Letter to the Editor of Steamboat Dispatch
October 18, 1924
Dear Editor,
I’ve been reading your recent articles with great interest, and they’ve brought to mind the many evenings I spent as a boy around the hearth, listening to my grandfather and other old-timers spin their tales about the lake. Chateaugay Lake has always held its mysteries, and back in those days, it wasn’t just the natural beauty of the place that kept us wide-eyed, but the stories of things we couldn’t quite explain.
One story that stands out is the old Wendigo tale that always made the rounds whenever the nights grew long and the wind howled through the trees. My grandfather, who settled here in the 1840s when his father moved from Constable, often spoke of it. He heard it from his father before him, and the story stretched back through the generations of settlers and Abenaki alike. The Wendigo was more than just a campfire story. To the folks who lived around the lake, it was a real presence, a dark thing that roamed the woods.
I still remember sitting with the old men by the lake’s edge as they told us youngsters how, come the winter solstice, you didn’t dare venture too close to the woods surrounding the lake. There was talk of an icy wind that carried the Wendigo’s voice—a voice that could draw you into the forest, and once you were in its grasp, you’d never find your way out again.
In fact, I recall a particular winter back in 1910 when the whole town was stirred up by one of those stories. A local fellow, Henry Watkins, went missing on the coldest night of the year, just after the solstice. Some of the menfolk went out looking for him, but there was no sign of Henry—just his footprints leading into the woods, and then nothing but snowdrifts as if he’d vanished into thin air. The search lasted days, but folks knew better than to venture too deep into the trees. The fear of the Wendigo’s curse was as strong as the biting cold that winter. It was said the spirit wasn’t satisfied with just taking Henry; it wanted more, and for weeks after, people swore they could hear strange cries in the night, like something not of this world was calling from the depths of the forest.
My father never spoke much of that winter again, but I’ve often thought of it on these quiet October evenings. The lake is beautiful this time of year, but when the shadows grow long, and the first frost clings to the trees, it’s easy to remember those stories and wonder if the Wendigo still lingers, waiting.
Thank you for keeping these old tales alive through your paper. They remind us that Chateaugay Lake has always been more than just a place—it’s a spirit, full of memories, both light and dark.
Yours truly,
Johqu Bogart Jr.,
Route 2,
Chateaugay, N.Y.
What mysteries of Chateaugay Lake haunt you?