Well if you are the black fox of Salmon River State Forest, the fox says "catch me if you can or die trying!"
Welcome to the #8 location on the East Haddam Mystery Tour where we find ourselves in a local state park - Salmon River State Forest.
If you look at East Haddam Mystery Tour Map, you will see it says Black Dog of Machimoodus. When I first heard the story of the Black Fox, like most legends, various aspects of the story were changed. Someone told me it was a dog, another told me that it happend in Machimoodus. With a little digging, it appears this story is attributed to Salmon River State Forest which spreads over quite a few towns including East Haddam.
The saying goes, "If you meet the Black Dog once, it shall be for joy; if twice, it shall be for sorrow; and the third time shall bring death."
That saying could be applied to our own town legend and I wanted to show how easy it is to weave folklore tales over time. It is history's greatest telephone game!
But we have a fox to catch, so let's get back out to Salmon River Forest and see what we can find.
Look closely now, do you see that? The little black shiny coated, red eyed creature slinking through the trees and keeping a watchful eye on you?
No?
Well, he is elusive.
And apparently, uncatchable.
This legend comes down to us from the first nation peoples who inhabited this area long before settlers took over. The story speaks of a black fox so rare, so beautifully lustrous, that anyone who saw it became obsessed. Many hunters would try to kill or capture to prove it's existence but to no avail. Arrows would glance off of it or seem to go straight through the body without harm. This supernatural stunt lent to their belief that the fox was under the will of their great spirit God Hobomocko. They would chase it, try to corner it, but time and time again, it simply vanished. No matter what they tried, it escaped them.
Time and again the hunters would come home to their hungry families with nothing in hand blabbering on about a black fox near the river. They had spent their sacred hunting time chasing it rather than procuring dinner. When their wives sent them back to the woods for dinner, they would see Mr. Fox and the enchantment would begin all over again.
It is said that the obsession was more like a possession, and when some of them never returned home, the black fox with it's red glowing eyes and coal colored coat was to blame. It is believed many lost their way and eventually their lives in the Machimoodus forest in hopes of bringing home this prized animal.
It isn't surprising that it would be a fox that outwits them. Foxes have long been known as the trickster in native traditions. To see a fox means that there is mischief afoot and to keep aware of your surroundings or else fall prey to the cunningness of your foes. Foxes can display shrewd intelligence and they are known for outwitting even the most clever of predators AND humans.
In 1831, two hundred years after the legend surfaced from local tribes, an essayist and poet, John Greenleaf Whittier, penned his version of the tale in Legends of New England in Prose and Verse:
IT was a cold and cruel night, Some fourscore years ago— The clouds across the winter sky Were scudding to and fro— The air above was cold and keen, The earth was white below.
Around an ancient fire-place, A happy household drew; The husband and his own good wife And children not a few; And bent above the spinning-wheel The aged grandame too, The fire-light reddened all the room, It rose so high and strong;
And mirth was in each pleasant eye
Within that household throng— And while the grandame turned her wheel The good man hummed a song. At length spoke up a fair-haired girl, Some seven summers old, “Now, grandame, tell the tale again Which yesterday you told; About the Black Fox and the men Who followed him so bold.” “Yes, tell it,” said a dark-eyed boy, And “tell it,” said his brother— “Just tell the story of the Fox, We will not ask another;”
And all the children gathered close Around their old grandmother. Then lightly in her withered hands The grandame turned her reel, And when the thread was wound away She set aside her wheel, And smiled with that peculiar joy The old and happy feel.
“‘Tis more than sixty years ago Since first the Fox was seen—
‘Twas in the winter of the year, When not a leaf was green, Save where the dark, old hemlock stood The naked oaks between. My father saw the creature first, One bitter winter’s day— It passed so near that he could see Its fiery eye-balls play, And well he knew an evil thing And foul had crossed his way.
A hunter like my father then, We never more shall see— The mountain-cat was not more swift, Of eye and foot than he. His aim was fatal in the air And on the tallest tree.
Yet close beneath his ready aim The Black Fox hurried on, And when the forest-echoes mocked The sharp voice of his gun— The creature gave a frightful yell, Long, loud, but only one.
And there was something horrible And fiendish in that yell; Our good old parson heard it once, And I have heard him tell That it might well be likened to A fearful cry from hell.
Day after day that Fox was seen, He prowled our forests through, Still gliding wild and spectre-like Before the hunter’s view; And howling louder than the storm When savagely it blew.
The Indians, when upon the wind That howl rose long and clear, Shook their wild heads mysteriously And muttered, as in fear; Or veiled their eyes, as if they knew An evil thing was near.
They said it was a Fox accurst By Hobomocko’s will, That it was once a mighty chief Whom battle might not kill,
But who, for some unspoken crime, Was doomed to wander still. That every year, when all the hills Were white with winter snow, And the tide of Salmon River ran The gathering ice below; His howl was heard and his form was seen Still hurrying to and fro.
At length two gallant hunter-youths, The boast and pride of all— The gayest in the hour of mirth, The first at danger’s call, Our playmates at the village-school, Our partners at the ball— Went forth to hunt the Sable Fox Beside that haunted stream, Where it so long had glided like The creature of a dream— Or like unearthly forms that dance Under the cold moon-beam! They went away one winter day, When all the air was white, And thick and hazed with falling snow,
And blinding to the sight; They bade us never fear for them— They would return by night.
The night fell thick and darkly down, And still the storm blew on; And yet the hunters came not back, Their task was yet undone; Nor came they with their words of cheer, Even with the morrow’s sun.
And then our old men shook their heads, And the red Indians told Their tales of evil sorcery, Until our blood ran cold,— The stories of their Powwah seers, And withered hags of old. They told us that our hunters Would never more return— That they would hunt for evermore Through tangled swamp and fern, And that their last and dismal fate No mortal ear might learn.
And days and weeks passed slowly on, And yet they came not back,
Nor ever more, by stream or hill, Was seen that form of black— Alas! for those who hunted still Within its fearful track! But when the winter passed away, And early flowers began To bloom along the sunned hill-side, And where the waters ran, There came unto my father’s door A melancholy man.
His form had not the sign of years, And yet his locks were white, And in his deep and restless eye There was a fearful light, And from its glance we turned away, As from an adder’s sight. We placed our food before that man, So haggard and so wild,— He thrust it from his lips as he Had been a fretful child;
And when we spoke with words of cheer, Most bitterly he smiled.
He smiled, and then a gush of tears, And then a fierce, wild look; And then he murmured of the Fox Which haunted Salmon Brook, Until his hearers every one With nameless terror shook.
He turned away with a frightful cry, And hurried madly on, As if the dark and spectral thing Before his path had gone— We called him back, but he heeded not The kind and warning tone. He came not back to us again, But the Indian hunters said That far, where the howling wilderness Its leafy tribute shed, They found our missing hunters Naked and cold and dead.
Their grave they made beneath the shade Of the old and solemn wood, Where oaks, by Time alone hewn down, For centuries had stood—
And left them without shroud or prayer In the dark solitude.
The Indians always shun that grave— The wild deer treads not there— The green grass is not trampled down By catamount or bear,— The soaring wild-bird turns away, Even in the upper air.
For people say that every year, When winter snows are spread All over the face of the frozen earth, And the forest leaves are shed, The Spectre-Fox comes forth and howls Above the hunters’ bed.”
Want to see if you can find our little friend?
Salmon River State Forest
Route 16, Colchester
Happy Legend Trekking!