(Last Updated: 9 years ago – reflecting the original article’s timestamp)
The Nehalem River, a life source and artery through the coastal landscape, once pulsed with the rhythms of life for the indigenous people who called its banks home. Among their seasonal activities was the vital task of drying fish, a method of preservation that would sustain them through the leaner months. It was during one such undertaking that an unsettling event unfolded, an encounter that would forever alter their relationship with a particular stretch of the river.
The air, thick with the briny scent of drying fish, was suddenly pierced by an alarming sound. A cacophony of snapping branches and rustling undergrowth, far exceeding the normal disturbances caused by wind or common animals, erupted from the dense thicket bordering the river. A sense of primal fear gripped the community. This was no ordinary creature; this was something else, something… other.
Instinct took over. Without hesitation, they scrambled into their canoes, their movements a flurry of hushed urgency. Paddles dipped into the dark water, propelling them across the river to the perceived safety of the opposite bank. In their haste, a small tragedy occurred: their little dog, a loyal companion and early warning system, was inadvertently left behind.
The group, huddled together on the far bank, sought refuge in a concealed location. They lay prone, bodies pressed against the cool earth, straining their ears to decipher the escalating chaos emanating from the abandoned campsite. The little dog, initially confused, began to bark, its high-pitched yelps echoing across the water. Then, silence. A chilling, abrupt silence that spoke volumes.
The silence was soon shattered by an even more terrifying sound: the unmistakable crash of wood splintering and collapsing. Wild Man, or whatever it was, was attacking their fish-drying structure. The noise was deafening, a violent symphony of destruction that amplified their terror. It was followed by another period of quiet, suggesting the creature had retreated back into the woods. Sleep was impossible that night. Despite the formidable width and depth of the river, they remained paralyzed by fear, the image of the monstrous being lurking on the opposite bank burned into their minds. They couldn’t help but feel their safety was in peril, even with the deep water between them.
With the first light of dawn, a brave member of the community cautiously paddled back across the river in a canoe. The scene that greeted him confirmed their worst fears. The sturdy structure they had painstakingly erected for drying fish was a wreck. One entire side had been brutally smashed, reduced to a jumbled heap of splintered wood. The little dog lay lifeless amidst the debris, a tragic victim of the night’s encounter. And surrounding the devastation were the unmistakable signs of the creature responsible: huge, misshapen tracks pressed deep into the soft earth. They were the tracks of Wild Man.
The man returned to the others, his face pale with fear. "Yes," he confirmed, his voice trembling, "I saw his tracks."
The decision was swift and unanimous. They gathered their remaining belongings, the precious dried fish, and loaded everything into their canoes. They abandoned the campsite, never to return. The memory of the encounter with Wild Man was too vivid, the fear too profound. The stretch of river on that side was now considered cursed, a place to be avoided at all costs. No one would ever dare to camp there again.
The people knew this was not an isolated incident. The stories of such beings were deeply woven into their oral traditions. They believed there must have been an entire tribe of Wild Men, as encounters, though rare, were not unheard of. The wilderness held secrets, and sometimes, those secrets revealed themselves in terrifying ways.
One particular Nehalem man, unmarried and dedicated to providing for the community, was a skilled hunter. He selflessly shared his bounty with the married families. One summer, he successfully hunted a large elk. Wishing to preserve every part of the animal, he carefully collected the blood and filled the elk’s bladder with it. He made camp near the kill site, placing the bladder of blood near his feet before settling down to sleep, exhausted from his efforts.
As he slept, Wild Man approached the camp, drawn by the scent of fresh elk meat. The man awoke with a start, feeling strangely warm and uncomfortable. "Goodness! What is the matter?" he muttered to himself, his eyes scanning the surroundings. He was astonished to find the area bathed in an unnatural light, illuminated by a roaring fire.
To his surprise, Wild Man had placed large pieces of bark between the man and the fire, shielding him from the intense heat. It was an unexpected act of consideration, a hint of something more complex than simple brute force. When Wild Man spoke, he addressed the man as "My nephew," further suggesting a familial connection, or perhaps simply a term of endearment.
The man watched in stunned silence as Wild Man, an immensely large figure, sat by the fire, roasting the elk’s fatty ribs and chest on a stick. "This is how I am getting to be," Wild Man grumbled, "I am getting to be always on the bum, these days. I travel all over, I cannot find any elk. I took your elk, dear nephew, I took your elk meat."
The man, still groggy, stretched his legs and inadvertently kicked the bladder of blood. The resulting noise startled Wild Man. "It sounds as if a storm were coming!" he exclaimed, his voice filled with alarm. It was well known that Wild Men were averse to storms, avoiding them whenever possible.
The man, realizing Wild Man’s fear, continued to kick the bladder, mimicking the sound of thunder. "Yes, a storm is coming!" he confirmed. Wild Man, increasingly agitated, turned to the man. "My dear nephew, would you tell me the best place to run to?" he pleaded.
Seizing the opportunity, the man pointed towards a high bluff overlooking the river. "Over in that direction is a good place to run," he lied. Without hesitation, Wild Man bolted towards the bluff. Moments later, the man heard a sickening thud as Wild Man plunged over the edge.
The man did not sleep again that night, his mind racing with a mixture of fear and guilt. At first light, he cautiously approached the bluff. Looking over the edge, he saw Wild Man’s lifeless body lying far below. He found a safer route down the steep incline and examined the body. He took Wild Man’s quiver, leaving the body where it lay. Overcome with fear, he hastily gathered as much elk meat as he could carry and fled back to his community.
Upon his return, he recounted the encounter, carefully omitting the details of his deception. "Wild Man found me," he said, "He jumped over the bluff."
Later, he examined the contents of Wild Man’s quiver. Inside, he found an assortment of strange bones. These were not ordinary bones; they seemed to possess a strange power. From that day forward, the man’s hunting luck improved dramatically. Elk would seemingly appear from the mountains, drawn to him, and he was able to easily hunt sea lions on the rocks, a feat that was previously beyond his abilities. The bones, he believed, were lucky pieces, a gift from Wild Man, albeit a posthumous one.
And so, the story of Wild Man became another thread in the rich tapestry of their oral history, a reminder of the mysteries that lurked in the wilderness and the complex, often unpredictable, interactions between humans and the creatures that shared their world. The tale, passed down through generations, serves as a testament to the enduring power of myth and the profound impact of the unknown on the human psyche.
