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A Ghost of the Eriehonan

By Chuck Semenuk

John and his grandson Tommy had just finished a great day of fishing and were getting ready to go home.

“Let’s take a little breather before we start the long hike back to the house,” said John.

It was a long walk up the old logging trail and John’s knees weren’t as good as they used to be. Taking a seat on an old log, John took a plastic bag of cookies from his shirt pocket and shared them with Tommy.

“It sure is nice down here, Grandpa. I really like it,” said Tommy.

“Yes, it sure is. It’s one of my favorite places. This river valley and the surrounding woods probably look pretty much the same today as it did when the Indians lived here.”

Tommy’s eyes widened. “Gosh, grandpa. Were there really Indians around here?”

“There sure were. Archeologists believe that the first Indians in recorded history living in this area belonged to the Erie tribe. They were called Eriehonan by the Iroquois which lived further east. Eriehonan meant “long tail” which referred to the bob cat or cougar which was very plentiful in this area. Often referred to as the “cat people”, the Eries were fierce warriors and were known to use poison tipped arrows on their enemies. Over time, they fought many battles with the Iroquois, the Huron, and a number of other tribes before they were pretty well scattered and pushed out of the area. There were inhabitants here before the Eriehonan but little is known about them other than that they were ‘mound builders’ and are considered to be ‘pre-historic’.”

“Wow,” said Tommy. “I bet you know a lot of stories about this place, Grandpa.”

“Yep. I can think of a few good ones,” laughed John.

Tommy could hardly control his excitement.

“Tell me one. Please?”

John made himself comfortable by sitting on the ground and resting his back on the log.

“Well, long before you were born, I used to fish this river every chance I got. I got so I knew it like the back of my hand. Every once in a while I thought that I saw an old man in the woods, or sometimes along the river. But then, he would disappear. I used to work with an old guy who knew a lot about this place and one day I told him about the man I thought I saw.

He started to laugh and then told me that I had probably seen the ghost of old Tocho. Tocho was thought to be a descendant of the original Erie tribe that lived in the area. Tocho hunted and fished this river valley back when the area was being settled by the white man. He generally got along quite well with the settlers and developed a love for the fresh apple pies made by one of the local women. His taste for the white man’s apple pie turned out to be his undoing.

One day, he happened to catch the fragrance of a fresh pie cooling on a window sill. Had he knocked on the door and asked for a slice, the woman would have likely given it to him but for some reason, he snatched the whole pie and ran off with it.

Seeing Tocho disappear into the woods with the whole pie, the woman thought she’d teach him a lesson. Pretending to be upset when her husband returned from town, she told him that Tocho had stopped for pie but had gotten fresh with her and she had to fight for her honor. Before she could explain further, her husband grabbed his rifle and ran from the house. By dark, the man and some of his neighbors had tracked down old Tocho and hanged him from a large tree in the woods at the top of this very logging trail. When he returned home, his wife told him that she just made up the story to have some fun with Tocho. She thought they would all have a good laugh. Unfortunately, poor Tocho wasn’t laughing. The next morning, the men cut Tocho down and buried him beneath the old tree.”

“That was terrible, grandpa.”

“Yes, it was. You know, when you tell a lie, even if it’s just a little fib, you never know how someone might be hurt by it.”

“Did you see Tocho’s ghost anymore?”

“Well now, let me tell you the rest of the story. One day I was fishing this section of river with my fly rod. As a matter of fact, it was that set of rapids right over there. We had been having a lot of rain and the river was running high and fast. I was casting a streamer against the current and working it back when I noticed a small animal thrashing around in the fast water. I waded out into the deeper water so I could intercept it. It was a bob cat kitten; the poor little guy was exhausted and wouldn’t have lasted much longer. I scooped it up and held it close while I made my way back to the bank.

I dried it off with my shirt as best I could. Not knowing what to do next, I decided to head home and began walking the logging trail back towards the house. As I reached the clearing at the top, a huge bob cat walked out of the brush and stood in front of me. Its bright eyes were fixed on mine as it took a few steps toward me. I gently placed the kitten on the ground and backed away a bit. The big cat walked up to the kitten and nuzzled it, as if checking to make sure that it hadn’t been harmed. It then gently picked up the kitten by the scruff of the neck and began walking away with it. It turned and looked at me as if saying thank you, then disappeared silently into the woods.

Some weeks later, I was sitting on my deck putting new line on my spinning reel. I glanced at my watch; it was 6:00 PM. My plan was to try a bit of evening fishing. I hung my flashlight and the rest of my gear on my belt, took my spinning rig and headed for the trail down to the river. Well into summer, the river was much gentler now than it was when I rescued the kitten. I attached a black plastic worm and worked it slowly around the rocks near the opposite bank. The Smallmouth Bass were very cooperative and the action was hot and heavy until it started to get dark.

As the sun dipped behind the trees, it became dark quickly in the low lands along the river. The fish didn’t like the worm anymore so I switched to one of my favorites, a small frog-colored surface lure. I couldn’t see it on the water but I could hear the gurgling noise it made as I worked it. When a Smallmouth attacked it, I could hear the splash as it came out of the water behind the lure. The key was to not try to set the hook when I heard the splash but to wait until I could feel the fish on the line. As the fish fought, I couldn’t see where it was but I could sense where it was by the sound of the splash as it jumped and the action of the rod. Luckily, the flashlight on my belt provided enough light for me to release the fish. Then, the fun would begin again as I worked the lure in the darkness.

After awhile, I looked around me and began to get a bit apprehensive. The water surface was smooth and black and it gave me the feeling that I was standing knee deep in an asphalt parking lot. The bank seemed far away and foreboding. The bright stars in the black sky did little to illuminate the river and the surrounding woods. I slowly made my way to the bank, tripping over slippery rocks as I went.

Finally on the bank, I found the path to the logging trail and began to make my way up the hill. The blackness overwhelmed the puny glow from my flashlight. The logging trail wasn’t the best even in daylight. I was regretting having to be on it in the dark. On one side, layers of shale rose sharply to the woods above. On the other side, the land dropped away very quickly into the flood plain. The trail itself was badly eroded after many years, exposing many rocks and roots.

As I carefully picked my way up the trail in the weak beam of my flashlight, I wished that I had at least been smart enough to take a friend with me. I judged that I was nearly to the top of the trail. I tried to get around a badly eroded spot when my foot caught a root. I realized too late that I was close to the edge. I felt myself pitch over the edge as I grabbed for anything my hands could reach. I heard my fishing rod bouncing off of whatever was below. I hung there in the darkness, my feet finding nothing but air under them. The roots in my hands did not feel very sturdy and I couldn’t find anything else to grab. I don’t know how long I hung there but I knew that I wouldn’t be able to hang on much longer. Suddenly, strong hands grabbed my wrists and began to lift me up. In the darkness, I swear I could make out the features of old Tocho smiling down at me before I lost consciousness.

When I woke up, I found myself sitting in a chair on my deck; my spinning rod lay on the table next to me. I looked at my watch. It was 6:00 PM. A single trail of muddy foot prints led away from me and off the deck. Foot prints of a very large cat! I decided not to go fishing. I haven’t seen old Tocho or the big cat ever since but I always have the feeling that he’s around somewhere in case I do something stupid again.”

“That was a great story,” exclaimed Tommy. “I believed it until that last part.”

John laughed. “Glad you liked it. I think we’d better get home for dinner. Your Grandma will skin us alive if we’re late.”

As they began their trek home, an old man looked down on them from the ridge above. He smiled and quietly disappeared into the woods.