Almost 100 years before Newt Scamander published his Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, William T. Cox released his own field guide, Fearsome Creatures of the Lumberwoods. Published in 1910, this text offered sketches and descriptions of various critters of North American folklore. In his preface, Cox lamented the rapid disappearance of the once-vast lumber regions, saying that stretches of forest that once seemed boundless were all but gone, along with some of the curious varmints that lived there. At the very least, he aimed to preserve some of the fascinating lumberjack-spotted animal stories.
One of those unique creatures highlighted in Cox’s guide is the Billdad, a testament to the rich tapestry of tales that have shaped the identity of the regions.
The Billdad
Saltipiscator falcorostratus
If you’ve ever paddled around Boundary Pond in northwest Maine at night, you might have heard a distinct splat, like a paddle striking the water. While it could have been a paddle, it’s far more likely that it was the sound of a billdad fishing. This elusive creature is found only in this secluded pond within Beattie Township.
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The billdad is about the size of a beaver but has long, powerful hind legs like a kangaroo, short front legs, webbed feet, and a heavy, hawk-like bill. Its unique method of fishing involves crouching on a grassy point overlooking the water. When a trout rises to catch a bug, the billdad leaps with astonishing speed, landing just past the fish and bringing its heavy, flat tail down with a resounding smack. This stuns the fish, which the billdad then picks up and eats. Remarkably, adult males can leap an average of sixty yards in a single bound.
Only a few years ago, lumberjacks believed that billdad meat was a delicacy, but since the creatures are exceedingly shy and difficult to catch, no one could recall ever tasting one. That changed one autumn when a billdad was killed on Boundary Pond and brought to the Great Northern Paper Company’s camp. The camp cook decided to make a hearty stew, known as slumgullion, from the billdad meat.
The first—and only—person to taste it was Bill Murphy, a tough tote-road swamper from Ambegegis. After taking his first bite, Murphy’s body stiffened, his eyes glazed over, and he clutched the table’s edge. With a wild yell, he bolted out of the cookhouse, ran down to the lake, and leaped fifty yards into the water, landing in a sitting posture—exactly like a Billdad catching a fish. He sank like a stone.
Since that day, no lumberjack in Maine will go near billdad meat, not even with a long pole. The story of Bill Murphy’s leap has become a cautionary tale, ensuring that the billdad remains both a mysterious and untouchable creature of the Boundary Pond.
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