Humans also have a fascination with the divide between their species and animals, and Bigfoot bridges that gap, said John Hawks, anthropologist at the University of Wisconsin, Madison.
Believing in these creatures and following their trails in the forest is somewhat akin to an amusement park ride: They are safe ways of experiencing fear, said Jacqueline Woolley, professor of psychology at the University of Texas at Austin.1
As we have explored in this book, reports of mysterious creatures have drawn interest for centuries from natural historians, popular writers, and explorers—and have long fascinated the public as well. That attraction continues to this day. The Baylor Religion Survey found in 2005 that one in five Americans have read a book, consulted a Web site, or otherwise researched “mysterious animals, such as Bigfoot or the Loch Ness Monster.”2 Many of those people are interested because they are persuaded that cryptids exist, but around 13 percent of those who do not believe in cryptids have made the effort to seek out information about these hypothetical creatures.3 Co-author Daniel Loxton can relate to both sides of that interest, having been first motivated to devour cryptozoology books by the belief that cryptids exist, only to sustain an enduring fascination with monster mysteries in his later role as a skeptic and critic of the topic. Loxton is not unique in this; many people feel the attractiveness of cryptozoological ideas, even if they are skeptical about the literal existence of cryptids. Disbelievers are not immune to a feeling that Joshua Blu Buhs described as a transcendent interest “shared by Bigfooters, a feeling that united them and underlay all of their activities, their expeditions, their reading, their correspondence…. That transcendent interest was love. Bigfooters loved the monster.”4 Linguist Karen Stollznow, co-host of the skeptical cryptozoology podcast MonsterTalk, described a source of that love: “When I was a kid I thought my neighbor had a jungle in her backyard, the tall stories my brother told me about strange creatures were true, the monstrous koalas and wombats of local legend really existed, and the monsters in the books were real. The kid in me now thinks that still.” Her co-host Blake Smith, an incisive skeptical investigator, speaks as well of the tantalizing sense of plausibility that gives cryptozoology its spice—even for doubters: “What if it turns out that there really is a primate living in the Pacific Northwest? Or what if some strange tide brings in a frilled sea-serpent? What if a presumed-extinct bird or mammal is found in some remote, exotic locale? I doubt most of these monsters or cryptids are real—but it’s the what if that keeps me excited.”5
Like other subcultures, cryptozoology is stratified by level of knowledge and involvement. Whether believers or disbelievers, only a subset of those who form an interest in cryptozoological topics go on to pursue cryptozoology as a hobby or sustained area of investigation. Buhs provided an interesting portrait of the subset of the early Bigfoot community that was motivated to actively research Bigfoot—an inner circle of dedicated enthusiasts, but not necessarily the innermost hard core whom we might think of now as “professional” cryptozoological content producers and investigators. Buhs met with George Haas, publisher of the Bigfoot Bulletin since 1969. This early cryptozoological zine had a “magical effect: formalizing what had been a private, haphazard exchange of information and welding the disparate Bigfoot enthusiasts into a community.” The zine placed Haas at the center of a lively analogue social network of hundreds of active correspondents who sent in sightings and documents:
Mostly what Haas received, though, and what the newspaper reported on, were references to books and articles about Bigfoot. Sasquatch enthusiasts were readers first and foremost, cataloguers and archivists. The focus owed something to the Fortean background of many Bigfooters. Subscribers to the Bigfoot Bulletin combed through old newspapers, compiled bibliographies—such as one listing all the wild-man articles in Fate—and assigned reading. “Homework,” Haas called it. Swapping citations and articles helped to bind the community; it was also another way to demonstrate skill, in the library rather than the woods. Enthusiasts were to gird their loins and seek out musty tomes, plunge into newspaper morgues, battle with microfilm readers, just as Charles Fort had.6
Today, the “cataloguers and archivists” level of activity is pursued online, in cryptozoological discussion forums and blogs. Of these active participants, a subset takes the next step to attend cryptozoological events, such as Bigfoot conferences, and only those in a further, smaller group pursue their interest so far as to undertake fieldwork. Buhs found the hard core of amateur cryptozoologists hunting for Bigfoot in the forests of the Pacific Northwest to be mostly white, working-class men for whom Bigfoot is an icon of untamed masculinity; a populist rebel against scientific elites; the last champion of authenticity against a plastic, image-conscious, effeminate consumer society. (Ironically, Bigfoot has a career as advertising mascot and tabloid fodder, making him a major purveyor of consumerism.) Buhs shows that many Bigfoot stalkers participate at this fieldwork level of the subculture because it has the same attractions as other types of hunting: getting back to nature, tramping through the woods in search of elusive prey, and testing their manhood against the wilderness. He quotes Thom Powell: “I think I became interested in the Bigfoot thing because it gave me an excuse to get out and use my wilderness skills. My life-long love of the wilderness exploration has a purpose beyond just getting there and back.” It is an allure familiar not only to hunters, but also to countless thousands of hikers, canoers, campers, birders, and photographers. Buhs quotes a similar sentiment from contractor Tom Morris, who reflected, “Maybe I’m only trying to justify all my trips to the mountains by calling them research. I like wildlife; I like to see anything I can. The more I go, the more I’m amazed at how elusive wildlife can be. I’m happy just to be up there, watching the animals move around. I want to come back with the best pictures I can. The ultimate would be a shot of Bigfoot.”7
Few activities have more broad, populist appeal than getting out in the woods. That folksy populism also feeds a common theme across cryptozoology (and especially Bigfoot research): the conflict between amateur cryptid hunters and professional scientists. The amateurs usually resent their treatment by the academics. They believe that if they can find the elusive creatures that science rejects, they will be able to triumph over those who have ignored and ridiculed them for decades. Famously impatient with even pro-Bigfoot academics, Sasquatch pioneer René Dahinden imagined a moment of comeuppance for ivory tower scoffers. “I’d take the scientists by the scruff of their collective necks and rub their goddamn faces in—actually, I would like to see all the people—the scientists—who have opened their mouths and made their stupid, ignorant statements, fired from their jobs,” Dahinden felt. “They should totally, absolutely, right then and there, without pension, without anything, just be taken and thrown out the front door. Then and there.”8 If the dream of the discovery of a cryptid should one day be realized, Buhs explained, “those who had always known the truth, those who had come to the right conclusion by the dint of hard work and the application of skill, would receive the dignity that the world had otherwise denied them.”9
Historian of science Brian Regal has discussed the genuine conflicts between professional scientists and the largely amateur cryptozoologists, but has shown that the narrative of conflict can also be complicated by the presence of some academics among the cryptozoologists and by the willingness of some scientists to review the evidence presented by cryptid hunters.10 A number of disincentives—disdain from colleagues, damage to reputation, possible denial of tenure, and so on—can prevent academics from voicing sympathy for unconventional views or pursuing long-shot possibilities. But there is also the problem of the attitudes of amateurs who have no idea how science works and cannot understand why their obsession with flimsy anecdotal and trace evidence, such as sightings and tracks, does not convince professional scientists. There is not only a large communication gap between the two communities, but also a culture gap, exacerbated by the contrast between the less educ
ated Bigfoot fans and the “academic elite” whom they feel scorns and disrespects them.
Monster proponents have long complained that academics do not give their ideas a fair shake and never look into their evidence. Consider this complaint as it was articulated by science popularizer Gerald Durrell in his introduction to Bernard Heuvelmans’s cryptozoology classic, On the Track of Unknown Animals. “Of course, scientists want positive proof of the existence of these ‘mythical’ creatures in the shape of skins and skulls,” Durrell acknowledged, “but they would make much better use of their energies in looking for them, rather than wasting their time desperately trying to disprove the few bits of evidence we have.”11 This time-worn cliché echoes throughout the whole of the literature of the paranormal; at least in relation to cryptozoology, however, it is a barb that lands wide of the mark. After all, Heuvelmans and Durrell were themselves respectable authorities in zoology, and they were hardly alone.
Monsters have always attracted a trickle of advocates from within the academy, and they continue to do so.12 When scientific figures as prominent in their times as geologist Louis Agassiz and rocketry pioneer Willy Ley have promoted cryptids, it is clear that the “scientists won’t look at the evidence” argument has been hollow for well over a century.13 In more recent decades, Grover Krantz and Jeff Meldrum, both professors of anthropology at major universities, retained their posts despite their quests to find Bigfoot. More important, this complaint discounts the fairly large number of scholars who have spent significant time evaluating cryptid evidence, only to conclude in good faith that it was inadequate. For example, when Ivan Sanderson and Heuvelmans (founders of cryptozoology as a modern movement) were taken in by the Minnesota Iceman, a supposed Bigfoot carcass encased in ice and displayed as a sideshow attraction,14 scientists at the Smithsonian Institution, such as paleoanthropologist John Napier and director S. Dillon Ripley (who were old hands in the search for Yeti), were eager rather than reluctant to examine the discovery. The problem in that case was not institutional bias against the evidence, but the suspicious slipperiness of the evidence offered—or, rather, not offered. When the scientists asked for permission to see the carcass, the mysterious exhibitor suddenly backpedaled and claimed that the original specimen had been replaced by a model. The Smithsonian scientists learned that the Minnesota Iceman was probably a hoax created by a Hollywood model maker; only at that point, after they were denied the opportunity to examine the specimen, did they withdraw their interest.15
Nor were scientists unwilling to consider the film shot by Roger Patterson and Bob Gimlin, which supposedly shows Bigfoot walking across a riverbed and looking back toward the camera. When cryptozoologists brought the film to the American Museum of Natural History in New York in 1967 to get the museum’s experienced anthropologists and mammalogists to give it their seal of approval, busy scientists took time out of their schedules of serious research to view it. They watched the film, quietly thanked the cryptozoologists for coming, and showed no further interest in viewing it a second time—because in their expert understanding of mammals and especially apes, the creature was clearly a hoax. Scientists were similarly willing to view the footage at the University of British Columbia, at the Smithsonian, and at other institutions as well.16 Despite the widespread belief among monster hunters that cryptozoological evidence is frozen out of consideration by scholars, this pattern is quite typical: when plausible evidence is brought forward, scientists are generally willing to examine it and give their good faith assessment. But cryptozoologists do not always like what the scientists have to say. When the assessments of the scientists differ from the hopes of the cryptozoologists, that disagreement becomes “evidence” of the closed-mindedness of the very scientists who were most willing to review the evidence. Broad expert consensus that the creature in the Patterson–Gimlin film was a hoax did not, for example, convince Bigfoot proponents that the film was an unreliable plank in their case for the Sasquatch, but instead convinced them that scientists were unreasonable or lacked integrity. “My God,” responded Dahinden, “what do you have to show them before they’ll take it seriously?”17
Such distrustful, dismissive responses to expert opinion effectively punish open-mindedness from scientists, who quickly learn that their views will be disregarded and their time wasted. Some, like mammalogist Sydney Anderson of the American Museum of Natural History, eventually become fed up with not only obvious hoaxes, but also the stream of mail they receive from cryptozoologists demanding that they spend their precious time investigating their claims or requesting that the institutions for which they work fund amateur expeditions. That Anderson and his colleagues at the museum had even given a few minutes to cryptozoologists made them the target of endless cryptid-related media requests in the years that followed—so many requests that Anderson eventually resorted to a terse brush-off: “I don’t think [cryptids] exist. My fee for writing is 10 cents per word.”18 It is even common for scientists who share their time to be rewarded with accusations of conspiracy. When Napier and the Smithsonian withdrew their initial interest in the Minnesota Iceman, for example, this triggered accusations of a cover-up. As Napier recalled, one story even “suggested that the Mafia, who were credited with having an unspecified interest in the matter, were bringing their considerable influence to bear to stop any further scientific investigations being carried out by myself on behalf of the Smithsonian.”19
SIGNIFICANT FIGURES IN CRYPTOZOOLOGY
Before we look further into the psychology of cryptozoology, we should pause to consider a few of the figures who played significant roles in forming the modern ideas, rhetoric, and movement of cryptozoology—especially a few of those who started their careers as mainstream scientists and then became cryptozoologists later in life. The classic example is Roy Mackal (b. 1925), who spent his early career working in microbiology, in which he earned a good reputation and got tenure at the University of Chicago. Based on his background, he is qualified to do research only as a microbiologist; he has no formal training in systematics, field biology, or ecology, which might qualify him to hunt for exotic creatures. On a visit to London in 1965, he took a side trip to Scotland, visited Loch Ness, and met with the local Nessie researchers, who had founded the Loch Ness Investigation Bureau. Mackal soon was spending a lot of time at Loch Ness, helping with the monitoring, trying to develop new means of detection, and eventually becoming the head of the project. One evening in 1970, according to an interview he gave in 1981, he finally had his reward. He saw, some 30 yards away, “the back of the animal, rising eight feet out of the water, rolling, twisting. If that’s a fish, I thought, it’s a mighty fish indeed! To this day, when someone asks me, ‘Do you believe there is a monster in Loch Ness?’ my stomach does a somersault. I know what I saw.”20 Although there are hints that his sighting may not have been as persuasive in the moment as he later recalled—as he said, “For days I refused to admit that I had seen, with my own eyes, one of the strange animals in Loch Ness”21—this sighting led to his writing a book on the Loch Ness monster.22 It also solidified his commitment to cryptozoology in general. “From then on, I knew the Loch Ness monsters existed. This state of mind has remained with me and most certainly has predisposed me to be receptive to reports of other unidentified animals,” Mackal reflected. When confronted with reports of Mokele Mbembe, “I was ready to listen.”23 Mackal mounted two expeditions to the Congo (where he found nothing) and published a book on his search for the alleged dinosaur. Since then, he has largely been retired and not very active in cryptozoology, although old footage of him talking about Nessie or Mokele Mbembe when he was younger often reappears on television shows that promote cryptozoology.
Cryptozoologists have often promoted “Professor Roy Mackal, Ph.D.” as one of their leading figures and one of the few with a legitimate doctorate in biology. What is rarely mentioned, however, is that he had no training that would qualify him to undertake competent research on exotic animals. This raises the specter of
“credential mongering,” by which an individual or organization flaunts a person’s graduate degree as proof of expertise, even though his or her training is not specifically relevant to the field under consideration. This strategy is employed dishonestly by creationists, who flaunt their degrees in hydraulics or biochemistry as proof that they are legitimate scientists, but then make arguments about paleontology or evolutionary biology—fields in which they have had no training—and quickly show that they are incompetent. Mackal’s knowledge of microscopic organisms does not necessarily translate into expertise about stalking large animals, any more than it translates into expertise about repairing cars or taming lions or playing the harpsichord. Nor does it equate to domain knowledge of the literature of cryptozoology itself. There may not be degrees in monsterology, but we can assure you from painful experience that there is, nonetheless, a good deal to know. No less a cryptozoological heavyweight than Bernard Heuvelmans made this exact point in a scathing review of Mackal’s book The Monsters of Loch Ness. Correctly noting the “extensive literature” pertaining to the Loch Ness monster, Heuvelmans described Mackal as “a person who presents himself as a specialist in this problem (in fact the most qualified specialist), but who is unaware, or acts as if he were unaware, of this previous work.” In Heuvelmans’s view, Mackal used his academic credentials to present “himself from the very beginning as the long-awaited Messiah”—as the first person qualified to bring scientific rigor to the investigation of the Loch Ness monster. (Heuvelmans added without apparent irony that he previously felt as though Mackal “were one of my disciples.”)24
The founder of the modern cryptozoology movement, the French-born, Belgian-raised zoologist Bernard Heuvelmans (1916–2001), earned a doctorate in zoology in France in 1939, studying the teeth of the aardvark. He was a student of the eccentric zoologist Serge Frechkop, whose greatest claim to fame was his support of the discredited theory of initial bipedalism (which argued that all mammals were initially bipedal).25 Heuvelmans apparently never had formal training in field biology or ecology, disciplines that were in their infancy when he was trained and that could have qualified him to find cryptids. He performed as a jazz musician and a comedian as well as worked as a writer. During World War II, he managed to escape after being captured by the Nazis, and he spent the rest of war evading the Gestapo. (Ironically, he was a close friend of and a consultant to the Belgian artist and comics writer Georges Remi, known as Hergé, the author of the series The Adventures of Tintin—and a Nazi sympathizer.) Heuvelmans was interested in cryptids from an early age and credited a magazine article by Ivan Sanderson for having stimulated his interest in unknown animals.26 For most of his career, he worked as a freelance researcher and writer, earning his living and financing his expeditions from the sale of his books and publication of his articles. His most famous work, On the Track of Unknown Animals, established him as the “father of cryptozoology,”27 and he (along with Roy Mackal and Richard Greenwell) founded the International Society of Cryptozoology (ISC) in 1982.
Abominable Science Page 35