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The Wildman of Oliphant
By Paul Kastner
Feature Submission

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If it weren’t for Wildman’s Island name, the notoriety of a short-lived minor drama in the 19th century probably wouldn’t have survived as it does into the 21st century. For upon hearing of the island for the first time, new cottagers in the Bruce Peninsula summer resort of Oliphant naturally are curious: Why is it called that? And so the legend of the Wildman of Wildman’s Island is ever fresh despite its roughly 125 year-old history.

Wildman’s Island is the most westerly island of a group of small islands known as the Rowdies. They are part of the 70 or so Fishing Islands stretching in an arc from Oliphant to Stokes Bay on Lake Huron. The frequent wild roar of crashing lake surf on its exposed rocky backside somehow contributes to a mysterious aura in the imagination of curious thrill seekers. Some of the answers were put down nearly 100 years ago, when an island cottager, who was an amateur historian, heard of the then 25-year old legend of the Wildman. As true as could be determined he wrote down the story of a man said to be disappointed in love, and who seeking solace, had squatted on an abandoned island. His signature feature, that of howling like a wild man as the sun set, gave rise to his name, and the island he occupied. Those who met him, before he fled from their sight, told the historian his face was sad and careworn. Despite his hermit-like existence, it turned out he had been a familiar sight over several years to fishermen, onshore loggers and farmers. Then, he disappeared during a violent autumn storm, his dugout canoe found overturned. Fishing folk speculated he’d been unable to save himself, or else, hadn’t tried.

Well after his death, the mystery surrounding the Wildman of Oliphant took on further dimensions when new owners of the island came across an alarming inscription carved into a birch tree. There it remains today, a tantalizing message of nearly a century and a quarter ago. Does it reveal who the Wildman was, and why he sought escape? Perhaps, this tale will help.

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THE WILDMAN OF OLIPHANT

At some point he’d become aware that he was known as the Wild Man.

Fair enough, he conceded to himself. I look and act like a wild thing. But that’s what I am. He knew that often in his despair, as evening drew nigh, he’d throw back his head and yell like a mad dog, “Oh, Mary, I dinna mean it. Mean it. Mean it.” For it was at that time of day that his terrible deed had been done. The reason why he’d come to a solitary life on an abandoned island a mile offshore from the barely established hamlet of Oliphant, Bruce County.

He knew how he looked to people. Back home, he’d been clean shaven except for a moustache. Now, long, thick curly black hair hung over his shoulders, his face covered with a bushy, black beard. Instead of his parent’s farm, his home was a deserted island where he lived like Robinson Crusoe. But, in truth he’d had to laugh at his pretensions. The fact was that with all the fishing and logging going on about him on nearby islands, his location was hardly deserted.
Aye, it was a bit of a comedown from his fantasy of hiding out on a deserted tropical island. Palm trees. Bread fruit for the picking. But instead here he was in the Fishing Islands of Lake Huron, three hours sail north from the Port of Southampton, Bruce County. Well, one had to make do with what life handed out.

His private hell had begun only months before with that terrible bloody moment in his home hamlet. Escaping Mary’s vengeful family, he’d made furtive and hasty tracks north along the shore to Southampton. Here, he’d been drawn to the fishing fleet bustle on the wharves of the Penetangore River (now, Saugeen), and listened idly in on the talk of the Scots fishing folk. His interest suddenly heightened when he gathered from their chatter that farther north there was a paradise of scores of islands, most of them deserted. Like the Biblical story, the surrounding fresh waters teemed with shoals of fish so thick, they boasted, one could practically walk across them.

Though his parents had been Scots, he was born a Canadian, and cautiously gravitated to
a fellow Canadian, seeking more information. His interest was mistaken as need for a job on one of the fishing boats that regularly hired crew. When the job of a seine hand on a Captain Rowan’s schooner was offered, he gave his name as Jamie Bell and took it without hesitation. Hard headed as always, at that moment he’d abruptly turned his dreams away from tropical isles. Instead, he’d scout those northern freshwater islands as a more achievable refuge.

Soon, he was aboard Rowan’s schooner, perhaps leaving Southampton forever. As the schooner sailed north, he marveled at the wonder of this great inland sea of Lake Huron, and even more so as they reached what seemed an unending string of limestone and treed islands. One of these, he was to learn, was Rowan Island, the captain’s quarters for the fishermen, and his base camp for seining operations. Upon anchoring in the sandy bottom waters off the island, he’d helped the crew launch several large rowboats, and drag them half up on the shore. He’d expected individual crews would go out in these and seine for fish. Not like the way his Aberdeenshire father had told him of North Sea fishing, of being out in rough waters, tossing about in a trawler, while seamen laboriously seined and hauled fish.

To his amazement, the Fishing Islands method was essentially land-based. A simple, effective operation that he quickly came to admire. A young crewman, Duncan, was posted ashore sitting high in a tree. He was called a lookout. From his perch, he’d scan the clear, blue waters for the tell-tale change in surface water color indicating that a huge shoal of fish was approaching. At his cry, the seiners on shore would launch and jump into the rowboats. In preparation, their sterns had been piled with beach-type seine nets. Once in the water, Duncan’s shouted directions would guide them to the moving mass of fish. Straining at the oars, the seiners would row this way and that way, until the shoal was found. The gill nets would quickly be tossed and worked around the densely moving mass. Working in concert the rowboats would head for shore with the thousands of fish trapped in the seines. Incredibly to him, these would be pulled up onto the island shore.

Next, losing no time, waiting men hurriedly salted the whitefish and herring and packed them in barrels. Easily more than 500 hundred at a time could be filled, he was astounded to note. Sometimes there were more fish than available barrels, or salt, and they had to toss the fish away. Raucous seagulls swarmed in, like a sky shoal.

Despite living with his private anguish, he’d enjoyed the hard work and the seining technique. Importantly to him, over a month he’d also had opportunity to study nearly 40 islands amongst which the schooner and rowboats roamed. Which one would be a safe haven for him? Or should he return to Southampton? Meanwhile, moody at times, he’d kept to himself, and with Celtic perception the rest of the crew sensed he had some private sorrow, or perhaps was hiding from something, and so mostly left him alone.

One day, a seiner pointed to an island roughly three acres in size to the north of Indian Channel. “Jamie lad, that’s Belmore’s Island,” he’d said. “Fella by name of Larry Belmore made hisself a camp there. Can you credit, he jist left ‘er and went t’loggin.”

He’d decided there and then to make it his. Like the abandoned dugout canoe he’d spotted on an adjacent island to Rowan. Mentally putting the two together, he didn’t waste time. He carved a paddle from cedar, and reckoned when the time came, he could easily swim with it across to the dugout. As further preparation, he made up a waterproof bag and thought out a list involving his clothing, and effects like matches, a rope, filleting and skinning knives, ready to cram in a hurry. A friendly Duncan gazed upon him with a speculative eye. But he’d made no explanation.

So it was that during a starry night with a new moon when all the seiners were asleep in a drunken stupor, he’d packed the bag, corded it to the paddle, and quietly slipped into the warm water and swum from rock to rock to where the dugout was. Alert for noises from Rowan Island, and careful not to make any of his own, he dragged the canoe into the lake. He found it extremely tipsy, and there’d been a few anxious moments trying to keep it upright. Twice it spilled him before he was able to gingerly sit in it and cautiously stroke for Belmore Island. All was still silent on Rowan Island.

Then, Belmore’s looming shape, and searching for the small cove on it, he paddled into the island, stepping out into the shallow water so as to prevent the dugout from striking the rocky shore. In no time, he’d hidden the dugout in a clump of cedars, and followed his plan to bed down right away. He’d need his wits about him the next day. In the ghostly illumination of the new moon, he’d lain on a flat shelf of rock at the back of the island, facing the light prevailing westerly wind, out of the range of mosquitoes.

For a time, the exhilaration of his flight and fear of detection kept him awake. Next thing he knew, he awoke rested to morning sunshine. Save for the cry of seagulls, all was quiet. No one was coming after him. For the first time since fleeing, he had a wonderful feeling of freedom and safety. Aye, he could be a Robinson Crusoe. Looking about him, he noted the back of the island was heavily littered with driftwood. Enough for him to later erect an enclosed wind shelter. On his feet, further exploring, an unbelievable find – a well-built shack hunkered into a cedar grove, and a small garden clearing.
For some reason, he was nervous about opening the unlocked door. Would someone be there? No worry, only a one room setup with a blanketed sleeping cot, a tin stove with cut wood piled beside it, a table with a coal-oil lamp, and several chairs. On the walls, hung an axe, a hand saw, shovel, hammer and nails and other tools, pails, pots and pans, and fish netting. “Oh, Mary, are ye looking after me?” he groaned guiltily.

Then from elation to despair, came the sickening thought that it probably meant that Larry Belmore could show up any day. Again, a snap decision. He’d chance staying for the time being. Using the island as a base for whatever time he had left, he’d paddle the dugout looking for another deserted island, while keeping an eye out for Larry Belmore, or anyone else heading for the island.

Also, for the first week or so he’d been fearful that his one friend, Duncan, would stir up a fuss. But he’d heard no to-do. He reckoned that once his kit was found missing, and the dugout across the way, they’d guess that he’d taken off when one of his dark periods overcame his normal steady mood. He guessed they’d see him as a survivor.

Several months passed, and he’d survived all right, netting fish, drying them on the rocks, paddling to islands where passenger pigeons roosted, wringing their stupid necks, gathering their eggs. Wild berry bushes to be picked were thick on some islands. Rabbits somehow had made their way out to the islands, and he snared many.

Over time, he became less careful, not caring if he inadvertently showed himself. For he’d found, despite his resolve, that he needed human presence other than his own. That must mean he wasn’t a true Robinson Crusoe. Yet, Crusoe, he remembered, had had Friday for company. Still, Jamie stayed firm to his rule of not speaking to anyone.

Surprisingly, in this out of the way corner of the globe, human presence was everywhere. A goodly stream of fishing boats plied their way down Indian Channel practically on his doorstep. He’d hear the smack of their sails as they sharply turned north without tacking. Then, they’d sail nearly across his island’s lee bow, as it were. Sometimes, crew members would catch sight of him, yahooing to him.

From his island’s westerly rear, he’d see fishing schooners heading north for Main Station Island, or returning south to Southampton filled with barrels of fish. If he chose, he could paddle across Indian Channel to Cranberry Island and beach his dugout. There he’d walk across the island and wade to a string of small islands that served as a breakwater to the sometimes stormy vast lake. He’d lie in cover taking in with special interest the fishing camp of the McAuleys on Whitefish Island. Beyond in Oliphant Bay, log rafts would be taking shape. Then, they’d be towed by boat either south, or north.

Noisy and bustling fishing camps could be heard far off. Sometimes from a safe haven in which to stay his dugout, he’d seek out the sounds of the shouts of lookouts crying the news of incoming shoals of fish to be netted. Incautiously, he paddled several times close to Rowan Island. Once from his tree lookout perch, Duncan had spotted him and waved friendly-like at him. He’d ignored the lad.
Sometimes, he’d paddle to the mainland which he’d been told was Oliphant, and inspect the few homesteads, looking for something he could use. At one house up on the hill, there was a farm family with a large brood of young daughters. He’d thought himself unnoticed, but one day prowling about their root cellar and milk shed, a young girl from the homestead had come quietly out of the trees and boldly spoken to him. She’d asked him if he was the Wildman living on some island. So that now was his reputation! Reluctantly, he’d answered, then to more questions about how he fed himself, and could she leave food for him the next day. Was it the girl he really wanted to see for he found himself saying “yes.” Tormented, he’d returned, hating himself, apologizing to Mary.

But the girl was not there. Instead, atop the farm’s root cellar were recently pulled carrots, peas, beets, onions and potatoes. There was a huge section of farm cheese. Freshly baked bread. Salted pork. Obviously it was for him, a bounty that brought tears to his eyes. He was so undeserving. After that, with heavy heart, he visited no more. Did she still leave food out for him?

When winter approached, he thought he could survive on the island in warmth as long as he laid in a food store, and lots of wood. All through October, he gathered driftwood, and cut down trees sawing them into a pile of stove lengths of about 40 cords. He sun-dried whitefish, and a giant sturgeon, and cured with salt he’d pilfered from a fishing camp. He had a good store of dried berries, especially high bush cranberries. From a mainland barn, he’d taken winter clothing and boots. Where he could, he stuffed moss into the shack’s cracks, and with cedar poles cut for that purpose stuck them upright about the room so they’d support a heavy snow-laden roof. After one storm he’d found cork lifejackets on his island shore and had prudently saved them for some use, wondering if there was a tragic story behind their presence. Now, he decided, he could fashion them into an insulating coat as extra winter warmth insurance.

On further forays ashore he’d plundered gardens and root cellars and milk sheds from settlers other than the girl’s homestead, and buried the vegetables for preservation into a large sand pile he’d gathered from Oliphant beaches.

His first winter had been worse than he’d anticipated. Gale-like winds carrying snow swept in off Lake Huron all the way from the American side. Making the best of it, he welcomed it as insulation. Shoveled high around the outside shack walls the snow helped keep his stove heat from escaping. The heat at times was almost too much. But better than freezing. With the wind howling outside, he’d snuggle into the cot and howl back. “I must be going mad,” he thought, surprised.

When the lake froze, he successfully tried ice fishing. The frozen surface meant he could walk across to the islands where the fishing camps had shut down, looking for and finding useful supplies such as blankets and tinned goods. The biggest camp was on Main Station where solid remains of the once permanent Captain McGregor fishing settlement remained. McGregor had been forced out by rivals, and abandoned his houses. Once, while with Captain Rowan, he’d been shown the island’s worked out quarries. Stone from them had built the Southampton lighthouse, the captain said.
January had been surprisingly warm, and he’d sit outside sunning himself and admiring the intense blueness of the sky and the dazzling white of the snow, wishing Mary was with him to share the winter beauty. He’d head out to mountainous icebergs that had been forming since late November by the storm- lashed waves smashing against offshore reefs, their spray freezing and successively building up the bergs. He’d climb up on them, tempted to end it all by sliding down the other side into ice-strewn open water.

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