We’ve got crows back at home. In my town we see them every day. Sometimes solo, sometimes in a group. I am well aware that a group of crows is referred to as a “murder” but despite this ominous label, they’re pretty shy and generally fly away at the first sign of danger.
But the pair of big black birds circling the point across the lake were something else entirely. I know that around the Canadian border ravens become more common than crows, and this is what I suppose they were. But these were really big– too big, possibly bigger than an eagle. And as they circled the point, the calls they made were unnerving. Nothing like the “caw” of a crow, the sounds were screeching drawn out croaks, as though to make sure that every creature on the lake was aware of their presence.
I kept quiet from my vantage point two hundred yards across the bay, and the travelers I had in my charge knew enough to keep still and silent. We were three quarters done with our journey that had begun at a clandestine location outside of Atikokan. I never thought I could become a smuggler, but here I was, tucked under ancient white pines with a man and woman who were essentially strangers to me. They watched the huge birds with me, whispering back in forth in their native language. I don’t know what they were saying but the look in their eyes showed their fear. And these people have seen things in their homeland bad enough for them to leave with nothing more than a few possessions, and then give all of their money to a stranger who arranged for me to take them through the wilderness to cross the most remote section of the largest unguarded border in the world.
Traveling by canoe along a route that my ancestors have traveled since long before there was a border, we had crossed the imaginary line last night, and by this time tomorrow I planned to load them into a van that would be waiting at a trailhead. This was where we would part ways. For now we were preparing to break camp at a campsite known only to me. I carved it out of the timber a few years ago, and it is able to conceal not only a tent but a canoe as well. There’s not much canoe traffic this time of year, but I was doing a final check to make sure the coast was clear when the birds showed up.
Figuring there must be something along the shore holding their interest, I fished my binoculars out of my pack to get a closer look at the sinister pair. To the naked eye it looked like a typical rocky point on a shield lake—a smooth rock shoreline gave way to a stand of sparse bulrushes with a couple of boulders. One of the boulders didn’t look right, I realized that I was actually looking at a dead moose that had floated up there. Likely a casualty from the moose season that ended the week before. That explained why the pair of birds were circling, and I pulled the binoculars away to study how the birds were behaving. They took turns swooping down low over the moose and then soaring higher than the treetops and letting out their disturbing calls.
Then there was movement in the trees. I pulled the binoculars back up and focused in on the mix of birch and fir that was along the shoreline. At first I thought it was a bear, coming down to take advantage of the dead moose. But this was far taller than a bear. Then I saw the antlers. Some smaller trees parted and then what at first I thought was a moose stepped to the water’s edge. I’ve seen hundreds of moose in my time up here, but what I was seeing now didn’t make sense. Sure it had antlers, and it was tall like a moose. But it was mostly without fur, and the color was all wrong, more of a sickly pinkish gray than the dark brown you would expect of a moose. I could see its ribs. And its front legs weren’t really legs, they were more like long, gangly arms. Arms that ended in long bony fingers. Even though I was about 200 yards away I could see the glint of fangs. It stepped from the trees to the water’s edge. It paused and looked up at the circling birds. It let out a scream that hung in the air. One of my travelers let out a whimper, and I turned put a raised finger across my lips. I knew we were out of sight of what any typical animal or person could see, but this was far from typical.
I flashed back to many years before when I stared wide eyed at my grandfather as he told stories around the campfire. Flames flickered and birch logs crackled as he described an evil spirit called the Wendigo.
Many generations ago a lost hunter turned to cannibalism to survive, and his evil deed transformed him into a horrific beast. A beast that roamed the wilds with an insatiable hunger for flesh. Human or otherwise. While this story terrified me as a child, I never gave it any thought as an adult, as the elders had many tales of spirits and such. But here I was, miles from the nearest road, two strangers in my care, looking at the impossible. I subconsciously reached to feel the outline of my revolver tucked into the back of my pants.
The beast had now waded into the water and its claws began tearing at the moose carcass. It ripped off huge chunks of flesh, hide, and bone with ease, shoving them into is gaping mouth where they were crunched and swallowed. The water around the moose carcass was soon tinged red with blood and the pair of giant birds took roost in a tall pine above the beast. The carnage continued as the creature consumed impossible amounts in minutes. I heard one of the travelers whisper “Monstoro”. I didn’t need translation to know what it meant. They had every reason to be scared now. I’ve had face to face standoffs with wild bears, with big city gangs, with angry fathers. At least with those you have an idea of what you are dealing with. My grandfather never said how one would deal with a Wendigo.
With most of the moose consumed, the monster let out another scream. I was back to looking through binoculars, which was a mistake as the beast’s face and chest were covered in blood, and flesh clung to its claws. An image I will never be able to erase. Despite having consumed the better part of an adult moose it was still gaunt in appearance. It took a last look around and I stopped breathing when its gaze seemed to focus on our location for a moment. It slowly turned towards shore and then disappeared into the brush. This cued the black birds to come down for what was left. One bird rested on the moose’s hindquarter and picked away at intestines, the other rested on the head and feasted on the eyes and torn-open neck. After a few minutes they flew up silently, circled over our location and then headed in the general direction the Wendigo had gone.
At least they went in the opposite direction we were headed. We sat in silence for a time, then I pulled out a map. I showed the travelers where we were, where the Wendigo had gone, and where we needed to go to complete the journey. I showed them my gun, which I had kept hidden from them until now, hoping it would ease their fears. It didn’t do much to ease my fears. It was a .357 revolver, enough to stop a bear, but what would it do to a Wendigo? I suspected there needed to be some version of a silver bullet to stop an evil spirit. I gestured to them to pack their belongings, which they did quickly and quietly. I calculated that if we traveled lightly and quickly we could be out by nightfall. I decided to leave the tent and everything else not essential.
We slid the canoe down the bank, climbed in and pushed off. The woman sat on the floor in the middle, the man was at the bow. I paddled from the stern with intensity, we had about ten miles to the end of the lake. At the end of the lake was a portage trail of about a half mile that would bring us to the next lake. We had done a number of portages already on this trip, and after the morning’s events I was dreading having to be on foot. There was no other way out.
A light wind was at our back, allowing for relatively quick travel. The man was paddling as best he could, but it was marginally helpful at best. The woman kept her head down and did not move. Usually on this kind of trip I try to hug the shoreline to keep a low profile, but now we were tracking right down the middle of the lake. I was making a beeline for a height-of-land where I knew the portage was, and we continued along in silence.
The paddle down the long lake was uneventful, and it was early afternoon when we reached the portage. Once ashore we took a short break and ate some jerky, and then it was time to make the portage. It would be easier now since I had abandoned most of the gear. On earlier portages I had the travelers hide out while I scouted ahead to make sure we would not meet anyone on the trail, but there was no time for that. I think they understood me as I tried to explain the importance of moving quickly and quietly. I pointed to the trail and then to the packs and paddles. They took the cue and I put the canoe up on my shoulders and we plodded along through the forest.
It took less than an hour to get to the next lake. There was a forest fire here several years before, and the charred remains of a few old growth pine stood in stark contrast to the young aspen, birch and spruce that had grown in the void left by the fire. This lake was smaller, with many bays and points, and we were soon back to making progress in the canoe.
We came around a point midway down the lake. I looked to the end of the lake where we would find the next portage and stopped padding. Maybe 300 yards away was the remains of a burnt pine. Roosting in the tree were two birds. Big, black birds. The man in the bow saw them too, and muttered something to the woman. She looked up for the first time and stifled a scream. We had to go past them to get to the next portage, so I kept paddling down the middle, not taking my eyes off the birds. As we got closer it was obvious they were watching us too, their heads pivoting as we passed them. I kept looking back over my shoulder at them, but they held their position. I didn’t know what the presence of the birds on our route signified, but based on what I saw this morning it couldn’t be good.
By the time we were at the end of lake where the next portage was, I could barely make out the tree anymore. I thought that perhaps we were in the clear, but then we all heard the unmistaken sound, the same sound we heard the birds making this morning. Even though they had to be over a mile away there was no mistaking it. The long, drawn out croaking continued for a minute, then it was silent again.
I paddled towards shore so hard that the bow slid two feet onto the bank. “Go! Go! Go!” I yelled. The travelers seemed shocked at my yelling, as I had not said anything to them in the few days we had been together that wasn’t a whisper. They both scrambled out of the canoe, grabbed the gear and headed up the path. I again wrestled the canoe onto my shoulders and followed. We still had another lake to cross after this portage, then it was down a creek to where we were to be picked up in a remote parking lot at the end of a forest road. We would be early, but maybe I could get a cell phone signal and get a call or text to the driver. Or maybe we could hitch a ride with a tourist. Any concerns of being intercepted by authorities has now taken a back seat to getting out of here and away from that thing that for all I knew was making its way south toward us.
Since we were closer to an access point, this mile-long portage was well traveled and we made good time. The first half was up a slight incline, then it went down much more steeply to the next lake. We reached the top, and paused for a quick rest. I set the canoe down to catch my breath. The crest of the trail allowed a good view of the valley ahead. It also allowed a good view of two huge, black birds that were circling above the tree tops. The woman was not able to stifle her scream this time, and this prompted the birds to start up with their ominous calls. In the distance we heard another sound. It was a scream, a scream that could have only come from the horror we had seen this morning.
While I felt a certain amount of responsibility to the travelers, my concern for them was waning. “You better keep up!” I yelled as hoisted the canoe back onto my shoulders. I headed down the steep trail as fast as I could, and I could hear the travelers behind me, stumbling, but not falling too far behind. With the canoe on my shoulders I couldn’t see if they were carrying the paddles. Didn’t matter, I keep a spare strapped to the supports in the canoe. The steep path made a switchback and was able to see that the man was indeed carrying a paddle and pack, the woman was crying hysterically, carrying nothing. The path here was steep and rough, with many large rocks and roots creating potential tripping hazards.
The birds were circling overhead us now, their croaks echoing off the hillside. We heard the distant scream again, although this time it didn’t sound so distant. It was not possible for us to move any faster, but I took care to be sure-footed. I could see we were nearly to the bottom of the hill. Once there it would be level ground to the next lake, which was now only a few hundred yards away. I made it to the bottom of the hill where the well-worn path went through a series of large roots and then turned to dirt. Once to the dirt I flipped the canoe off my shoulders and let it land on the hull. The travelers were coming up fifty yards behind me. I grabbed the bow of the canoe and started dragging it, hoping the man would catch up and grab the stern. I started to yell at the couple to hurry but I was interrupted by another scream from the beast. It was coming from our right and I could now hear branches breaking and what sounded like breathing and snarling. There was no reason to think that the lake would offer refuge from this thing, but it seemed like a better option than facing it here on the path. The man was almost caught up to me, but he stopped to see where his partner was. She had tripped on a root and was now screaming, not sure if it was in pain or terror. Probably more terror, as the Wendigo had broken through the brush along the trail and was now 50 feet behind her. She looked back at it and let out what she meant to be a scream but came out as a yelp. The beast was on her in seconds, and it picked her up over its head and slammed her to the ground. The man dropped to his knees, watching in horror as his partner was torn apart and devoured.
I resumed dragging the canoe as fast as I could, not looking back. The beast let out another shriek, then there was a scream that I presumed to be from the man. I tried not to think about the snapping and crunching sounds I could hear from behind me. The next lake was now in sight, and even though my entire body wanted to quit I was now running. The shoreline was sandy and I ran right into the water, allowing the canoe to float past me. I hopped in when the back seat was even with me, and in one motion pulled the tag end of the knot that held my spare paddle in place. A few quick strokes and I was twenty yards from shore.
The screams of the beast continued, and the black birds that had been watching the bloodbath from treetops now were starting to swoop around me, getting closer with each pass. The Wendigo was now on the shoreline and it let out the loudest scream of all. It stepped in the water to its knees but stopped, gesturing with its long arms and howling at the sky. Not knowing what to do next, I pulled out my revolver. At the end of this lake was the outlet stream that would lead me to a bridge. For the moment I felt safer where I was.
The birds were getting ever bolder, and I could feel the wind as one of them swooped in on me from behind my shoulder. It wheeled around over the bow and came right back at me. It reared back at arm’s length with its wings spread and its talons coming right at my face. Taking advantage of a perfect opportunity I pointed the gun barrel at the bird’s center and pulled the trigger. Black feathers flew and the now silenced bird landed in the water and strangely sank out of sight. The other bird flew up high and then quickly descended, coming right at me. I had the gun raised, but the bird did not offer a good target and it flew past my head. Sensing weakness, it circled around and attacked, pecking me on the back of the head with its massive beak. I had to be careful not to tip as I tried to fend it off with the paddle. More determined than ever the bird came back at me. I fired twice, missing both times. With three rounds left in the gun, I knew I better choose my next shots carefully. The bird came from behind me again, this time it wheeled around quickly, planting its talons on my chest and pecking at my eyes. My attempts to fend it off with a fist were not successful and it got ahold of my eyebrow. I could feel flesh pulling away from my skull, and I pointed the gun right at it and even though I thought the barrel was pressed right into it I still missed. I resorted to using the gun as a bludgeon that I slammed into its neck. This had a noticeable effect, it let out a deep croak and let go its grip. I was not watching the Wendigo at this point, focused on the dark feathered assailant. I could hear it though, as it let out shrieks and screams louder than a siren. The remaining black bird, shook up some from the pistol whipping, flew in a crooked path now, obviously having difficulty maintaining its course. I felt confident I could take it down with one of my remaining rounds. It came straight at me, I let it peck the top of my head as it went by. It circled around again, and once more I let it get me with a good peck to my temple. It made another loop around, and I was ready when it followed the same path of attack. It came right at me, and I was looking down the barrel right at the bird’s head when I pulled the trigger. The raven’s head disintegrated in a cloud of black feathers and blood and the headless body landed at my feet, wings still flapping, talons still grasping.
The shrieks of the Wendigo suddenly stopped. It stood motionless, staring out at the lake, not necessarily at me. I set the gun on the seat next to me, there was still one round left. I used the paddle as a shovel to lift the dead bird over the side and into the lake, where it too strangely sank out of sight. The Wendigo, while still a fearsome looking beast with its face and claws covered in blood and flesh, had lost its menacing posture. I pointed the revolver at it, right at its head. I was confident I could hit it, not confident that my one remaining bullet would kill it. For some reason I thought about the old saying, that if carrying a handgun for bear protection you should save the last round for yourself. Pretty sure the old saying applies here. I lowered the gun and watched the beast. With its long bony arms hanging at its sides it turned towards shore and with two big steps it was crashing through the timber, heading away from the lake, away from me, away from my exit point.
I sat quietly for a minute, trying to take all of this in. I could no longer hear the sounds of branches breaking. Was the Wendigo gone? Apparently they can’t, or won’t swim. The ravens must act as seers or scouts for the Wendigo, once they were eliminated it was like a switch was flipped.
I thought about the hapless travelers. I knew it was pointless to go back to where I had last seen them. What would happen to me when I left the lake? It was now late in the afternoon. I slid the revolver with its one bullet into the back of my jeans, picked up the paddle and headed for the outlet creek.