Warning: Features old-time Adirondack foolery, French-Canadian guide wit, unexplained skiff motion, goat interruptions, and Little Nippers merely countin’ newcomers. Readers may inspect their ankles before reaching the final paragraph by lantern-light.
The Midnight Choir of Chateaugay Lake
From our East Bellmont Correspondent
“Hamlet—‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’”
And verily, respected readers, there are likewise more things in the balsam swales and moonlit shores of Chateaugay Lake than have ever yet been entered proper into the ledgers of science, theology, or the sporting journals of Malone.
The present correspondent is compelled—against his calmer instincts and despite the ridicule of certain hard-headed trout men—to place before the public a matter connected with what the guides denominate “Le Grand Cri de Minuit,” or, rendered into plain English, The Midnight Yell.
It has long been known among the older inhabitants, particularly those attached to the vicinity of East Bellmont and the upper shores, that newcomers arriving at the lake are frequently encouraged to proceed alone toward the water after dark and there emit a prolonged cry into the wilderness. The professed purpose of this singular custom is “to hear de lak answer back.” Whether the lake indeed answers, or whether the answering proceeds from hidden parties of pensioned scoundrels concealed in the spruces, remains a matter provoking lively dispute.
Your correspondent, seeking the truth with the noble impartiality of a circuit judge and the caution of a man unwilling to fall into bog water after sunset, has collected statements from numerous witnesses, among them old Ti-Jean Babineau, Baptiste Leduc, Madame Poirier, and the celebrated guide philosopher Richard “Uncle Dick” Shutts of Indian Point.
According to these authorities, the woods themselves become, on certain evenings, “overcrowded with practical jokers.”
One of the most extraordinary manifestations bears the title Le Loon Qui Était Trop Proche. The unsuspecting stranger, having issued his midnight cry, is immediately answered by a loon-call of such startling nearness that many victims have leapt bodily sideways into blackberry patches, driftwood heaps, or in one notorious instance directly into a canoe occupied by a Methodist singing party.
The mechanism of this phenomenon, while obscure, is generally attributed to Ti-Jean Babineau employing a tin funnel behind a cedar stump. Ti-Jean himself denies this with admirable solemnity.
“Dat bird,” he informed this correspondent, “he got curiosity.”
Another marvel, no less worthy of scientific consideration, is the celebrated Walking Stump of the western trail. Several reliable observers affirm that an old rotten stump has repeatedly altered position during cloud cover, advancing in short intervals toward travelers. A salesman from Plattsburgh, whose testimony carries all the trembling conviction of a man acquainted with installment furniture, swore the stump emitted tobacco smoke before “leaning slightly in a judgmental manner.”
Theories abound.
Some hold that two local boys conceal themselves inside the stump and propel it forward by means of synchronized footwork. Others suggest swamp gas operating upon phosphorescent cedar rot. Old Veritas—that scholarly angler Eugene Miller—advances the bold proposition that fear itself “shortens de distance between objects.”
This explanation, though metaphysical in character, appears no less reasonable than several now accepted branches of modern science.
Nor can we omit mention of the Ghost of the Wet Socks, whose appearance last autumn caused widespread alarm among visitors from Plattsburgh society circles. Twenty or more woolen stockings, suspended invisibly between trees and manipulated by hidden parties, were observed drifting through the darkness in a manner at once mournful and deeply unhygienic.
One lady declared the spectacle resembled “the souls of drowned lumbermen searching for laundry.”
Perhaps the strangest account concerns what guides now term The Canoe Without a Paddle. An empty skiff, bearing only a lantern, has repeatedly been seen gliding silently shoreward without visible occupant or means of propulsion. The appearance has inspired speculations ranging from spirit navigation to magnetic attraction to Canadian mesmerism.
Professor Alonzo Bixley of Albany, a gentleman devoted to rational inquiry, reportedly announced upon witnessing the phenomenon:
“I shall investigate this matter scientifically.”
At precisely that moment, a goat concealed in the balsams sneezed with astonishing violence.
Science retreated uphill at remarkable speed.
The learned reader may dismiss these episodes as common frontier foolery, yet additional testimony complicates the matter considerably. Several guides affirm that the so-called Little Nippers—the juvenile forms of the celebrated Gitaskog serpent of Upper Chateaugay Lake—have occasionally participated in the ceremonies by disturbing the shallows near a newcomer’s boots.
Not biting, understand.
Merely “countin’ him,” according to Big Jules Fournier.
This correspondent neither confirms nor denies the existence of infant sea serpents, though it may be observed that men who mock the notion too loudly are often the first to inspect their ankles by lantern-light afterward.
One final incident deserves permanent entry into Adirondack history.
During the celebrated Frying Pan Choir occurrence of ‘89, five elderly women concealed themselves behind shoreline rocks and answered a visitor’s midnight yell with solemn strikes upon cast-iron pans distributed around the bay at measured intervals:
BONG.
BONG.
BONG.
BONG.
BONG.
The terrified gentleman inquired whether church bells were sounding from across the water.
“No,” replied Madame Poirier. “Dat is de trees votin’.”
Such, dear readers, are the customs of our northern lake country: half initiation, half conspiracy, and wholly American in their inventive spirit. The newcomer is frightened, then fed; deceived, then welcomed. And if he proves capable of laughing at himself beneath the pines, he is eventually entrusted with the lantern rope, the wet socks, or, in advanced cases, the goat.
There are, indeed, stranger things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in philosophy.
Particularly around Chateaugay Lake after supper.
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What mysteries of Chateaugay Lake haunt you?