Black Horse and Other Strange Stories

by Wyckoff, Jason A.

  My disastrous revelation (which seemed so obvious to both your son and me after I shared it that we couldn’t believe it hadn’t occurred to either of us before) came about from the two of us sitting in my living room and watching yet another cable programme about some region’s bigfoot or hairy man or what have you (Kirk and I both preferred to utilise the term ‘Sasquatch’ regarding these creatures because we thought the misapplied plural of either of the former to be ridiculous). In addition to eyewitness accounts dramatised with low-budget re-creations, the programme featured the usual group of enthusiasts trekking through the woods searching for the animal, setting motion-sensor cameras to capture images, and howling ‘primate’ calls into the chill night. Also on the show were the cynics, invariably represented by a university professor in a lab setting and a park ranger interviewed with his back turned symbolically against the great stretch of wilderness and possibility behind him; these players echoed the argument of every counterpoint ‘expert’: If Sasquatch exist, we would find corpses and bones, and there was no point believing any such creature existed until such proof could be found.

  My epiphany seemed too plain to relate any way except casually: ‘They’re both right,’ I said, ‘Why are we (cryptozoologists) always following tracks, looking for a living, moving creature—or hoping that one might cross our path almost at random? If the proof we need is a dead Sasquatch—his bones—then that is what we should be looking for. Instead we refuse to answer the cynic’s question—“where are the bones?”—because we can’t seem to find them. But if, as we both believe, that Sasquatch is real—’

  Kirk caught up with my line of thought. His reaction was much more expressive than mine. He jumped up from the couch and slapped his forehead, staring wide-eyed from beneath his hand. ‘They are taking the bones! By God, you’re right! We’ve wondered if they might be intelligent—why shouldn’t they have burial rites? Primitive man began burying his own at least 130,000 years ago! You’re right, you’re right!’ He grabbed me by the collar and shook me joyfully. ‘We need to find their graveyard!’

  So our course was set. Of the many locations where sightings are regularly reported, we chose to investigate the area around Whitehall, New York, in the Adirondack Mountains. We chose this location because not only had it proven to be reliable from year to year regardless of season, but because it had been reputed to be especially active during migratory months in spring and autumn. I was anxious to get back out to the wilds after a particularly sedentary winter, so our timing seemed to me very fortuitous. Given its reputation, you may be surprised to know that neither of us had yet investigated the area. Upon looking at a map, I was somewhat doubtful of the region we proposed to search: To the north, east, and south, Whitehall is not far removed from significant population centres—hardly an inviting habitat for a reclusive creature. But to the west is Black Mountain, and beyond that, Lake George, so there seemed at least some hope that we were on the right path. I’ll admit that my heart sunk to see that the Adirondacks’ celebrated ‘Forty-six High Peaks’ lay much further west; I was tempted to propose (somewhat selfishly) that the beast would be more likely to be found further from civilisation, deeper into the mountains, and that that should be our destination, but Kirk believed in the merits of the repeated eyewitness accounts around Whitehall. The question then became, if there are Sasquatch living in the area, there ought to be Sasquatch dying in the area as well—so where are their remains?

  First we considered whether there should be any other method of disposal. We soon dismissed this idea: immolation would bring park rangers to investigate the smoke, and would still require the disposal of the bones afterward; ritual exposure would leave the same problem; weighted submersion remained a possibility, but it seemed unlikely the practice had been so effective that no remains had ever washed ashore. We decided that at least some of the remains must be buried, covered, or otherwise deliberately situated out of sight.

  Burial meant disturbed earth. If the body was buried unmolested, this meant a lot of disturbed earth (Sasquatch are typically estimated to be seven to eight feet tall). Could a grave of this size exist without discovery? Certainly. Despite man’s best efforts, there yet exist great tracts of near-pristine wilderness. Still, if a society were to bury many of their dead together (as ritualised burial rites or disposition of the dead suggests), then a sanctified area unlikely to be discovered by normal traffic would best serve. We asked ourselves, what is holy ground to the Sasquatch?

  I should mention another subject of contention in our Sasquatch hunt: caves. While some interesting stick-and-reed structures have been found by ‘bigfoot’ enthusiasts over the years, our discussions about where to find dead Sasquatch reminded Kirk and I that little thought had been given to where we might find the creature in repose—in his den. Recognising the issue, we both confessed that wilful ignorance may have hampered that discussion, as the most obvious answer is that Sasquatch make their dens in caves; obviously, so do bears. Although the American Black Bear is somewhat more ‘manageable’ than his brown cousins, it is still a dangerously bad idea to upset one in his den, especially if he is hungry arising from torpor (contrary to popular belief, bears do not truly ‘hibernate’), or protecting her young. We decided we would not investigate any caves on this expedition. That was our spoken intent; I think we both knew we were sharing a lie.

  We considered that if Sasquatch was duplicating humans’ reverence for the dead, perhaps we should assign him our spiritual aesthetics as well; we decided finally to search difficult-to-scale ridge plateaus. If that course failed to yield results, from that vantage we could survey the surrounding country to plot further searches. For my concerns, the plan was perfect; I was thrilled at the prospect of long hikes and difficult climbs.

  The night before we embarked on our expedition we stayed at a hotel outside Lake George, about twenty miles from Whitehall. There we met David DeSoto, a member of one of the local societies whom we knew, liked, and trusted, and who was equipped and competent with professional video and audio equipment. It was only at that meeting that we disclosed to David our hypotheses and the details of our plan. He reacted with the enthusiasm we’d hoped for. I won’t give a gratuitous detail of our assets; suffice to say we were experienced outdoorsmen who had learned to be prepared for a wide variety of contingencies without overburdening ourselves. I have thought, without anger, that Kirk’s friendship with me might have been emboldened by my ability to finance our ‘adventures’—it was never an issue between us and I never once suggested it should be otherwise. It may, of course, elicit some anger from you—to know that I provided the support for Kirk to continuing chasing his ‘follies’. I hope you will consider that I did it only out of genuine admiration for your son and dedication to our mutual interests.

  Our plan was to spend three days and two nights in the Adirondacks over the arc of mid-week, to avoid as much human traffic as possible (though we thought it unlikely we would have much contact as the nights are still very cool this time of year). We notified park authorities of our presence and gave them a vague area for our intended location. On Tuesday morning we drove through Whitehall (something in our appearance must have marked us as other than normal hikers as a few locals sneered openly at us, while others waved, hailing the return of another Sasquatch ‘hunting season’) and across South Bay, parking close to the bay shore. Our first impression was that we had seriously overestimated Black ‘Mountain’. It was deliberate ignorance on my part, trying to keep the ‘adventure’ in my experience. Even a cursory internet search would have better prepared us, but I find it more fun to speculate on the unknown than to face an ever more plainly documented reality. Confronted with that reality, I was disappointed. To hike Black Mountain is to enjoy a gradual climb on well-trod and marked paths. Don’t get me wrong: It was entirely pleasant, and we tried to enliven the hike by ignoring the paths as much as possible and choosing the most difficult ascent we could (to the amusement of another group of hikers—we
weren’t alone even on this cool, spring Tuesday), but my heart yearned for something more. I don’t mean to be poetic; I only attempt to convey the state of mind we all shared that compelled our decisions later that day and the next. If only to give the full image of our experience, I’ll relate that the weather was perfect; it was cool enough to hike comfortably in heavy pack, and sunny enough that we could enjoy the warmth of the diffuse bleed through the narrow conifers. We half-heartedly searched for tracks as we went; the forest floor is covered with a pad of needles, twigs, and leaves that yields to your foot and is unlikely to record any animal’s passing. Besides, as I said, we weren’t looking for the creature itself—though perhaps that desire crouched in each of us despite our aim. How terrible it is now to think upon that naïve thrill of anticipation.

  Despite moving slowly through a haphazard, serpentine ascent, we reached the summit shortly after midday. The last hundred feet became steeper and rockier, which enabled us to feel at least some small sense of accomplishment when we stood at the top and looked at the beauty of Lake George below and the Adirondacks beyond, then back the way we came across to the Green Mountains in the east. We sat and lunched. We discussed revising our plans for the remainder of our expedition. We agreed that Black Mountain was unlikely to give up any dead—any remains, however interred, would likely have been discovered by her swarming enthusiasts long ago. If the sightings near Whitehall were to be believed, that meant the witnesses had seen creatures in transit. We took this to mean we should continue our search nearby. We looked across Lake George to the far side and immediately reached unanimity that we would go across the next day. We would begin at the tip of the Tongue Mountain Range and follow the ridge north.

  Our plans set, we had little left to do that night but descend the lake side of the mountain in the same undisciplined manner as we ascended and stroll along the coast line to investigate whatever we found worthwhile before setting up camp. We expected we could have just gone back to the car and the hotel for the night without missing anything exceptional, but none of us was as discouraged as that—indeed, spirits were high. I think by then my love of the experience without expectation had begun to rub off on Kirk; I like to think it was one of the reasons he valued my company.

  Imagine our excitement, then, when, late in our descent, towards late-afternoon, we came across a low shelf carved into the rock with deep shadow waiting underneath. Our earlier conviction to avoid caves crumbled instantly; we decided to investigate. David began taping; I cautioned the others to wait while I hastily assembled the composite rifle I had stored illegally in my pack. Kirk took point as we eased towards the hole, armed with only a can of bear mace and a flashlight. As we got closer we were struck by the smell coming from within: a kind of skunk smell, and death smell, neither overpowering the other. There was something in the smell that was repulsive to me beyond the actual scent. Goosebumps rose up on my arms. I scampered around to one side of the cave mouth and lay flat on my stomach so I would be able to take a shot if need be while Kirk bent double to dip below the shelf lip. I could see by the beam from his flashlight that the cave opened slightly taller on the inside, but it did not appear to be deep.

  ‘We’re clear,’ Kirk called, and I relaxed, only to tense again when he followed with, ‘wait.’

  Kirk stayed in my view, circling around into the cave and training his light back towards the near wall, where I couldn’t see. As he inched forward, I kicked my toes into the dirt and swivelled my body to afford a more central view of the cave. Kirk was looking at a spot on the ground behind a short outcropping of rock.

  ‘What do you see?’ David asked from behind me.

  ‘Bones,’ was the reply. Kirk holstered his mace and disappeared behind the outcropping. He quickly came back into view, cradling something in the crook of his arm. I sank back from the cave as Kirk emerged. In the sunlight, we examined what he’d retrieved from the cave: bones, and a circular tuft of fur of some sort.

  ‘Look.’ Kirk handed me what was undoubtedly the bone from a bear. I saw why he thought the find intriguing: There were teeth marks on the bone.

  ‘What is that?’ David asked about the tuft of fur.

  ‘I don’t . . .’ Kirk began, and then remarked ‘Ah,’ as he held the object between thumb and forefinger and let the flap dangle down so that we could see the dry pad of a bear’s paw.

  Though there was no appreciable danger, and though the kill was clearly not recent, we moved on from the area quietly and quickly.

  It was Kirk who spoke first. ‘Like a grizzly.’

  I nodded back to him. The brutal scene we’d just left is not exceptional—in Western Canada or Alaska. Grizzlies will eat black bears, sometimes taking advantage of the latter animal’s slower emergence from torpor. Of course, Grizzlies do not live in the Adirondacks. And black bears have no history of cannibalism. The possibility remained that scavengers had found the bear’s carcass and cleaned it. I think that we, who so often only begrudgingly acknowledged alternative theories that debunked our hypotheses, were quick to take comfort from this possibility.

  Sometime later we came upon a clearing with a good view up the mountain and across the lake. We studied what we could see of the mountains on the far side, eager for tomorrow’s hike. The discovery in the cave had rejuvenated and excited us; now, the awe of the picturesque view humbled us and made us pensive. We decided to split up and reconnoitre one hundred yards in three directions to search for any sign of recent wildlife activity. Having satisfied ourselves of our relative safety, Kirk and I set our camp for the night while David shot the gorgeous view below and recorded the quick creep of the shadow across the lake and up over us.

  We ate and we talked. We considered whether our discovery in the cave indicated any threat to our well being. The obvious interpretation was that if a Sasquatch did kill and eat a black bear then, yes, Sasquatch represented a real physical threat under certain circumstances. However, we were unaware of any lethal attack against a human. Claims of ‘threatening’ activity, particularly against those indoors in an otherwise uninhabited area, were well documented, but seemed to indicate an attempt to scare the victims rather than harm them. We had to acknowledge that people go missing every year in the American wilderness, never to be heard from again, so that the lack of a recorded fatal attack against a human did not necessarily mean such an event had not occurred. Still, we all agreed that Sasquatch’s notorious smell, of which we assumed some mild remnant to have lingered in the cave long after any creature’s presence there, should provide us with a warning. And there were the sounds the beasts have been purported to make which none of us had ever heard adequately described, but which we all felt we would recognise if heard.

  David wondered if there were caves of sufficient size in the area to house one family or several of the creatures; it would seem a large underground network might be necessary for even a small population of the species to maintain their secrecy while providing adequate shelter. None of us was sufficiently knowledgeable about geology to answer the question. David wondered further if such caves might be accessible through underwater entryways, and that the necessary immersion in potentially foetid waters went some way to explain their stench. Kirk ruminated on one of his favourite theories, if one he, himself, found unlikely, that Sasquatch was not a primate at all, as was commonly believed, but of ursine descent. Not wanting to spoil his good humour, I, as per usual, withheld from pointing out that an interdimensional origin or alien allegiance would explain away some of the ‘problematic’ aspects of Sasquatch’s existence.

  Satisfactorily exhausted, we decided it would be unnecessary, and possibly detrimental to the next day’s work, to rotate a watch through the night. David was worried he didn’t have sufficient battery life to leave his video camera going through the night for the unlikely possibility of capturing any activity, but he did have a digital audio recorder available that he left on to record the first four hours of the evening. I’ll state again: We had no expe
ctation of encountering the creature and that was not the aim of our expedition.

  We awoke with the sun—late, as we were situated on the west side of the mountain. We stretched out muscles stiff from exertion and the cold. We breakfasted in appreciative silence, looking down toward the valley. David ate distractedly, looking at the dirt while he listened on ear buds to the sounds recorded during the night. Finally, we broke camp and made a quick descent to the water’s edge. We were directly east of the tip of the ‘tongue’. Kirk revealed the contents of his pack: an inflatable boat. Anxious to be across the lake, we took turns pumping the compact bellows with our feet until the boat was ready. We must have looked quite a sight crossing the lake: three men huddled together in a small vinyl dinghy, furtively paddling their way over the dark water lolling lazily in the spring country morning. Indeed, though my intent may have matched my companions, I would not have minded taking a longer course across the water; I have often thought that no one is as at peace as when he is on water.

  But we were soon across and landed on the far side. As we set out, just beginning our ascent up the rugged shore, David called excitedly for us to stop. As he stared vacantly at a nondescript spot of earth, the cause of his excitement was apparent: he’d heard something on the tape from the previous night.

  ‘What is it?’ Kirk and I asked.

  David held up a finger to signal ‘wait’, and his eyes bulged wide. He stopped the recorder, passed the nibs to Kirk and commanded him, ‘Listen’.

  Kirk listened, as did I in turn. Cool as it was, the night had been silent of insects. There was little to muddle the ‘vocalisations’ we heard on the tape. We were familiar with night bird and owl calls and were able to immediately dismiss that identification. The sounds were short, but purposefully sustained howls that I hated to admit could only be adequately described as ‘primate calls’. They had the resonance of a full-throated creature, but something in their nature struck me as deliberately restrained, as if to communicate discreetly, unlike the undirected ‘where are yous?’ indicated by most animal calls. The sounds I heard were primarily in my right ear. Suddenly, a softer (presumably more remote) echo repeated in my left ear.