Dungarvon Whooper

The story revolves around a young Irish cook, often referred to by the name Ryan.^[1] Ryan moves to a lumber camp located somewhere along, or very near to, the Dungarvon River, bringing all of his possessions with him, including a money belt. While the lumberjacks are out, Ryan is left alone with the boss of the camp, who decides to murder and rob the young cook. When the crew returns, the boss explains that the cook had taken sick and died suddenly. They then bury the body in the forest some distance from the camp. However, a terrible "whooping" sound keeps the group from falling asleep that night, presumably the ghost of Ryan crying out against the crime of which he was the victim. Scared, the men flee the camp the next morning.

The story, which was handed down to lumberers working in New Brunswick throughout the 20th century, is well-known in local culture. It was taken seriously enough by the turn of the century that Rev. Edward Murdoch, a Roman Catholic priest from Renous, performed an exorcism at the professed gravesite at Whooper Spring.^[2]

Summarize Fact Check

While the exact origin of the story is unknown, the best-known version comes from a song published in a local newspaper by Michael Whelan in 1912. The song is set to the tune of Where the Silvery Colorado Wends Its Way, by J. Aldrich Libbey.^[3]

Far within the forest scene,

Where the trees forever green,

Form a contrast to the beech and birches grey,

Where the snow lies white and deep,

And the song birds seem to sleep,

And cease their sweetest singing all the day.

Where the mighty monstrous moose,

Of limbs both large and loose,

Through the forest sweeps with strides both swift and strong,

Where the caribou and deer

Swim the brooks so crystal clear,

And the mighty deep Dungarvon rolls along.

Where the black bear has his den,

Far beyond the haunts of men,

And the muskrat, mink and marten swim the stream,

Where the squirrel so light and free,

Swiftly springs from tree to tree,

And the lovely snow-white rabbit sleep and dreams;

Where the sounds of toil resound

Far across the frozen ground,

And the thousand things that to the woods belong,

Where the saws and axes ring,

And the woodsmen wildly sing,

And the dark and deep Dungarvon sweeps along.

In a lumber camp one day,

While the crew were faraway,

And no one there but cook and boss alone,

A sad tragedy took place,

And death won another race,

For the young cook swiftly passed to the unknown;

From the day of long ago,

Comes this weary tale of woe,

The sad and solemn subject of my song,

When this young man drooped and died,

In his youth and manhood's pride,

Where the dark and deep Dungarvon sweeps along.

When the crew returned that night,

What a sad scene met their sight,

There lay the young cook silent, cold and dead,

Death was in his curling hair,

In his young face pale and fair,

While his knapsack formed a pillow for his head.

From the belt about his waist

All his money was misplaced,

Which made the men suspect some serious wrong,

Was it murder cold and dread,

That befell the fair young dead

Where the dark and deep Dungarvon rolls along?

When they asked the skipper why

He had made no wild outcry,

He turned away and hid his haughty head;

"Well, the youngster took so sick,

And he died so mighty quick,

I hadn't time to think," was all he said;

A tear was in each eye,

Each heart it heaved a sigh,

While through each breast the strangest feeling throng;

When each reverent head was bared,

As his funeral they prepared,

Where the mighty deep Dungarvon rolls along.

Fast fell the driven snow,

While the wild winds they did blow,

Till four feet deep upon the ground it lay,

So that on the burial day

To the graveyard far away

To bear the corpse impossible was found.

Then a forest grave was made,

And in it the cook was laid

While the song birds and the woodsmen ceased their song;

When the last farewells were said

O'er the young and lonely dead

Where the dark and deep Dungarvon sweeps along.

When the crew returned at night

Their dear comrade still they mourned,

While the shades o'night were falling o'er the hill,

All that long and fearful night

All the camp was in affright,

Such fearful whoops and yells the forest fill;

Pale and ghastly was each face,

"We shall leave this fearful place,

For this camp unto the demons does belong,

Ere the dawning of the day

We will hasten far away

From where the dark Dungarvon rolls along."

Since that day, so goes the word,

Fearful sounds have long been heard,

Far round the scene where lies the woodsman's grave,

Whoops the stoutest hearts to thrill,

Yells that warmest blood to chill,

Sends terror to the bravest of the brave;

Till beside the grave did stand,

God's good man with lifted hand,

And prayed that He those sounds should not perlong

That those fearful sounds should cease,

And the region rest in peace

Where the dark and deep Dungarvon sweeps along.

Since that day the sounds have ceased

And the region is released

From those most unearthly whoops an screams and yells,

All around the Whooper's spring

There is heard no evil thing,

And round the Whooper's grave sweet silence dwells

Be this story false or true,

I have told it unto you,

As I heard it from the folklore all life long,

So I hope all strife will cease,

And our people dwell in peace,

Where the dark and deep Dungarvon sweeps along.

The nickname "Dungarvon Whooper" was later given to a numbered passenger train operated by the Canada Eastern Railway running from Newcastle to Fredericton, along the Southwest Miramichi River. It has been said that the sound of the steam locomotive whistle reminded local residents of the legend. This train operated on a line originally built by New Brunswick businessmen, Alexander Gibson and Jabez Bunting Snowball. The railway and its passenger service were absorbed into the Canadian National Railway system and the passenger train ceased operation in the early 1960s.^{[citation needed]}

In 1895, a high-profile American reporter named Fredrick Irland published an article about a time he had gone on a fishing trip with reporter Frank Risteen on the Miramichi.

They went on this trip with three guides; Henry Braithwaite, his assistant Dave Douglass, and an unnamed Mi’kmaq assistant guide from Quebec. As a group, they followed a trail to an old abandoned logging camp, where lumberjacks used to stop. They stayed there for a few nights, but on one of them Frank Risteen woke to a high-pitched scream in the dark. As he tried to fall back asleep, he noticed a dark silhouette in the open doorway of their logging cabin. Upon this sight, Risteen lit up a candle to reveal a haggard old man in torn clothes with long, matted hair. He was carrying a large rusty axe.

Risteen simply watched the man come over to their campfire and hold his hands over it to warm himself up. When Fredrick Irland woke up, he was surprised to see the old man who had slept all night by the fire. When Irland and Risteen questioned the man, they found he didn’t speak very clearly, but learned that he had been in the American Civil War and that he was headed to Grand Falls. They asked the man for his name, and while it was partially unintelligible they thought it could be something like ‘Dorns’ or ‘Torrance.’

When the men made themselves breakfast, they took a photo of the man. After having breakfast with the man, he simply turned and left after muttering something similar to ‘Is there any man here who knows me; or do I know any man here?’ The last sighting of this man—believed to be the Dungarvon Whooper, was in the next year.^[4]