Part I, Part III, Part IV, Part V, Part VI

As I wend my way through the book, Early Maine Wildlife – Historical Accounts of Canada lynx, Moose, Mountain Lion, White-Tailed Deer, Wolverine, Wolves, and Woodland Caribou, 1603 – 1930 – by William B. Krohn and Christopher L. Hoving, I found some rather bizarre, yet fascinating writings that I would sooner categorize as tall tales and damned lies, than I would give much credence to actual historic events. However, I am willing to keep an open mind.

The original recordings were done in 1674 by a John Josselyn, found in Colonial Traveler: A Critical Edition of Two Voyages to New England. The authors of this book, Early Maine Wildlife, point out that Josselyn may have been confused by his use of terminology of the creatures he witnessed. For example, in the very first paragraph, Josselyn describes what he believes to be a “Jaccal” (jackal), which according to earlier European accounts and those of the American Indian, a jackal was commonly referred to as a coyote. So, this “Creature much like a Fox, but smaller”, we might only guess – wolverine?, muskrat?, bobcat?

The authors also warn their readers that Josselyn’s “terminology sometimes is misleading and his descriptions frequently fantastic”; or a kind way of saying the guy was mostly a damned liar and wild storyteller, as you will see in the below account.

Which brings us to his accounting of wolves he dealt with in his travels throughout Maine and probably parts of New England. As you will see, as you begin to read, the spelling is atrocious, the sentence structure abysmal and it all makes it difficult to comprehend and follow, but enough to realize how outlandish his story is. I did the best I could to present it exactly as it was presented in the book.

I’d call it tall tales and damned lies and laugh exceedingly over it as great entertainment.

~~~~~

Jaccals there be abundance, which is a Creature much like a Fox, but smaller, they are very frequent in Palestina, or the Holy-land.

The Wolf seeketh to his mate and goes clicketing at the same season with Foxes, and bring forth their whelps as they do, but their kennels are under thick bushes by great Trees in remote places by the swamps, he is to be hunted as the Fox from Holy-rood day till the Annunciation. But there they have a quicker way to destroy them. See New England’s rarities [footnote omitted]. They commonly go in routs, a rout of Wolves is 12 or more, sometimes by couples. In 1664, we found a Wolf asleep in a small dry swamp under an Oake, a great mastiff which we had with us seized upon him, and held him until we had a rope about his neck, by which we brought him home, and tying him to a stake we bated him with smaller Doggs, and had excellent sport; but his hinder legg being broken, they knockt out his brains. Sometime before this we had an excellent course after a single Wolf upon the hard sands of the Sea-side at low water for a mile or two, at last we lost our doggs, it being (as the Lancashire people phrase it) twilight, that is almost dark, and went beyond them, for the mastiff-bitch had seized upon the Wolf being gotten into the Sea, and there held him until one went in and led him out, the bitch keeping her hold until they had tied his leggs, and so carried him home like a Calf upon a staff between two men; being brought into the house they unbound him and set him upon his leggs, he not offering in the lease to bite, or so much as to shew his teeth, but clapping his stern betwixt his leggs, and leering towards the door would willingly have had his liberty, but they served him as they did the other, knockt his brains out, for our doggs were not then in the condition to bait him; their eyes shine by night as a Lanthorn: the Fangs of a Wolf hung about children’s necks keep them from frighting, and a very good to rub their gums with when they are breeding of Teeth, the gall of a Wolf is soveraign for swelling of the sinews; the fiants or dung of a Wolf drunk with white wine helpeth the Collick.

In 1986, Peter Davies was on holiday in Kenya after graduating from Northwestern University. On a hike through the bush, he came across a young bull elephant standing with one leg raised in the air. The elephant seemed distressed, so Peter approached it very carefully. He got down on one knee, inspected the elephants foot, and found a large piece of wood deeply embedded in it. As carefully and as gently as he could, Peter worked the wood out with his knife, after which the elephant gingerly put down its foot.

The elephant turned to face the man, and with a rather curious look on its face, stared at him for several tense moments. Peter stood frozen, thinking of nothing else but being trampled. Eventually the elephant trumpeted loudly, turned, and walked away.

Peter never forgot that elephant or the events of that day.

Twenty years later, Peter was walking through the Chicago Zoo with his teenage son. As they approached the elephant enclosure, one of the creatures turned and walked over to near where Peter and his son Cameron were standing. The large bull elephant stared at Peter, lifted its front foot off the ground, then put it down. The elephant did that several times, then trumpeted loudly, all the while staring at the man.

Remembering the encounter in 1986, Peter could not help wondering if this was the same elephant. Peter summoned up his courage, climbed over the railing, and made his way into the enclosure. He walked right up to the elephant and stared back in wonder. The elephant trumpeted again, wrapped its trunk around one of Peter legs and slammed him against the railing, killing him instantly.

Probably wasn’t the same elephant.

The legend will live on for centuries to come. Children will gather around their grandfathers to hear the tales of “Alphamale”, that sported a 7-point rack of horns, resembled a wolf in body and can only be seen in the The Big Woods of Northern Maine. Part of that lore will tell of hunters from “away” coming to the Pine Tree State in search of the elusive trophy whitetail. Anecdotal evidence and some eyewitness accounts will be retold eternal of the “away” creatures that shot cows, horses, sheep and possibly a spotted owl, mistaking them for deer. Stirring the inner wrath of the wicked Mainer will be the accounts of those “away” urbanites shooting the family dog out behind the barn, while claiming the dog ran in front of the trophy stag just as the trigger was pulled. Never a good deed, the lie or the kill. The wretched tongue that tells tall tales, will spare none.

Hark! What are we to make of such a creature? Surely one cannot ponder the thought that those from “away” bore witness to such cryptozoological creatures, much in the same way as those claiming sight of Big Foot or Nessy? Witness the power of Alphamale.

Tom Remington

Repeat after me: “It’s because of global warming!” Hotter than usual summers? “It’s because of global warming you know.” Colder than normal summers? “It’s because of global warming you know.” Unusually big winter storms? “It’s because of global warming you know.” Winters without snow? “It’s because of global warming you know.” Angry Americans over the worst Congress ever? “It’s because of global warming you know.”

The short of it and the ignorance of it all is that it becomes inane when agenda-driven sycophants, regardless of what is obvious, repeat the same incantation; “It’s because of global warming you know.” It’s like a perverse religion or something.

All this reminds me of the story of Brother Billy. He was a cripple you know.

Tom decided to take his crippled Brother Billy on a tour of the world. Upon returning friends and family gathered at the nearby church in order to hear of the adventures of Tom and Brother Billy. Tom told the story.

“The first place we stopped on our trip was England,” recalled Tom. “And we promptly made our way to that great big clock they have there. I forget what it’s called.”

From the back of the church someone yells out, “Big Ben!” Followed immediately by another outburst of, “Did Brother Billy like going up inside the big clock?”

“Oh, no,” answered Tom. “He didn’t go up there. Billy’s crippled you know.”

Tom continued, “After London we traveled to a town called Pisa. We ain’t never seen anything like that before. Too bad whoever built that tower building there didn’t know how to make it straight up and down.”

Again from the congregation somewhere, a yell comes loud and clear, “I bet Brother Billy enjoyed going up in that leaning tower and looking around.”

“Oh, no,” answered Tom. “He didn’t go up there. Billy’s crippled you know.”

It was then on to Paris, “Brother Billy and I went to France and in one big city there’s this real tall tower that looks like an erector set.”

From up in the balcony of the church you could hear, “I’ll bet Brother Billy sure got a kick out of going way up in that Eiffel Tower and seeing everything?”

“Oh, no,” answered Tom. “He didn’t go up there. Billy’s crippled you know.”

Tom continued telling of all the places they went. But he seemed most enthusiastic about telling of their trip to the Vatican. “Billy and I then decided we would go visit the Vatican. We didn’t really know what we would see and so as we headed down a street to where we thought we could find it, we discovered a big crowd lining both sides of the street.”

Very loudly from somewhere in the audience, “Was it the Pope?”

“Yes, it was,” answered Tom. “People were lined up as far as the eye could see. It was amazing.”

“What happened?” inquired a curious listener.

“Billy and I stood there alongside the street, and before long we looked and the Pope was coming down the street riding in that little buggy-car of his. When the Pope got beside me and Brother Billy, he ordered the buggy to stop.”

Gasps could now be heard throughout the crowd as anticipation built.

Tom continued, “The Pope got out and he was carrying that big stick. He walked up to brother Billy and with that big stick he touched it to brother Billy’s right shoulder.”

“What happened?” the crowd inquired in unison.

“Brother Billy’s right crutch flew right out from underneath him and landed over in the crowd somewhere,” said Tom.

By this time the crowd was stirring, gasping trying to catch their breaths and hoping for a miracle.

“Then the Pope reached out his big stick and touched Brother Billy’s left shoulder,” continued Tom.

By now the crowd was at a frenzy. People were standing, the hands and arms extending toward the heavens. Tears flowed from the eyes of many as they stood, hands together in a prayerful expression.

Just then the Father of the church stood in the front row and yells, “Praise God! A miracle! Brother Billy can walk!”

A hush fell suddenly over the crowd. Tom answered, “Oh, no! He fell flat on his face! Billy’s crippled you know.”

Tom Remington

Humor, they say, is healing. Humor can also carry hidden messages and metaphors, should we allow our brains to function beyond the shallow and often inane substance of an entertaining tale. The following story has some age, is entertaining, laughable but mostly it quite nicely qualifies as a tall tale and a damned lie. However, if as I say, you allow (that is if you have control of) your brain to function beyond the normal abeyance most find adequate, you just might discover hidden meaning. I mean not to upset your day.

Clarence Merrywether was paddling his canoe on a small but deep pond, mostly inaccessible to human traffic; only to those most compelled to get there. The morning was cool, quiet and the water calm with a glowing mist just above the water. The angle of the morning sun gave the mist an eerie depth giving pause as to what might be beyond. Clarence knew the pond well.

There was not another soul to be found. It was as though Clarence was the only one left on the planet. That soon changed.

Clarence stroked his paddle on his right side, never breaking the water, barely causing a ripple. He wished not to disturb the silence he so enjoyed. From somewhere within the depths of the water, a brook trout, of no more than 6 inches, jumped up and landed in Clarence’s boat.

Surprised, as you can image anyone would be, Clarence carefully got his hand around the feisty fish and gently returned him to the water. Before Clarence could resume his stroking posture, the same fish once again bounded from the pond and landed in the boat.

This time Clarence thought carefully and decided that fish must not be happy living in the pond. So, he placed the trout and some water in a bailing bucket Clarence kept in his boat and took the fish home.

Clarence became quite attached to that fish, so much so that he really didn’t want to leave the fish. As a matter of fact, he so much adored this little fish he decided to name him Tommy; Tommy Trout.

Clarence wasn’t content to just let the fish swim around in the tank he devised for him, so each day he would take Tommy out of the water hoping that he would get used to being out of the water. That way he could enjoy his company better and in a more human way.

Months passed and during that time Clarence taught Tommy how to live beyond the confines of a water-filled tank. It was quite amazing as Tommy learned to breathe, walk on his tiny little tail fins, he came to Clarence when he was called and was most fond of Clarence scratching him behind the head and occasionally to stroke his slender belly. He also learned to eat human food, his favorite being fried grouper.

It got to the point that Clarence and Tommy were together all the time. If Clarence went to town, Tommy would ride in the basket on the front of Clarence’s bicycle. Clarence and Tommy became icons of the small town nearby. People would gather round anytime the two would make an appearance, fascinated by the entire spectacle.

One day Clarence decided to go for a bicycle ride and so he readied everything and prepared the front basket for Tommy. The two peddled down the old dirt road that led toward the Miller Farm. Clarence knew a short cut that took them through the woods and over Alder Stream. There was a narrow, wooden bridge to cross and when Clarence and Tommy got to the bridge, one of the planks was missing from the deck of the bridge.

Thinking not much about it, Clarence sped up his peddling, knowing full well it would not deter him from his mission. But when his front tire hit the space between the planks, the resulting bounce of the bike flung Tommy from the basket and he landed in the brook and drowned.

Tom Remington

According to all the wolf lovers of the world, today May 4, 2009) marks the day when anyone in Idaho, Montana, Oregon, Washington and Utah can take up arms and go slaughter every wolf that exists. While wolves in the Western Great Lakes also become officially removed from Endangered Species protection, we must assume all hunters in that region as well are systematically slaughtering every wolf they can get into the rifle scope.

After today, we will finally be rid of those nasty varmints thanks to Barack Hussein Obama!

Tom Remington

I recently did a movie review for Carter Davidson, “East by North East“. While watching the 70-minute DVD, there are several breaks throughout the movie where Maine humorist, Joe Perham, is heard spinning a fishing yarn of some sort. He tells a fairly quick hitting one which is one of my favorites. It goes something like this.

A feller went bass fishing over on Moose Pond. He was having a good time – how good might be a bit subjective but he suddenly realizes he’s out of bait and isn’t sure what to do.

Looking around, he spots a snake not but a few paces from where he’s standing and observes a frog hanging partly out of the snakes mouth. Reacting quickly, perhaps in much the same way he would react toward anything, he reaches behind him and yanks out a flask of whiskey and abruptly pours a shot down the throat of the snake hoping it would give up the frog.

Sure enough! The snake relinquished the frog and slithered away. The old feller used the frog as bait and wouldn’t you know it, caught a 4 1/2 pound bass with it. But his frog was now gone.

Wondering, the feller looked back over his shoulder and somewhat to his surprise the snake was back. This time with two frogs in its mouth.

Tom Remington

This recipe for Alaskan Blue Stew was found on the menu of Sal’s Klondike Diner in Soldotna, Alaska.

1 (121 ton) Blue Whale
2,092 Medium Onions (quartered)
8,242 lbs. Shredded Potatoes
4 – 65 lb. Matanuska Cabbages
2100 lbs. Carrots
862 lbs. Celery
Season to Taste

Cut whale in bite size pieces (including blubber). Place in an empty gas storage tank.
(I’m sure that will be easy to find). Adding vegetables, cover with water. Add seasoning.
Cook at 325 degrees for 42 hours, (then simmer 6 days). Serves 600,000 people, approx.
the population of Alaska.

Tom Remington

Tired!!

Ah, yes! It’s that time again. So many thoughts pummeling this tired brain! Tired, yes, I’m tired. I’ve never been tired like this ever in my life. I’ve been tired from cross country skiing 30 kilometers but the recovery was sweet. No, this is a different tired. Some may say it’s because I’m pushing 57 but I don’t think so. 57 is young! I’m mentally tired. The brain is receptive to a constant bombardment of information but processing it into usable material is daunting. How do the masters do it? I’m anal, organized. For God’s sake I contemplate in what order I’ll dress myself in the mornings and trying to sort a steady diet of free flowing information is tiring. I’m learning.

Liberty!!!!!

lib·er·ty (lbr-t)
n. pl. lib·er·ties
1.
a. The condition of being free from restriction or control.
b. The right and power to act, believe, or express oneself in a manner of one’s own choosing.
c. The condition of being physically and legally free from confinement, servitude, or forced labor. See Synonyms at freedom.
2. Freedom from unjust or undue governmental control.
3. A right or immunity to engage in certain actions without control or interference: the liberties protected by the Bill of Rights.
4.
a. A breach or overstepping of propriety or social convention. Often used in the plural.
b. A statement, attitude, or action not warranted by conditions or actualities: a historical novel that takes liberties with chronology.
c. An unwarranted risk; a chance: took foolish liberties on the ski slopes.
5. A period, usually short, during which a sailor is authorized to go ashore.

Is this us anymore?

Chairman Obama!

Chairman Barack Obama was in Ft. Myers, Florida yesterday peddling is Stalinist agenda on the blind people. The media is smitten as badly as the people who can only see what they are craving to see. They yearn for something no man can give them. A woman in the audience stands up to the microphone and with tears down her face, begins to tell Chairman Obama that she is homeless. The crowd stands in awe as if anticipating the great one to somehow part this woman’s waters.

The lady begs Obama, “Please, help me!”

The Chairman appears a bit uncomfortable but I’m sure realizing he has power over the fawning masses, he moves from his bully pulpit into the crowd. He approaches the woman and bends slightly to kiss her cheek, promising he will do what he can. People standing around, mostly women, are quivering, shivering in uncontrolled anxiety (or envisioning having sex with him), tears also running down their faces. I could read the lips of at least one woman repeating over and over, “I love you Barack. I love you Barack. I love you Barack.”

Teddy Roosevelt!

Yesterday I began reading Chapter Eight of Hunting the Grisly and Other Sketches by Teddy Roosevelt. Chapter Eight is called, Wolves and Wolf-Hounds.

About two years ago, I penned a piece called, Me and Teddy Roosevelt Were Best Friends. We weren’t but the article dealt with those who invoke old Teddy’s name in a way to support their agendas fully believing they knew and understood who Teddy Roosevelt was.

It’s funny that our wildlife officials and politicians didn’t consult more closely with Teddy’s observations in Chapter Eight as he describes wolves he found all across the U.S. I can guess that one of the reasons is because they didn’t like what he had to say. More on this in a day or so.

Census!

Most aren’t aware or haven’t thought much about the fact that Chairman Obama used his power of the Executive Order to transfer control of the U.S. Census from the Department of Commerce to the White House. I’ve been asking among some of my friends, where’s the outrage?

Evidently people don’t understand the power of the census. As was so aptly put by one Congressman, the Census is the basis for everything that is done in Washington. Let me repeat that for you. The Census is the basis for everything that is done in Washington.

When the federal government decides to allocate money to the states, it is done from data collected via the Census. Every decision made in Washington is directly or indirectly based on Census data.

There used to be a time when the Census workers actually went to every door of every house in America, as well as visiting park benches to count the homeless, and counted heads. Chairman Obama’s Chief of Staff, Rambo Emanuel isn’t going to do it that way. He will “get a sense” of how many people live in a community. This “getting a sense” will determine political boundaries, congressional districts, population centers and in essence, Emanuel and Chairman Obama can manipulate the Census and rewrite the political structure of this country. They can ensure leftist dominance for decades to come. Think about it!

So where’s the outrage?

One Trillion!!!!

The word trillion has become quite popular of late. I remember as a kid learning about numbers. I can distinctly remember when I discovered how to count to one million. Of course I never actually did do the counting but I grasped the concept of thousands adding up to hundreds of thousands, all in numerical order, to eventually strike one million. There was a pattern. I wanted to be a mathematician. That was cool! Didn’t happen.

Eventually I learned that after millions came billions and then trillions. My brothers and I did like to sit around and pretend we knew some far fetched words to describe numbers too big to handle – I think gazillion was my favorite.

The truth is we don’t know what a trillion is. It’s kind of like the guy we just elected president. We think we know him but actually we only know his name is Barack Hussein Obama. We think we know how far it is to what was once the planet Pluto, but we don’t really.

This morning my son began instant messaging me about how much a trillion dollars was. He began putting it into perspectives that might help us understand. He said to me, “If I paid you $96,000 a day, you would be a millionaire in less than 11 days.” (Don’t ask me why he chose $96,000) At the same rate, I would become a billionaire in just over 28 years. And at $96,000 per day, I would reach one trillion dollars in roughly 28,500 years.

The U.S. Senate passed the $830 billion dollar spendulus bill. Without interest, if we began paying off that debt by $1 million dollar per day, it would take 2,274 years to do it. Too far fetched isn’t it?

The Senate was haggling over a mere $100 billion dollars in the bill. That $100 billion dollar difference is 274 years of paying $365 million a year.

This makes no sense. It is clear this government is out of control!

All Hail the Great One!!

All this fawning and panting and fantasizing over Barack Obama I find disturbing. He’s a man and that’s it. But people for centuries have believed they could find what they are looking for in a man or sometimes in a group of men, i.e. The Beatles.

For me often the best way to deal with such obsessions is to find humor.

I wish I could remember the name of the humorist/storyteller who used to entertain us with many stories about Brother Billy and one of my favorites is The Piccolo Player. In telling of the events yesterday in Ft. Myers with Chairman Obama descending upon the crowd while they waited in anticipation only reminded me of the Brother Billy story of when he went to visit the Vatican.

You see, you must understand that Brother Billy is a cripple. He gets around on crutches mostly. But Brother Billy was on tour of Europe and decided he wanted to visit the Vatican in hopes of seeing the Pope. He had been to London’s Big Ben but couldn’t go up inside the giant clock because he’s a cripple you know. He also went to Pisa, Italy to view the Leaning Tower. Again he was shut out of going up to the top. He’s a cripple you know. He passed on the Eiffel Tower because he knew he was a cripple.

As luck would have it, when Brother Billy arrived near the Vatican, crowds had begun to gather along both sides of the street. Everything was in a buzz. The excitement was at a feverish pitch. Brother Billy asked a nearby tourist, “What’s everyone doing?”

Brother Billy was told that soon the Pope would be coming down the street and that everyone was gathering in hopes of getting a peek at the Pope.

It was hard for Brother Billy, being a cripple you know, to work his way through the crowd but seemingly undaunted and driven by the prospects of maybe seeing the Pope, Brother Billy worked his way toward the curb. Somehow he wanted to be in front to see the Pope.

Brother Billy was cripple you know and was beginning to tire. He waited and waited. Soon Brother Billy considered giving it up. He couldn’t stand here on the street any longer. He was, after all, cripple you know.

But wait, Brother Billy could here the crowds cheering. Could this be the Pope, he thought?

Yes, he looked anxiously down the street, his frail body slung over his aged crutches. He is a cripple you know.

The Pope neared and as the vehicle carrying the Pope got beside Brother Billy, the Pope ordered the vehicle to stop. The Pope dismounted from his perch and approached Brother Billy. Brother Billy was surprised, the sweat pouring from his brow as he struggled to keep himself upright. He is a cripple you know.

The Pope approached Brother Billy. He was carrying with him his holy sceptre. He reached out with the staff and touched Brother Billy’s right side and his right crutch flew out from underneath him and into the crowd. The crowd ooohed and aaahed.

Next the Pope touched Brother Billy on his left side and like the right, the crutch flew out from under Brother Billy and landed in the crowd.

From behind Brother Billy in the crowd you could hear someone yell, “Has he been healed?” Nearby a man replied, “No, he fell flat on his face. He’s a cripple you know.”

Tom Remington

Can you believe that headline? It’s not a real story to report on but it is something that happens all the time, but one fly eating a moose?

Here’s as good a headline from the Scotsman: “Scientists Left Open-Mouthed After Shark Eats Polar Bear”. Picture that headline if you will. A massive polar bear out for a swim when caught unaware, a shark sneaks up from behind and tears off a hind quarter. Mayhem ensues! The ocean instantly fills with huge amounts of blood. A near feeding frenzy breaks out and soon one extremely hungry shark has devoured a massive polar bear.

Now picture if you will a tiny blow fly landing on the rear end of a bull moose and chews his way to the vital organs until it eventually kills the moose.

The problem here is neither of these scenarios actually took place. The shark and polar bear headline really did exist, not only in the Scotsman but in tons of media outlets worldwide. The headline of a fly eating a moose, exists only on this page……so far as I know.

Headlines sell and if you read the polar bear/shark story, you’ll discover that most everyone believes the shark stumbled upon a dead polar bear carcass and took a bite. Scientists discovered the bone from a polar bear in a shark’s stomach and several news sources thought a headline that claimed a shark beat up on a polar bear was better than reporting the probabilities of how the bone got into the sharks stomach.

In case you were wondering and if anyone asks, a fly did not kill and eat a bull moose, however, once those big ole boys go down, all kinds of creatures move in for a free meal, including the blow flies – you know the ones that lay eggs and produce maggots?

Go ahead and have some boiled rice for lunch.

Tom Remington