The legend of Wendigo is one that has frightened trappers and hunters for centuries.
The trapper’s attention snapped into focus. He scanned his surrounding for imminent danger. Surely his mind wasn’t playing tricks on him. Wind howled through the black night, sweeping snow through the endless silhouettes of black spruce. It was hard to tell for sure, but he swore he had seen it. Gripping the smooth stock of his trusty flintlock had always given him comfort, but this night was different. Would his gun even be up to the test?
Suddenly he caught a slight movement through the torrent of gusting snow. His eyes squinted hard to focus on the area. Being only as thick as a piece of birch bark, his adversary was near impossible to see. Though, with dagger-like fangs and ripping claws, it could sure enough kill him. His pulse quickened with the thought. How do you fight such a beast? Could it even be killed?
Hearing a noise behind him, he wheeled around to see it’s source. Now facing the wind, his capote hood was ripped from his head. Stinging snow pelted his face as he strained to see into the night. His heart was racing now, his chest rising and falling with every terrified breath. Bringing the butt of his rifle to his shoulder, he stared down the barrel aiming into the empty night.
Movement to his left. He swung the gun to fix his aim. Nothing there.
Now he caught motion to his right. Instinctively he swung the rifle and his finger squeezed the trigger. BOOM! The shot echoed through the black, sending a plume of blackpowder into gale. As it cleared he swore he saw a creature running to his left, circling his current position. Now, with his gun empty, he realized how defenseless he was. His only option was to bolt into the forrest.
He ran into the night, floundering through knee deep snow. Dodging through the maze of trees he lifted his legs high to gain extra ground. Suddenly he felt something grab at the sleeve of this blanket coat. Screaming, he tore his arm away and continued his mad dash through the woods. His legs pulsed with the effort, and his lungs filled with breath that was never enough. Keep going, he thought to himself.
Unexpectedly, he tripped on a branch that had been covered by the snow. His momentum carried him forward, and he fell hard on his chest. Instantly he rolled to his back, and then he saw it.
Through the blackness approached the yellowish figure. At least 15 feet tall, saliva dripped down its fangs from its open mouth. Heartless tawny eyes froze the man to the ground. The trapper knew his fate. Wendigo was always hungry. Hungry for human flesh. Slowly, stepping deliberately, the creature moved in on his fallen prey. The trapper slowly tried to grab for his knife. Wendigo moved closer. He felt his finger grasp the worn handle of his trusty knife. I may still have a chance, he thought.
Wendigo trudged one step closer.
The trapper waited.
Just as he was beginning to draw his knife, the creature leapt at him with lightening speed. The force of the blow was like being kicked by an elk. Something ripped into his flesh, and he felt warm blood running down his chest. Pinned to the ground he saw the ghoulish head of his foe rise up till they were face to face. Blood dripped from the fangs onto the dying trapper. Then;
Coming from the Great Plains and Rocky Mountain region, I never heard the legend of Wendigo until reading a book called The Beaver Men by Mari Sandoz. In the book she describes how the early French Voyagers of the North Woods told stories about this great demon of the forrest. Perhaps their fears were based on real events they saw in their lives. It could also be a few skittish men were influenced by the tales of the Native people they were staying with. Historically, the legend of Wendigo is likely Pre-Columbian, though we will never know for sure.
Legend has it, Wendigo were once human. Their transformation occurred as a result of their choice to turn cannibalistic. In fact, according to tradition, Wendigo aren’t a race of beings like Sasquatch, rather their ranks are constantly being renewed as people become Wendigo. What’s more, is that Wendigo are apparently easier to kill while in transitional form, which leads to another remarkable story. That of Jack Fiddler.
Jack Fiddler was a Cree who made a name for himself by killing Wendigo. By the early 1900’s, Fiddler had claimed to have killed 14 of the beasts during his life. Time has neglected to record much of his first 13 kills, but reports show his last was against an 87 year old woman who was “in transformation.” By this time the Canadian Mounties were establishing a real presence among the Cree, and when they found out about the murder Fiddler and his son were taken into custody. He revealed that oftentimes tribesmen asked him to kill their family members when they showed signs of change. If done according to ritual, the human would be saved, albeit killed, from becoming a Wendigo. Fiddler escaped the jail only to hang himself the next day.
There are those out there who still believe Wendigo is prowling the North Woods in search of their next meal. Others pass it off as hog wash, along with all the other stories of unexplainable beasts. In the end, the legend of Wendigo is a classic ghost story that has been spun countless times across the generations. It is part of the folk lore of the outdoors and may be a good way to make your new camping companions a bit uneasy.
I’d love to hear your thoughts on the legend of Wendigo, or any other great ghost stories told by outdoorsman, in the comments section below.
Also, thanks for taking the time to read this article. If you like the content you may enjoy this article showcasing a poem written by mountain man Rufus Sage.
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