowers of the field, receives half the pleasure,  from contemplating them, that he did who considered them the abode of elves and fairies. I feel convinced that the true interests and solid happiness of man are promoted by the advancement of truth; yet I cannot but mourn over the pleasant errors which it has trampled down in its progress. The fauns and sylphs , the household sprite, the moonlight revel, Oberon, Queen Mab, and the delicious realms of fairyland, all vanish before the light of true philosophy; but who does sometimes turn with distaste from the cold realities of morning, and seek to recall the sweet visions of the night?” Washington Irving, “Bracebridge Hall.”

     I’ve known about the mythical, folklorish, woodland creature, “The Hodag,” for quite a few years, since I read about its alleged existence in the text of Roger Vardon’s well known Muskoka journal, “English Bloods.” It is the story of a later 1800’s English lad’s experience in the backwoods of Ontario, specifically Muskoka, not far from the then Village of Huntsville, working as a farm-apprentice with a number of other lads, learning how thick forest with a thin arable soil on a rock bed, can be turned into a prosperous farmstead with a few months of hard labour. Of course, it was found out, that the farmer who had encouraged the green students, was a long, long way from being successful at homesteading, and that when the truth was finally revealed, it was simply the case the land owner really needed free labor. In order, you see, to clear the required land for farm purposes, and help build the farm buildings, to meet the obligations of free land grant agreements with the government of the day. Point is, the author, who you will read about later in this short series, was able to experience the pain and suffering of struggling settlers, trying against almost impossible odds, to carve out a few acres to operate some kind of farming operation to assist in their survival in this period of unsettling isolation; especially hard for those homesteaders who had come from industrially compromised cities of England, Scotland, and Ireland specifically. He got to meet many of the colorful characters of the time, living and working in the region at a variety of capacities, and over time, he learned about some of the folklore of the Muskoka wilds, much of it perpetuated of old country tales that had been conveniently transplanted into the new Dominion to flourish or disappear. Banchees, hobgoblins, good fairies and bad, trolls, leprechauns, ghosts and will-o-whisps both malevolent and benign made their way through the moonlit moors of this rugged, densely treed region, and from homestead to homestead, these allegations of strange sights and bumps in the night, became aggressively significant. The Hodag was just one of many folklorish entities said to prey on innocents in the densest parts of the woodlands.

     As the majority of settlers to arrive in Muskoka from the late 1850’s to the 1880’s were from the British empire, Europe and the Scandinavian regions overseas, there were several homeland folk tales involving malevolent entities, that may have inspired the fear in the wild woods, that became known as “The Hodag.” In one case, as written about by Washington Irving, the garden variety Dobbie, an old country paranormal trickster, had some nasty qualities that may have been added to the creature said to haunt the tree tops in our region. In Irving’s words, writing in his book, Bracebridge Hall, under the heading, “Popular Superstitions,” the authors notes the following:

     “But beside these household Dobbies, there are others of a more gloomy, and unsocial nature, that keep about lonely barns at a distance, and dwelling houses, or about ruins and old bridges. These are full of of mischievous and often malignant tricks, and are fond of playing pranks on benighted travellers. There is a story among the old people, of one, that haunted a ruined mill, just by a bridge that crosses a stream; how that late one night, as a traveller was passing on horseback, the Dobbie jumped up behind him, and grasped him so close around the body, that he had no power to free himself, but expected to be squeezed too death.; luckily his heels were loose, with which he plied the sides of the steed and was carried  with the wonderful instincts of a traveller’s horse, straight to the village inn. Had the man been at any greater distance, there is no doubt but he would have been strangled to death. As it was the good people were a long time in bringing him to his senses, and it was remarked that the first sign  of returning to consciousness  was to call for a bottom of brandy.” The superstitions of olden days were of course transplanted and re-generated in this new, harsh and wild country, as seeded by those especially who had left rural areas of England, Scotland, Ireland, Iceland, Denmark, Norway, Sweden, and Germany in the early homesteading years in Ontario and specifically, the newly opened District of Muskoka. Fear was heightened by the unknown, and the Muskoka woods had a foreboding  character that was enhanced by the colder seasons of the year, when the forests were barren of the hardwood canopy, and shadows appeared ominous and malevolent to the weary travellers plodding along with their loads along narrow cartways. Exhaustion and loneliness were influences on the isolated settlers, and stories of pioneers who had perished in some fashion, by sickness or accident, often created unease with rampant speculation about what had really happened. Not much different today, I suppose.   

     It is most likely, that The Hodag was inspired, mostly amongst those employed in the logging industry, and workers during the winter cut and spring log-drive, which put them in not only the thickest sections of forest, but in the most isolated area many miles from the nearest habitation. It is, by the way, in terms of folklore, limited to the forests of Muskoka as an evil, life draining entity, as there is written and visual evidence of Hodags in the Northern United States, also in areas that had a large lumbering presence. It is suspected that the inspiration for this mythical creature came from the presence, at the time, of the Lynx, the wild cat that is said to have had a blood curdling scream in the darkness of the forest, and its sighting, in the trees along travelled cartways, gave way to the kind of embellishments that create exotic lore and legend from modest information and no research to back up advancing claims about lives lost due to its attacks on loggers walking below.

     It was said of The Hodag that it would attack an unsuspecting traveller from behind, having been hidden by the foliage of the tree in question, after flinging itself down from the branches onto the shoulders of its victim, to which it wrapped its legs around the neck, and suffocated its soon-to-be dinner. And yes, it is said to have then sucked blood just in case strangulation hadn’t been fully successful in the victim’s demise. There is, by the way, no clear evidence of any logger or settler any time in Muskoka’s history, having been killed in this fashion, by a creature that looked a lot like a Lynx, but acted like a demon. Yet it became part of pioneer period folk lore none the less, and for a folk history lover like myself, it is well worth capturing in the essence of recorded anecdotes, and rumors, if only to prove that folk stories in all their delicious characterizations, whether a gentle fairy sighted in amongst the canopy of woodland ferns, or a will-o-wisp dancing in the evening breeze over the bogland from which it is a most common attendee, said to be the product of a methane accumulation from rotting vegetation in lowland situations.

     As a long questing folk historian, it was impossible for me to allow the identity of The Hodag, to remain only a bandying about of historical hearsay for the rest of time. Who else would do it if not me, as it is in my bailiwick of interest after all. When in late spring, son Andrew introduced me to the art work of local illustrator, and tattoo artist, Sarah Cole, one piece that was actually given to me as a birthday present in July, of a witch with a collection of black cats on her hat, I knew at once I had finally found someone to tackle my longtime interest to put a visual interpretation to this evasive folklore; meaning that Sarah would be the first artist in the history of the District of Muskoka, to create a signature illustration of “The Hodag,” for public consumption. The only hurdle? It was to get Sarah to agree with me, that she was the best choice for the commission, as she had that Tim Burton-esque perspective, as witnessed by such landmark creations as “The Nightmare Before Christmas,” and “Sleepy Hollow,” based on the Washington Irving tale about the deadly ride on moonlit nights of the legendary headless horseman. Sarah had the creative juice to make this project come true, for me, and it was with great joy that I celebrated soon, there after, that she had agreed to join this little historical adventure that had few if any serious boundaries. It was up to the artist, not the writer, what The Hodag would ultimately look like when creative enterprise was fully expended. She viewed other images of Hodags characterized in the United States, and read everything she could about the Muskoka cousin, but that’s where the co-operation between illustrator and writer ended. I didn’t want her to follow my lead, as I am a fervent believer in the artist’s right and privilege to interpret the subject; just as I have the freedom to express in text.

     At the conclusion of this three part series, ending on the eve of Halloween, we will share a short video presentation with readers, with Sarah’s art work, Suzanne’s many photographs taken in our own Wild Wood here at Birch Hollow, and the music to companion the visuals, created by son Robert in his music studio here in Gravenhurst. This marks the fourth video he has created for one of my research projects, and I certainly appreciate his involvement and suggestions on how to make the project more viewer friendly.

      I want to thank Sarah particularly, for putting an image to a portion of forgotten Muskoka history, that should never be neglected similarly in the future.

The Haunted Muskoka River, The Occupied Waiting Room of The Old Bracebridge Train Station and The Ghost Ships of The Hudson River

 

Photos by Suzanne Currie

THE SUBTLE HAUNTINGS WE OFTEN TIMES MISS, IN OUR HARRIED LIVES, THAT DISALLOW US TO KNOW MORE ABOUT THE FUTURE, BY WHAT HAS BEEN LIVED IN THE PAST

     I can so clearly, and I must say, fondly recall the times that, with our gang of kid outlaws from up on Hunt’s Hill, in Bracebridge, we sat in the deserted waiting room of the unnecessarily retired train station, on the band of the embankment two inclines above the North Branch of the Muskoka River, and getting absolutely consumed by the history of the place. All of it. I would often be the last kid sitting, as my chums had turned their attention to the old freight cart on the wooden decking of the baggage shed at the north end of the beautiful old building. I’d lose myself in the ambience of history, and it was as if I could feel the pent-up emotion of the small comfortable room, sensing the pent-up emotions of all those who were facing long trips to somewhere else, or awaiting the arrival of loved ones and friends coming on the very next passenger train to stop here. As a prolific reader even as a child, I knew a lot about these places of arrival and departure, the chugging steam locomotives of once, and what these station platforms looked like when, during the war years, these meetings and farewells were so emotionally charged; adding to this, the reality that there were potentially rough boxes incoming, carrying the remains of soldiers being repatriated to their home region. It was never as much a haunting experience, because back then I didn’t really have any trepidation about such situations, but was always strangely nostalgic long before I knew what nostalgia even represented. I would say, in retrospect, that I must have had a heightened sensory perception for those lingering spirits, of the good folks of this town, who had spent good hours and bad, sitting patiently in these same chairs that I was occupying as a child voyeur. I felt, even when I was the only living, breathing occupant of that station room, that I wasn’t alone. I’m willing to bet that you have felt like this at times in your own life, and wondered why it seemed so plausible that a ghostly messenger was standing or sitting close by. Was there a message here that was missed. If one doesn’t believe in such mortal, immortal contact, being messages from those who have crossed, why then would this feeling of close proximity mean anything more than a spark of over-active imagination?

     I never received one message specifically from these vigils at the old station. I do recall times when I could have sworn that I had just heard a haunting steam whistle coming from the north, and the unmistakable chug and clack of the train wheels over the silver rails coming near the station on quiet afternoons with no other waiting room occupants than me. I felt history, in the abstract, and my young heart felt the influence of both happiness, thankfulness, and appreciation for this opportunity to hang-out, here, in this hollow, spirited environs, that sooner-than-later, as it turned-out,  would be splintered by a demolition order. I never drive by the old main street rail station without seeing that platform as it was, back when train travel was still a big deal for a still small town; and yes, at times, if I pause for a few moments in the parking lot, I can still hear the collected voices of once, long ago, still very much haunting one of the most important places in town.

     Washington Irving, the author responsible for the name “Bracebridge,” that adorns the welcome sign at the north and south of town, (from his book “Bracebridge Hall”), was a faithful advocate of preserving folk tales and celebrating antiquated ghost stories, and was of course responsible for the internationally revered story, “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.” As Irving wrote of the Historic Hudson River Valley, and the phantom ships that often traversed its waters, it has always inspired me, the fledgling folklorist, that our smaller, lesser known, Muskoka River, has had its own share of folklore attachments and I dare say, interesting hauntings that have largely remained unknown, and for many years, untold. I’m working on that part of our heritage, but it is a few years away from completion. But here now is the concluded parts of Irving’s haunted Hudson for your Halloween enjoyment.  

Washington Irving’s Ghost Ship Part 2

I'D LIKE TO RETURN NOW, TO WASHINGTON IRVING'S TALE OF "THE STORM SHIP," IN THE HUDSON RIVER VALLEY, DATING BACK TO ITS EARLIEST SETTLERS, MANY OF WHO WERE FROM THE NETHERLANDS. MY FAMILY OF VANDERVOORTS MAY HAVE BEEN IN THIS SAME SETTING, OF WHICH IRVING IS WRITING ABOUT. MAYBE IT'S WHY THIS STORY IS SO ALLURING TO ME. BUT I DO FIND A RELEVANCE TO THE SPIRIT-PLAY IN MUSKOKA, AND MANY SHORELINE RESIDENTS HAVE CLAIMED TO SEE PHANTOM BOATS, SAIL BOATS, AND CANOES, ESPECIALLY DURING THUNDERSTORMS….WHICH SEEM SO ENCHANTING WITHIN THEMSELVES. CANADIAN LANDSCAPE ARTIST, TOM THOMSON, WAS PROFOUNDLY INTERESTED BY SUCH WEATHER-EVENTS, INCLUDING THE MAGIC OF THE NORTHERN LIGHTS, WHICH HE CAPTURED ON PAINT BOARDS MANY TIMES, PAINTING IN THE WILDS OF ONTARIO.

     "OTHER EVENTS OCCURRED TO OCCUPY THE THOUGHTS AND DOUBTS OF THE SAGE WOUTER AND HIS COUNCIL, AND THE STORM-SHIP CEASED TO BE A SUBJECT OF DELIBERATION AT THE BOARD. IT CONTINUED, HOWEVER, TO BE A MATTER OF POPULAR BELIEF AND MARVELOUS ANECDOTE THROUGH THE WHOLE TIME OF THE DUTCH GOVERNMENT, AND PARTICULARLY JUST BEFORE THE CAPTURE OF NEW AMSTERDAM, AND THE SUBJUGATION OF THE PROVINCE BY THE ENGLISH SQUADRON. ABOUT THAT TIME THE STORM SHIP WAS REPEATEDLY SEEN IN THE TAPPAN-ZEE, AND ABOUT WECHAWK, AND EVEN DOWN AS FAR AS HOBOKEN; AND HER APPEARANCE WAS SUPPOSED TO BE OMINOUS OF THE APPROACHING SQUALL IN PUBLIC AFFAIRS, AND THE DOWNFALL OF THE DUTCH DOMINATION," WROTE IRVING, IN THE SKETCH BOOK CHARACTER, OF GEOFFREY CRAYON ESQ. "SINCE THAT TIME WE HAVE NO AUTHENTIC ACCOUNTS OF HER; THOUGH IT IS SAID SHE STILL HAUNTS THE HIGHLANDS, AND CRUISES ABOUT POINT-TO-POINT. PEOPLE WHO LIVE ALONG THE RIVER, INSIST THAT THEY SOMETIMES SEE HER IN SUMMER MOONLIGHT; AND THAT IN A DEEP STILL MOONLIGHT THEY HAVE HEARD THE CHANT OF HER CREW, ALONG THE MOUNTAINOUS SHORES, AND ABOUT THE WIDE BAYS AND LONG REACHES OF THIS GREAT RIVER, THAT I CONFESS I HAVE VERY STRONG DOUBTS ABOUT THE SUBJECT."

     "IT IS CERTAIN, NEVERTHELESS, THAT STRANGE THINGS HAVE BEEN SEEN IN THESE HIGHLANDS IN STORMS, WHICH ARE CONSIDERED AS CONNECTED WITH THE OLD STORY OF THE SHIP. THE CAPTAINS OF THE RIVER CRAFT TALK OF A LITTLE BULBOUS-BOTTOMED DUTCH GOBLIN, IN TRUNK HOSE AND SUGAR-LOAF HAT, WITH A SPEAKING-TRUMPET IN HIS HAND, WHICH THEY SAY KEEPS ABOUT THE DUNDERBERG (THUNDER MOUNTAIN). THEY DECLARE THAT THEY HAVE HEARD HIM, IN STORMY WEATHER, IN THE MIDST OF THE TURMOIL, GIVING ORDERS IN LOW DUTCH FOR THE PIPING-UP OF A FRESH GUST OF WIND, OR THE RATTLING OFF OF ANOTHER THUNDER CLAP. THAT SOMETIMES HE HAS BEEN SEEN SURROUNDED BY A CREW OF LITTLE IMPS IN BROAD BREECHES AND SHORT DOUBLETS; TUMBLING HEAD OVER HEELS IN THE RACK AND MIST, AND PLAYING A THOUSAND GAMBOLS IN THE AIR; OR BUZZING LIKE A SWARM OF FLIES ABOUT ANTHONY'S NOSE; AND THAT, AT SUCH TIMES, THE HURRY-SCURRY OF THE STORM WAS ALWAYS GREATEST. ONE TIME, A SLOOP, IN PASSING BY THE DUNDERBERG, WAS OVERTAKEN BY A THUNDER-GUST, THAT CAME SCOURING ROUND THE MOUNTAIN, AND SEEMED TO BURST JUST OVER THE VESSEL. THOUGH TIGHT AND WELL BALLASTED, YET SHE LABOURED DREADFULLY, UNTIL THE WATER CAME OVER THE GUNWALE. ALL THE CREW WERE AMAZED, WHEN IT WAS DISCOVERED THAT THERE WAS A LITTLE WHITE SUGAR-LOAF HAT ON THE MAST HEAD, WHICH WAS KNOWN AT ONCE, TO BE THE HAT OF HEER OF THE DUNDERBURG. NOBODY HOWEVER, DARED TO CLIMB TO THE MAST-HEAD, AND GET RIDE OF THIS TERRIBLE HAT. THE SLOOP CONTINUED LABOURING AND ROCKING, AS IF SHE WOULD HAVE ROLLED HER MAST OVERBOARD. SHE SEEMED IN CONTINUAL DANGER EITHER OF UPSETTING OR OF RUNNING ON SHORE. IN THIS WAY SHE DROVE QUITE THROUGH THE HIGHLANDS UNTIL SHE HAD PASSED POLLOPOL'S ISLAND, WHERE , IT IS SAID, THE JURISDICTION OF THE DUNDERBERG POTENTATE CEASES. NO SOONER HAD SHE PASSED THIS BOURNE, THAN THE LITTLE HAT, ALL AT ONCE, SPUN UP INTO THE AIR LIKE A TOP, WHIRLED UP ALL THE CLOUDS INTO A VORTEX, AND HURRIED THEM BACK TO THE SUMMIT OF THE DUNDERBERG; WHILE THE SLOOP RIGHTED HERSELF, AND SAILED ON AS QUIETLY AS IF IN A MILL POND. NOTHING SAVED HER FROM UTTER WRECK BUT THE FORTUNATE CIRCUMSTANCES OF HAVING A HORSE-SHOE NAILED AGAINST THE MAST; A WISE PRECAUTION AGAINST EVIL SPIRITS, WHICH HAS SINCE BEEN ADOPTED BY ALL THE DUTCH CAPTAINS, THAT NAVIGATE THIS HAUNTED RIVER."

     THERE ARE STORIES, IN MUSKOKA, ABOUT STRANGE LIGHTS OUT ON THE LAKE, IN THE MIDDLE OF EVENING STORMS, THAT BELONG TO NO KNOWN BOAT. THERE HAVE BEEN THE DULL DRONE OF ENGINES, OF BOATS, THAT NEVER ARRIVED AT ANY DESTINATION. SIGHTINGS OF STRANGE SAIL BOATS ALONG THE HORIZON, THAT SUDDENLY DISAPPEAR, AND TRAVERSING CANOES, THAT SEEM TO VANISH JUST ABOUT THE TIME THEY APPEARED CLOSE TO TOUCHING AGAINST THE SAND SHORE OF A MISTY LAKE. THERE MAY BE THE SOUND OF A PADDLE AGAINST THE WATER, WITHOUT ANY CANOE IN THE VICINITY, OR THE SENSATION ON AN ISLAND SHORE, THAT YOU ARE BEING WATCHED BY SOMETHING, OR SOMEONE; WHEN NOT A LIVING SOUL, OR LARGE ANIMAL IS IN THE VICINITY. THERE IS DEFINITELY A SENSORY INVIGORATION, SITTING BY THE RUINS OF AN OLD COTTAGE OR COUNTRYSIDE HOMESTEAD, FEELING AS IF THE LIFE AND TIMES OF ONCE, ARE STILL BEING PLAYED OUT IN FRONT OF THE WATCHER……DESPITE THE FACT NARY A MIST OR SHADOW CAN BE WITNESSED. YET THE KEEN VOYEUR KNOWS IT IS A HAUNTED, SPIRITUALLY POWERFUL PLACE.

WASHINGTON IRVING'S "STORM SHIP" CONTINUED

     "THERE IS ANOTHER STORY TOLD OF THIS FOUL-WEATHER URCHIN (STORM SHIP'S CAPTAIN), BY SKIPPER DANIEL OUSLESTICKER, OF FISHKILL, WHO WAS NEVER KNOWN TO TELL A LIE. HE DECLARED, THAT IN A SEVERE SQUALL, HE SAW HIM SEATED ASTRIDE HIS BOWSPRIT, RIDING THE SLOOP ASHORE, FULL BUTT AGAINST ANTHONY'S NOSE, AND THAT HE WAS EXORCISED BY DONNIE VAN GIESON, OF ESOPUS, WHO HAPPENED TO BE ON BOARD, AND WHO SUNG THE HYMN OF ST. NICHOLAS, WHEREUPON THE GOBLIN THREW HIMSELF UP IN THE AIR LIKE A BALL, AND WENT OFF IN A WHIRLWIND, CARRYING AWAY WITH HIM THE NIGHT-CAP OF THE DOMINIE'S WIFE, WHICH WAS DISCOVERED THE NEXT SUNDAY MORNING HANGING ON THE WEATHER-COCK OF ESOPUS' CHURCH STEEPLE, AT LEAST FORTY MILES OFF!  AFTER SEVERAL EVENTS OF THIS KIND HAD TAKEN PLACE, THE REGLAR SKIPPERS OF THE RIVER, FOR A LONG TIME, DID NOT VENTURE TO PASS THE DUNDERBERG, WITHOUT LOWERING THEIR PEAKS, OUT OF HOMAGE TO THE HEER OF THE MOUNTAIN, AND IT WAS OBSERVED THAT ALL SUCH AS PAID THIS TRIBUTE OF RESPECT, WERE SUFFERED TO PASS UNMOLESTED."

     WASHINGTON IRVING WROTE THIS SHORT STORY, IN THE WORDS OF HIS WELL TRAVELLED CHARACTER, GEOFFREY CRAYON, ESQ., IN THE SKETCH BOOK, OF 1822 VINTAGE.

    "SUCH,' SAID ANTHONY VANDER HAYDEN, 'ARE A FEW OF THE STORIES WRITTEN DOWN BY SELYNE THE POET, CONCERNING THIS STORM SHIP; WHICH HE AFFIRMS TO HAVE BROUGHT TO THIS COLONY OF MISCHIEVOUS IMPS INTO THE PROVINCE, FROM SOME OLD GHOST-RIDDEN COUNTRY OF EUROPE. I COULD GIVE YOUR A HOST OF MORE, IF NECESSARY; FOR ALL THE ACCIDENTS THAT SO OFTEN BEFALL THE RIVER CRAFT IN THE HIGHLANDS ARE SAID TO BE TRICKS PLAYED OFF BY THESE IMPS OF THE DUNDERBERG; BUT IS EE THAT YOU ARE NODDING, SO LET US TURN IN FOR THE NIGHT'."

     "THE MOON HAD JUST RAISED HER SILVER HORNS ABOVE THE ROUND BACK OF OLD BULL HILL, AND LIT UP THE GRAY ROCKS AND SHAGGED FORESTS, AND GLITTERING ON THE WAVING BOSOM OF THE RIVER. THE NIGHT DEW WAS FALLING, AND THE LATE GLOOMY MOUNTAINS BEGAN TO SOFTEN AND PUT ON A GRAY AERIAL TINT IN THE DEWY LIGHT. THE HUNTERS STIRRED THE FIRE, AND THREW ON FRESH FUEL TO QUALIFY THE DAMP OF THE NIGHT AIR. THEY THEN PREPARED A BED OF BRANCHES AND DRY LEAVES UNDER A LEDGE OF ROCKS FOR DOLPH; WHILE ANTHONY VANDER HAYDEN, WRAPPING HIMSELF UP IN A HUGE COAT MADE OF SKIN, STRETCHED HIMSELF BEFORE THE FIRE. IT WAS SOME TIME HOWEVER, BEFORE DOLPH COULD CLOSE HIS EYES. HE LAY CONTEMPLATING THE STRANGE SCENE BEFORE HIM; THE WILD WOODS AND ROCKS AROUND, THE FIRE THROWING FITFUL GLEAMS ON THE FACES OF THE SLEEPING SAVAGES; AND THE HEER ANTONY, TOO, WHO SO SINGULARLY, YET VAGUELY, REMINDED HIM OF THE NIGHTLY VISITANT TO THE HAUNTED HOUSE. NOW AND THEN HE HEARD THE CRY OF SOME ANIMAL FROM THE FOREST; OR THE HOOTING OF THE OWL; OR THE NOTES OF THE WHIP-POOR-WILL, WHICH SEEMED TO ABOUND AMONG THESE SOLITUDES; OR THE SPLASH OF A STURGEON, LEAPING OUT OF THE RIVER, AND FALLING BACK FULL LENGTH ON ITS PLACID SURFACE. HE CONTRASTED ALL THIS WITH HIS ACCUSTOMED NEST IN THE GARRET ROOM OF THE DOCTOR'S MANSION; WHERE THE ONLY SOUNDS HE HEARD AT NIGHT WERE THE CHURCH CLOCK TELLING THE HOUR; THE DROWSY VOICE OF THE WATCHMAN, DRAWLING OUT ALL WAS WELL; THE DEEP SNORING OF THE DOCTOR'S CLUBBED NOSE FROM BELOW THE STAIRS, OR THE CAUTIOUS LABOURS FO SOME CARPENTER RAT GNAWING IN THE WAINSCOT. HIS THOUGHTS THEN WANDERED TO HIS POOR OLD MOTHER; WHAT WOULD SHE THINK OF HIS MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE - WHAT ANXIETY AND DISTRESS WOULD SHE NOT SUFFER? THIS WAS THE THOUGH THAT WOULD CONTINUALLY INTRUDE ITSELF TO MAR HIS PRESENT ENJOYMENT. IT BROUGHT WITH IT A FEELING OF PAIN AND COMPUNCTION, AND HE FELL ASLEEP WITH THE TEARS YET STANDING IN HIS EYES," WROTE IRVING.

     "WERE THIS A MERE TALE OF FANCY, HERE WOULD BE A FINE OPPORTUNITY FOR WEAVING IN STRANGE ADVENTURES AMONG THESE WILD MOUNTAINS, AND ROVING HUNTERS; AND AFTER, INVOLVING MY HERO IN A VARIETY OF PERILS AND DIFFICULTIES, RESCUING HIM FROM THEM BY SOME MIRACULOUS CONTRIVANCE; BUT AS THIS IS ABSOLUTELY A TRUE STORY, I MUST CONTENT MYSELF WITH SIMPLE FACTS, AND KEEP TO PROBABILITIES."

     IRVING REMINDS, "AT AN EARLY HOUR OF THE NEXT DAY, THEREFORE, AFTER A HEARY MORNING'S MEAL, THE ENCAMPMENT BROKE UP, AND OUR ADVENTURESS EMBARKED IN THE PINNACE OF ANTHONY VANDER HEYDEN. THERE BEING NO WIND FOR THE SAIL, THE INDIANS ROWED HER GENTLY ALONG, KEEPING TIME TO A KIND OF CHANT OF ONE OF THE WHITE MEN. THE DAY WAS SERENE AND BEAUTIFUL; THE RIVER WITHOUT A WAVE; AND AS THE VESSEL CLEFT THE GLASSY WATER, IT LEFT A LONG, UNDULATING TRACK BEHIND. THE CROWS, WHO HAD SCENTED THE HUNTEERS' BANQUET, WERE ALREADY GATHERING AND HOVERING, IN THE AIR, JUST WHERE A COLUMN OF THIN BLUE SMOKE, RISING FROM AMONG THE TREES, SHOWED THE PLACE OF THEIR LAST NIGHT'S QUARTERS. AS THEY COASTED ALONG THE BASES OF THE MOUNTAINS, THE HEER ANTHONY POINTED OUT TO DOLPH A BALD EAGLE, THE SOVEREIGN OF THESE REGIONS, WHO SAT PERCHED ON A DRY TREE THAT PROJECTED OVER THE RIVER, AND, WITH EYE TURNED UPWARDS, SEEMED TO BE DRINKING IN THE SPLENDOUR OF THE MORNING SUN. THEIR APPROACH DISTURBED THE MONARCH'S MEDITATIONS. HE FIRST SPREAD ONE WING, AND THEN THE OTHER; BALANCED HIMSELF FOR A MOMENT; AND THEN, QUITTING HIS PERCH WITH DIGNIFIED COMPOSURE, WHEELED SLOWLY OVER THEIR HEADS. DOLPH SNATCHED UP A GUN, AND SENT A WHISTLING BALL AFTER HIM THAT CUT SOME OF HIS FEATHERS FROM HIS WING; THE REPORT OF THE GUN LEAPED SHARPLY FROM ROCK TO ROCK, AND AWAKENED A THOUSAND ECHOES; BUT THE MONARCH OF THE AIR SAILED CALMLY ON, ASCENDING HIGHER AND HIGHER, AND WHEELING WIDELY AS HE ASCENDED, SOARING UP THE GREEN BOSOM OF THE WOODY MOUNTAIN, UNTIL HE DISAPPEARED OVER THE BROW OF A BEETLING PRECIPICE. DOLPH FELT IN A MANNER REBUKED BYU THIS PROUD TRANQUILITY, AND ALMOST REPROACHED HIMSELF FOR HAVING SO WANTONLY INSULTED THIS MAJESTIC BIRD. HEER ANTHONY TOLD HIM, LAUGHING, TO REMEMBER THAT HE WAS NOT YET OUT OF THE TERRITORIES OF THE LORD OF THE DUNDERBERG; AND AN OLD INDIAN SHOOK HIS HEAD, AND OBSERVED, THAT THERE WAS BAD LUCK IN KILLING AN EAGLE; THE HUNTER, ON THE CONTRARY, SHOULD ALWAYS LEAVE HIM A PORTION OF THE SPOILS."

     "NOTHING, HOWEVER, OCCURRED TO MOLEST THEM ON THEIR VOYAGE. THEY PASSED PLEASANTLY THROUGH MAGNIFICENT AND LONELY SCENES, UNTIL THEY CAME TO WHERE POLLOPOL'S ISLAND LAY, LIKE A FLOATING BOWER, AT THE EXTREMITY OF THE HIGHLANDS. HERE THEY LANDED, UNTIL THE HEAD OF THE DAY SHOULD ABATE, OR A BREEZE SPRING UP, THAT MIGHT SUPERSEDE THE LABOUR OF THE OAR.  SOME PREPARED THE MID-DAY MEAL, WHILE OTHERS REPOSED UNDER THE SHADE TREES IN LUXURIOUS SUMMER INDOLENCE, LOOKING DROWSILY FORTH UPON THE BEAUTY OF THE SCENE. ON THE ONE SIDE WERE THE HIGHLANDS, VAST AND CRAGGED, FEATHERED TO THE TOP WITH FORESTS, AND THROWING THEIR SHADOWS ON THE GLASSY WATER THAT DIMPLED AT THEIR FEET. ON THE OTHER SIDE WAS A WIDE EXPANSE OF THE RIVER, LIKE A BROAD LAKE, WITH LONG SUNNY REACHES, AND GREEN HEADLANDS; AND THE DISTANT LINE OF SHAWUNKGUNK MOUNTAINS WAVING ALONG A CLEAR HORIZON, OR CHEQUERED BY A FLEECY CLOUD."

     THE OIL LAMP AT THE OLD EWING FARM, IN MONCK TOWNSHIP, NEAR BRACEBRIDGE, WAS SLOWLY EXTINGUISHED THAT PARTICULAR NIGHT, THE WICK BEING ROLLED DOWN SLOWLY INTO THE BURNER. THE LINGERING, WAFTING SCENT OF COAL OIL FILLED THE BEDROOM, AS THE COLD AUTUMN AIR DROPPING IN TEMPERATURE OUTSIDE, TO NEAR FROST, COULD BE FELT, LIKE A COLD SPIRIT, SEEPING INTO THE UPSTAIRS OF THE FARM HOUSE. THE BOOK WAS CLOSED, BUT THE PAGE MARKED FOR A RETURN ENGAGEMENT, PRIOR TO SLUMBER THE NEXT EVENING.....WHEN FROM UNDER A HEAVY WOOL BLANKET AND QUILT, THE STORY WOULD BE RESUMED BY THE FLICKER OF THE OLD OIL LAMP ON THE DRESSER.

     I PURCHASED THE WASHINGTON IRVING BOOK, CONTAINING THE STORY, "THE STORM SHIP," FROM AN ESTATE AUCTION, AT THE FORMER EWING FARM IN THE MID 1980'S. AT THE TIME, I PURCHASED FIFTEEN BOXES OF OLD BOOKS, FROM THE ANTIQUATED FARM LIBRARY, AND THE IRVING BOOK LOOKED TO HAVE BEEN ONE OF THE MOST FREQUENTLY READ AND RE-READ, BACK IN ITS PIONEER PERIOD, AS A MUSKOKA FARMSTEAD.  THE STORY OF THE PHANTOM SHIP WAS CLEARLY MARKED BY NUMEROUS BENT OVER CORNERS......AND THIS IS WHAT I HAVE FOLLOWED FOR INCLUSION ON THIS BLOG. THE POINT I WANT TO MAKE, IS THAT THESE STORIES, INCLUDING ONES TOLD BY CHARLES DICKENS, WERE TO BE FOUND ON THE FIRST HOMESTEADS IN OUR REGION OF ONTARIO......AND IT IS TO BE EXPECTED, THAT THEY FOUND SIMILARITIES IN THEIR NEW PLACE OF RESIDENCE, TO SOME OF THE HAUNTING, CHILLING, AND MEMORABLE STORIES SPUN BY AUTHORS LIKE WASHINGTON IRVING. DID THEY SEE PARALLELS TO SLEEPY HOLLOW, WHEN THEY LOOKED OUT ONTO THEIR HOMESTEADS? I WILL RETURN TO THE CONCLUSION OF "THE GHOST SHIP," FOR TOMORROW'S BLOG. I'LL RESUME WHERE PRESUMABLY, A MEMBER OF THE EWING FAMILY MAY HAVE LEFT OFF, ONE AUTUMN NIGHT MORE THAN A CENTURY AGO.

The Mysterious Muskoka River Has Some Literary Parallels To Washington Irvings Tales Of The Haunted Hudson River Valley

 

Photos by Suzanne Currie

THE GIFT OF IMAGINATION - TO SEE MORE CLEARLY THE INTRICACIES OF NATURE

WHAT THE UNIMAGINATIVE MISS OVER A LIFETIME

     The truth is, and it is an historical truth as well, I was profoundly scorned for working on the Washington Irving connection to Bracebridge, via a book he wrote entitled “Bracebridge Hall,” and the controversial fellow, W.D. LeSueur, who actually named the fledgling hamlet post office; of course, being “Bracebridge,” and not the popular choice by select citizens circa 1864, who very much thought that “North Falls,” was the “cat’s arse” when it came to memorable names to welcome future commerce. I never really disagreed with this, but history is what it is, and LeSueur, as the postal authority of the day, decided “Bracebridge” infinitely more futuristic and marketable to this new homestead community. Seeing as Dr. LeSueur, also one of Canada’s astute man of letters, and both an historian and literary critic in his off-hours, had meant the naming exercise to be an honor to the citizens of the hamlet and in recognition of one of the most revered authors in the world; being Washington Irving, also the author of The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. And I ran straight into the objectors who, even after well more than a century, didn’t like the fact a postal authority had acted in what they perceived was a cavalier manner, using a name made popular by, of all things, an American author. Thus at about every turn, what could have been a most storied, literary relationship between Irving historic sites, of which there are a few that were interested in our provenance carrying the Irving connection,  it was decided by those in authority, political and otherwise, to just fob-it-off with the idea that “Currie will just get bored after awhile and let the whole thing fade into obscurity.” Well it hasn’t, and I’m still the stubborn son-of-a-bitch that I was twenty or so years ago. Maybe more so, in fact. I just can’t leave this most delicious connectedness alone, and it is at Halloween, for me, that I have most fun, recollecting some of Irving’s stories of hauntings and the landforms that tend to me most appealing to ghosts and hobgoblins.

     I wrote the editorial copy a few years back, but it is all still relevant. All the major players are deceased after all, including Dr. LeSueur, who gave us this long suffering provenance to literature, and of course Washington Irving himself, and most of the pioneer settlers who were angry originally at the postal authority’s slight of protocol. How dare he? Well, he did a good thing really, but it’s probably going to take another century to bring it all together as it should be today. I won’t be around of course, as I will be in the same situation as those who have already left this mortal coil, but hopefully, there is enough copy spread out in many media venues, to keep the literary goodwill alive and well long into this enterprise of the future. I spent most of my young and early adult life living and working in Bracebridge; a town that was to me, the young aspiring writer, historian, a most delightfully haunted place for one with a healthy imagination. I spent a great deal of time in an around the North Branch of the Muskoka River, from Wilson’s Falls, through Bass Rock, the rapids, our old swimming hole, and down to the great cataract of Bracebridge Falls, crashing below the grand landmark of the silver bridge. I heard the river, smelled it, felt the ice cold chill off its steaming surface in mid-January, and watched it rage in the melt of springtime, as it flooded over the banks below the Bracebridge Train Station. The blackness of that river, and its moodiness in the engaging light of day, or darkness of night, made its voyeurs feel its joy and suffering as a natural resource infused by spirit; possibly the many hundreds of lives lost in drowning incidents since the first settlers set up encampments along its banks. It is predictably unpredictable, and it has an internal enchantment, such that if you were to sit by its side, over a few hours at this time of the rolling year, you may well hear those voices of the deceased, rising from its depths, as it rustles along the leaf covered shore, and over the bits of old wood and clustered branches that have taken refuge in the wee inlets that aren’t visible in the darkness; but audible in the eddying current that washes the old away and flushes in the new debris field coming from further north. It is a vigil that stirs memories, stimulates emotions and fright, while unsettling the common place of the little town that has grown here since the years of that newly installed post office. August 1864. There have been sightings of phantom canoes, row boats, pioneer rafts, and swimmers that suddenly vanished, but were from another time, and a tragic circumstance. Yet basking as it does on another sunny and warm autumn afternoon, it is as romantically calm, and soothing, as any water course anywhere in the world. It is poetic, and magnificently literary, historic and almost musical in its plethora of sounds, and it is as if sunset could never bring about such hauntings as I’ve witnessed so many times in the past. It is mysterious yet alluring. It deserves the pen of Washington Irving. It deserves to be a central natural quality and quantity of a town named after the author of The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. Please enjoy this two part series on the Haunted Hudson River, that Irving knew all about.

     POSSIBLY YOU WILL HAVE TO PLACE YOURSELF BACK IN CHILDHOOD, JUST A TAD, REMEMBERING THOSE LINGERING, SENSORY STIMULATING, PRECIOUS MOMENTS AT LAKESIDE; OR IN THE MAPLE GROVE OF A FAVORITE PARK; STROLLING ON AN AUGUST AFTERNOON, DOWN A POPULAR TREE-LINED PATH, AFTER SCHOOL WITH NO HOMEWORK AHEAD. A TIME WHEN IMAGINATION WAS UNFETTERED…..ONLY RESTRICTED BY THE NON-SLUMBER HOURS OF EACH DAY. THERE WERE NO MORAL TITHES, NO POLITICAL CORRECTNESS ATTACHED, AND FEW PRECONCEIVED NOTIONS. A TIME WHEN FREEDOM WAS FULFILLED FIRST, BY AN ACTIVE, VIBRANT IMAGINATION. IF YOU HAPPENED TO SEE AN APPARITION, A HOBGOBLIN OR MYSTERIOUS VAPOR ALONG THE PATH, YOU DIDN'T RUN AWAY. RATHER, YOU STUDIED IT, AS IF IT WAS OF NATURAL IMPORTANCE FIRST…..A HOLLYWOOD-LIKE THRILLER, SECOND. YOU WOULD HAVE GIVEN THE PARANORMAL CAREFUL SCRUTINY, TO SEE IF THERE WAS A LOGICAL EXPLANATION TO WHAT DRIFTED ACROSS YOUR PATH, OR CALLED OUT YOUR NAME, AS IF A FRIEND COMING BEHIND. WE HAVE ALL EXPERIENCED THESE STRANGE MOMENTS, LOST IN THOUGHT, SUDDENLY REMINDED THAT LIFE IS JUST LIKE THAT……AND WELCOMED UNCEREMONIOUSLY TO THE SUPERNATURAL. SOMETHING OCCURRING BEYOND THE NATURAL OR NORMAL, ATTACHED TO SIMILAR HIKES AND EVENTS. WHAT MAY OR MAY NOT HAVE HAPPENED, IS UP TO MORTAL EXAMINATION AND SPECULATION. IMAGINATION IS THE TOOL OF CHOICE, TO WEIGH OVER ALL THE POSSIBILITIES, INCLUDING THAT THE SIGHTING MAY HAVE JUST BEEN A PLAY OF NATURAL LIGHT, OR A DRIFT OF MIST FROM AN ADJACENT LOWLAND; THE VOICE, A TRICK OF THE WIND, WASHSING THROUGH THE OVERHEAD EVERGREEN BOUGHS, OR THE CROAKING OF AN OLD FROG NEARBY. OF COURSE, IMAGINATION MIGHT ALSO FUEL THE FEAR, THAT A DEVILISH CREATURE MIGHT BE FOLLOWING BEHIND. BUT ALAS, WE EXERCISE OUR CREATIVE RESOURCES TO ANALYZE, AND OCCASIONALLY, EMBELLISH. WHAT LURKS IN THE SHADOW? 

     I CAN'T REMEMBER HOW MANY THOUSAND TIMES, I FELT THE SUPERNATURAL QUALITIES OF NATURE, NEVER ONCE THINKING IT TO BE A PARANORMAL ENCOUNTER. IT WAS NORMAL FOR ME TO THINK OF THE MUSKOKA RIVER AS A LIVING, WRITHING SERPENT, AS IT SNAKED THROUGH THE URBAN AREA OF BRACEBRIDGE. ON MY WAY TO AND FROM SCHOOL, I CROSSED THAT EXPANSE OF PULSATING RIVER, OFTEN FOUR TIMES EACH DAY. I USED TO STAND OUT, ON THE HUNT'S HILL BRIDGE, ON THE WAY TO AND FROM SCHOOL, BELIEVING THIS RIVER WANTED TO SNATCH ME FROM MY SAFE PLACE OF OBSERVATION. THE FACT THAT IT HAD LED TO THE DROWNING DEATHS OF HUNDREDS OF CITIZENS, FROM THE PIONEER DAYS OF THE 1850'S, MADE THIS BLACK RIBBON OF WATER SO ENCHANTING. IF YOU WATCHED ITS MOVEMENT LONG ENOUGH, IT SEEMED TO HAVE A HYPNOTIZING AFFECT; ALMOST COMPELLING THE VOYEUR TO WALK DOWN TO THE SHORE, AND TOUCH ITS SILKEN SURFACE, DEEPLY REFLECTING THE NUANCES OF EACH DAY AND NIGHT. I ASSUMED IT WAS THE REASON SO MANY YOUNG PEOPLE WERE SWALLOWED BY ITS UNDERTOW, AND PULLED OVER THE RAPIDS, AND THEN TUMBLING THEIR LOST SOULS OVER THE MAIN FALLS, CRUMPLED, BROKEN AND DUTIFULLY DROWNED IN THE MIST OF THE POWER DECLINE.  I HAD FRIENDS TAKEN BY THIS RIVER. THEY GOT TOO CLOSE. THEY FORGOT WHAT THEIR MOTHERS HAD TOLD THEM, ABOUT THE DANGEROUS UNDERTOW. IT NEARLY CLAIMED ME. I HAD BEEN SWIMMING AT BASS ROCK, JUST BELOW THE RAPIDS, AND GOT CAUGHT IN THE CURRENT. MY GUARDIAN ANGEL ONCE AGAIN INFORMED ME, I COULD NOT LEAVE THIS MORTAL COIL JUST YET. I WAS THEN IN EQUAL PERIL, WITH SUZANNE, WHEN OUR CANOE CAPSIZED DURING A RACE ON THE SOUTH BRANCH. WE HAD TO BE RESCUED. THE RIVER SEEMED ANGRY TO HAVE LOST ME ON TWO OCCASIONS OF IMMINENT DEATH.

     I REMAIN TO THIS DAY, REVERENT OF THE BRANCHES OF THE MUSKOKA RIVER, NORTH AND SOUTH. I STILL SEE IT AS AN ENTITY UNTO ITSELF, AND OVER THE DECADES OF OUR RELATIONSHIP, I HAVE SEEN ITS MANY MOODS….AND THIS SPRING, ITS OVERFLOWING REACH FURTHER INTO THE COMMUNITY, DAMAGING MANY PROPERTIES IN ITS RAGE OVER THE RIVE BANKS. I HAVE SEEN, IN THE EARLY MORNING, PHANTOM CANOEISTS, HIKERS ALONG ITS SHORE, AS I HAVE IN WINTER, SEEN SKATERS EMERGING FROM THE FRIGID, SPIRALING JANUARY MIST…..WHO DISAPPEARED AS SUDDENLY, AND SILENTLY AS THEY HAD EMERGED. WERE THEY THE GHOSTS OF THOSE PEOPLE CLAIMED IN THE PAST, BY THIS UNRELENTING, UNFORGIVING WATERWAY?  WHAT CHILD HASN'T IMAGINED A GHOST OR PHANTOM OF SOME CHARACTER, AFTER A STORM, OR JUST AFTER SUNSET…..OR IN THE MILKY GLOW OF A HARVEST MOON, ON THIS MIRRORING, WAVERING, DEEP RUNNING ARTERY. THEY MIGHT TELL THEIR MOTHERS AND FATHERS ABOUT HEARING THEIR NAMES BEING CALLED OUT, AS THEY PASSED OVER THE BRIDGE……LOOKING OUT ON THE WATER, EXPECTING TO SEE SOMEONE THEY KNOW, IN A BOAT FLOATING BELOW. PARENTS WOULD ADMONISH THEIR YOUNGSTERS FOR LINGERING IN A DANGEROUS PLACE, AND SUGGEST IT WAS JUST LIKELY THE SOUND OF WATER HITTING AGAINST THE BRIDGE ABUTMENTS. SUCH IS THE FOLLY OF AN UNENCUMBERED IMAGINATION. MY MOTHER MERLE WARMED ME ABOUT THE RIVER, ON EVERY MORNING I LEFT FOR SCHOOL. IT WAS PART OF MY DAY, TO BE WARNED OF THE POTENTIAL OF DROWNING, IF I GOT TOO CLOSE. I DID, AND IT NEARLY COST ME MY LIFE. AND MY WIFE'S.

WASHINGTON IRVING'S "STORM SHIP"

     "IN THE GOLDEN AGE OF THE PROVINCE OF NEW NETHERLANDS, WHEN IT WAS UNDER THE SWAY OF WOUTER VAN TWILLER, OTHERWISE CALLED 'THE DOUBTER,' THE PEOPLE OF THE MANHATTOES WERE ALARMED ONE SULTRY AFTERNOON, JUST ABOUT THE TIME OF THE SUMMER SOLSTICE, BY A TREMENDOUS STORM OF THUNDER AND LIGHTNING. THE RAIN DESCENDED IN SUCH TORRENTS AS ABSOLUTELY TO SPATTER UP AND SMOKE ALONG THE GROUND. IT SEEMED AS IF THE THUNDER RATTLED AND ROLLED OVER THE VERY ROOFS OF THE HOUSES; THE LIGHTNING WAS SEEN TO PLAY ABOUT THE CHURCH OF ST. NICHOLAS, AND TO STRIVE THREE TIMES, IN VAIN, TO STRIKE ITS WEATHERCOCK. GARRET VAN HORNE'S NEW CHIMNEY WAS SPLIT ALMOST FROM THE TOP TO BOTTOM; AND DOFFUE MILDEBERGER WAS STRUCK SPEECHLESS FROM HIS BALD-FACED MARE, JUST AS HE WAS RIDING INTO TOWN. IN A WORD, IT WAS ONE OF THOSE UNPARALLELED STORMS, THAT ONLY HAPPEN ONCE WITH THE MEMORY OF THAT VENERABLE PERSONAGE, KNOWN TO ALL TOWNS BY THE APPELLATION OF 'THE OLDEST INHABITANT.'

     GREAT WAS THE TERROR OF THE GOOD OLD WOMEN OF THE MANHATTOES. THE GATHERED THEIR CHILDREN TOGETHER, AND TOOK REFUGE IN THE CELLARS; AFTER HAVING HUNG A SHOE ON THE IRON POINT OF EVERY BED POST, LEST IT SHOULD ATTRACT THE LIGHTNING. AT LENGTH, THE STORM ABATED; THE THUNDER SUNK INTO A GROWL, AND THE SETTING SUN, BREAKING FROM UNDER THE FRINGED BORDERS OF THE CLOUDS, MADE THE BROAD BOSOM OF THE BAY TO GLEAM LIKE A SEA OF MOLTEN GOLD," WROTE WASHINGTON IRVING, IN THE CHARACTER OF GEOFFREY CRAYON ESQ., IN THE CONTINUATION OF THE SKETCH BOOKS, CIRCA 1862. HE WAS WRITING, OF COURSE, ABOUT THE PRESENT STATE OF NEW YORK, AND THE HUDSON RIVER VALLEY.

     "THE WORD WAS GIVEN FROM THE FORT THAT A SHIP WAS STANDING UP THE BAY. IT PASSED FROM MOUTH TO MOUTH, AND STREET TO STREET, AND SOON PUT THE LITTLE CAPITAL IN A BUSTLE. THE ARRIVAL OF A SHIP, IN THOSE EARLY TIMES OF THE SETTLEMENT, WAS AN EVENT OF VAST IMPORTANCE TO THE INHABITANTS. IT BROUGHT THEM NEWS FROM THE OLD WORLD, FROM THE LAND OF THEIR BIRTH, FROM WHIHC THEY WERE SO COMPLETELY SEVERED. TO THE YEARLY SHIP, TOO, THEY LOOKED FOR THEIR SUPPLY OF LUXURIES, OF FINERY, OF COMFORTS AND ALMOST OF NECESSARIES. THE GOOD VROUW COULD NOT HAVE HER NEW CAP NOR GOWN UNTIL THE ARRIVAL OF THE SHIP; THE ARTIST WAITED FOR IT FOR HIS TOOLS, THE BURGOMASTER FOR HIS PIPE AND HIS SUPPLY OF HOLLANDS, THE SCHOOLBOY FOR HIS TOP AND MARBLES, AND THE LORDLY LANDHOLDER, FOR THE BRICK WITH WHICH HE WAS TO BUILD HIS NEW MANSION. THUS EVERYONE, RICH AND POOR, GREAT AND SMALL, LOOKED OUT FOR THE ARRIVAL OF THE SHIP. IT WAS THE GREAT YEARLY EVENT OF THE TOWN OF NEW AMSTERDAM; AND FROM ONE END OF THE YEAR TO THE OTHER, THE SHIP - THE SHIP - THE SHIP, WAS THE CONTINUAL TOPIC OF CONVERSATION."

     IRVING WRITES, "THE APPEARANCE OF THIS SHIP THREW THE GOVERNOR INTO ONE OF THE DEEPEST DOUBTS THAT EVER BESET HIM IN THE WHOLE COURSE OF HIS ADMINISTRATION. FEARS WERE ENTERTAINED FOR THE SECURITY OF THE INFANT SETTLEMENT ON THE RIVER, LEST THIS MIGHT BE AN ENEMY'S SHIP IN DISGUISE, SENT TO TAKE POSSESSION. THE GOVERNOR CALLED TOGETHER HIS COUNCIL REPEATEDLY, TO ASSIST HIM WITH THEIR CONJECTURES. HE SAT IN HIS CHAIR OF STATE, BUILT OF TIMBER FROM THE SACRED FOREST OF THE HAGUE, AND SMOKED HIS LONG JASMIN PIPE, AND LISTENED TO ALL THAT HIS COUNSELLORS HAD TO SAY ON A SUBJECT WHICH THEY KNEW NOTHING; BUT IN SPITE OF ALL THE CONJECTURING OF THE SAGEST AND OLDEST HEADS, THE GOVERNOR STILL CONTINUED TO DOUBT.

     MESSENGERS WERE DESPATCHED TO DIFFERENT PLACES ON THE RIVER; BUT THEY RETURNED WITHOUT ANY TIDINGS - THE SHIP HAD MADE NO PORT. DAY AFTER DAY, AND WEEK AFTER WEEK, ELAPSED, BUT SHE NEVER RETURNED DOWN THE HUDSON. AS, HOWEVER, THE COUNCIL SEEMED SOLICITOUS FOR INTELLIGENCE, THEY HAD IT IN ABUNDANCE. THE CAPTAINS OF SLOOPS SELDOM ARRIVED WITHOUT BRINGING SOME REPORT OF HAVING SEEN THE STRANGE SHIP AT DIFFERENT PARTS OF THE RIVER; SOMETIMES NEAR THE PALLISADES, SOMETIMES OFF CROTON POINT, AND SOMETIMES IN THE HIGHLANDS, BUT SHE NEVER WAS REPORTED AS HAVING BEEN SEEN ABOVE THE HIGHLANDS. THE CREWS OF THE SLOOPS, IT IS TRUE, GENERALLY DIFFERED AMONG THEMSELVES IN THEIR ACCOUNTS OF THESE APPARITIONS, BUT THAT MAY HAVE ARISEN FROM THE UNCERTAIN SITUATIONS IN WHICH THEY SAW HER. SOMETIMES IT WAS BY THE FLASHES OF THE THUNDERSTORM LIGHTNING, UP A PITCHY NIGHT, AND GIVING GLIMPSES OF HER CAREERING ACROSS TAPPAAN ZEE, OR THE WIDE WASTE OF HAVERSTRAW BAY. AT ONE MOMENT SHE WOULD APPEAR CLOSE UPON THEM, AS IF LIKELY TO RUN THEM DOWN, AND WOULD THROW UPON THEM, AS IF LIKELY TO RUN THEM DOWN, AND WOULD THROW THEM INTO GREAT BUSTLE AND ALARM; BUT THE NEXT FLASH WOULD SHOW HER FAR OFF, ALWAYS SAILING AGAINST THE WIND. SOMETIMES IN QUIET MOONLIGHT NIGHTS, SHE WOULD BE SEEN UNDER SOME HIGH BLUFF OF THE HIGHLANDS, ALL IN DEEP SHADOW, EXCEPTING HER TOP-SAILS GLITTERING IN THE MOONBEAMS; BY THE TIME, HOWEVER, THAT THE VOYAGERS WOULD REACH THE PLACE, THERE WOULD BE NO SHIP TO BE SEEN; AND WHEN THEY HAD PAST ON FOR SOME DISTANCE, AND LOOKED BACK, BEHOLD, THERE SHE WAS AGAIN, WITH HERS TOP SAILS IN THE MOONSHINE.! HER APPEARANCE WAS ALWAYS JUST AFTER, OR JUST BEFORE, OR JUST IN THE MIDST OF UNRULY WEATHER; AND SHE WAS KNOWN BY ALL THE SKIPPERS AND VOYAGERS OF THE HUDSON, BY THE NAME OF 'THE STORM SHIP'."

     THERE HAVE BEEN, OVER THE DECADES, FOLKS AROUND THE SHORELINE OF LAKE MUSKOKA, WHO HAVE THOUGHT THEY HAD WITNESSED GHOSTLY PASSAGE OF THE SUNKEN STEAMSHIP, WAOME, CLAIMED MANY YEARS AGO NOW BY A SUDDEN VIOLENT STORM. SOME CLAIM TO HEAR A MYSTERIOUS STEAM WHISTLE, FROM OUT OF THE FOG, AND OTHERS WHO SEE THE OUTLINE OF A SMALL STEAMSHIP, CHUGGING IN THE RAIN OF A MAJOR STORM EVENT….JUST LIKE THE ONE THAT CLAIMED IT. THERE ARE TIMES WHEN WE ARE SUDDENLY SURPRISED BY SOME EVENT, WE CAN ONLY DETERMINE AS THE CREATION OF AN OVER-ACTIVE IMAGINATION. IT DOESN'T EXPLAIN PARANORMAL ENCOUNTERS, EXPERIENCED BY HAPPENSTANCE VOYEURS, WHO HAVE NO IDEA THE SIGNIFICANCE OF THE EVENT, OR VISION THEY MAY HAVE WITNESSED. THEY ARE LEFT PUZZLED ABOUT WHO COULD HAVE BEEN NAVIGATING THAT PHANTOM CANOE, OR PILOTING THE MYSTERIOUS GHOST SHIP, LOST MANY YEARS EARLIER. FOR AS LONG AS THERE HAVE BEEN WITNESSES, THERE HAVE BEEN UNEXPLAINED EVENTS; MYSTERIOUS SIGHTINGS; PEOPLE ENCOUNTERED, WHO WERE SUPPOSED TO BE DECEASED, LIKE THE VICTORIAN WOMAN, INTERRUPTED IN A MILFORD BAY CEMETERY, WHO HAD APPARENTLY SNAGGED HER LONG WHITE GOWN ON SOME WIRE FENCING. WHEN THE YOUNG COUPLE, PASSING NEARBY, TRIED TO ASSIST HER, THE WOMAN DISAPPEARED INTO THE NIGHT AIR. THERE ARE STORIES TOLD, THAT EVENING STROLLERS HAVE COME UPON THE GHOST OF GEORGE CYR, THE LAST MAN HUNG IN BRACEBRIDGE, BURIED SOMEWHERE NEAR THE TOP OF CHANCERY LANE. HE DOESN'T SPEAK, BUT OBVIOUSLY, HAS SOME DOUBT ABOUT HIS ETERNAL PURPOSE. THE IMAGINATION, OF COURSE, PLAYS ITS ROLE, DOESN'T IT. I HAD FAR MORE REPORTS OF GEORGE CYR'S SIGHTINGS, AFTER I WROTE A LENGTHY FEATURE ARTICLE FOR THE HERALD-GAZETTE, BACK IN THE EARLY 1980'S…..ESPECIALLY AROUND HALLOWE'EN. CYR WAS ACTUALLY IMPRISONED IN THE BASEMENT OF THE HERALD-GAZETTE, AWAITING HIS EXECUTION; IT IS KNOWN THAT HE COULD HEAR THE GALLOWS BEING BUILT NEAR BY. CYR BURIED HIS GUN, ACCORDING TO HIS LAWYER, REDMOND THOMAS, AND IT IS WONDERED ALOUD, AMONGST BELIEVERS, WHETHER HE IS JUST LOOKING TO FIND WHERE HE HAD DUG THE HOLE. REDMOND THOMAS KNEW WHERE IT WAS, BUT TODAY? WHO KNOWS?

     I WILL REJOIN WASHINGTON IRVING'S TALE OF "THE STORM SHIP," IN TOMORROW'S BLOG. PLEASE JOIN ME FOR A TALE OF THE FANTASTIC. BRING YOUR INVIGORATED, LIBERATED IMAGINATION.