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Opening The wind howls along a lonely stretch of railroad. Snow drifts line the track, the product of snowstorms that have been hammering the area known as the Midwest snow belt for weeks on end. It’s just after Christmas and the number 5 train is making its way down the line, the double engines leading the way slowly but surely. The train, with its nearly 160 passengers, was due in Cleveland nearly 2 hours ago, but the weather hasn’t let up and the blizzard is making travel nearly impossible. Some of the passengers have been talking about the possibility of the train getting stuck, but the driver of the lead engine, The Socrates, is determined to make it to their destination. As they approach the small burg of Ashtabula, Ohio, a lone bridge stands between them and the station. It’s a newer structure, having only been built 11 years prior, and even with the snow there’s no reason to think the crossing would be anything but routine as the front wheels of the locomotive inch onto the steel frame. Within minutes, a loud crash and the frantic blowing of a train whistle is heard throughout the surrounding hills. No one knows it yet, but this night will be etched in history and remembered for centuries for what has just happened. Welcome to season 2 of The Long Way Home. I’m your host, Josh “Bearheart” Hawk. In this episode we’re digging into a terrible tragedy that happened nearly a century and a half ago in the small town of Ashtabula, Ohio. I covered the story first on YouTube as part of my Legends and Tales series, and now I want to go beyond what happened and talk about a few of the people involved. So buckle your seatbelt and lean back as we take a drive down dusty back roads and open freeways. The destination isn’t really important, it’s all about the journey, and the journey is so much better when you take The Long Way Home. (bumper music) Opening Mile On December 29, 1876, passengers on the number 5 train from Albany, New York found themselves staring out the windows of their cars at a winter wonderland. Snow was piled high all around as the engines, The Socrates and The Columbia, pulled two baggage cars, two express cars, two day passenger coaches, a smoking car, a drawing car called “Yokahama” and three sleeper cars known as The Palatine, City of Buffalo and Osceo along a lonely stretch of track in northeast Ohio. The train had originally been due in Cleveland, Ohio at 7:05 PM, but it was running well behind schedule. At around 7:30 PM it was approaching Ashtabula, Ohio, a little over 50 miles east of its intended destination. Ashtabula is a small town even today, but in 1876 it still only had around 3500 residents. Sitting in a prime spot on the shore of Lake Erie, it had been growing quite a bit, gaining over a thousand new people in the 6 years following the 1870 census. It was quickly on its way to becoming a major hub of commerce in northeastern Ohio. Trains coming into the town were usually destined for a small train station that sat on West 32nd street, surrounded by homes and businesses. Approaching from the west, they would be coming through open farm land and fields. But coming from the east, like the number 5 train, they would be treated to the beautiful view of a small river gorge just before sliding into town. The bridge that crossed the gorge was fairly new, having been replaced in 1865 by the rail company. The president of the company at the time, a Mr. Amasa Stone, would take the design of the replacement bridge on his own shoulders, hoping to cap off his career with something that would outlive him by decades. Based on the Howe Truss bridge design, this would be a structure highlighted with cross beams and angled rods stretching along its length. There were two concrete abutments, one on each side, and the bridge would cover the length of 150 feet that separated them.  Howe Truss bridges were usually made from a combination of iron and wood, using the pairing to lighten the weight of the structure and provide enough support to hold whatever might be crossing them. The design Mr. Stone had in mind, however, removed the wood and made the structure completely out of wrought iron. This increased the weight of the bridge, and nearly doomed the project as soon as it was built. The extra weight caused it to sink into the abutments on either side and it needed to be adjusted before officially opening for traffic in the summer of 1865. Two other engineers had looked at the design before it became a reality, and both had said it shouldn’t be built. Joseph Tomlinson was the first to denounce it, though he would later become part of the project as the lead architect of the build, managing the construction. He also made the drawings of the bridge, noting at the time that the main braces were not strong enough. That argument was enough to get him removed from the design portion of the project and his proposed changes would go away with him. Charles Collins was the lead engineer for the railroad company, and found himself so overwhelmed with other projects at the time that he was unable to do much more than look at the plans. While he had concerns with the design, he was removed from the project due to his workload and didn’t feel the need to say anything at the time. He would later testify the design appeared to be an experiment more than anything. As bad as it was, the bridge would officially be opened and support trains full of passengers for the next 11 years. Countless snowstorms and engines would pass over it, and it held strong until around 7:30 PM on December 29, 1876. By the morning light on December 30, a mass of iron and bodies would lay drenched in the river below, covered in snow and still burning from the intense fire of heating devices that had only hours before been keeping the 160 passengers warm. One of those passengers, Miss Marion Shephard, would share her story with The Chicago Tribune only a few days later. Here is her account as written on January 1, 1877: “I left Albany last Thursday night about 2:00 and had a birth in the sleeper Palatine. There were 20 passengers in the car, 2 ladies when we started and two more afterwards. A very severe snowstorm set in at Rochester and we were all expected to be snowed in. At Ashtabula Bridge we were 3 or 4 hours behind. This was between 8:00 and 9:00 in the evening. I think we were running faster than we did a few moments previously. The people in the car were talking, eating or playing cards and the first warning of any impending danger was given us by a candle being knocked down, the glass and the lamps being shattered and the bell rope breaking, the other lights fell. There was a bump, then a horrible crash. A gentleman near me said “Oh my God, we're going down”. Then we commenced to fall and we went down, down, down, down. Some remained in their seats, grasping them, while others rose. It was quite dark now. I stood up in the centre of the aisle, holding onto the seat and thinking I would be less liable to be injured by the breaking glass and the splinters from the sides of the car. As we went down, everything was silent as the grave, but when we had struck a terrible shriek arose from the wreck. There was another crash at the same time, but not so loud as the first. When we went down, splinters, glass, et cetera were whirling around in the car, the berths were slipping down, and there was a general confusion. Something fell on me, but it was nothing very heavy. It was dark, and I could not see. Some gentlemen also fell over me, but recovered himself a moment afterwards. I could not tell who it was, as it was dark. Some men said the car would be on fire in a minute and we must hurry out. Another said the water is coming in and we will be drowned. On my way out, a perfectly uninjured man grabbed me as I groped my way along on hands and knees and said, oh help me, don't leave me, save me. And ever so many things as that, but I couldn't see his face. A woman wanted me to help her husband who was jammed in between the floor and a berth. I tried to get him out but could not. Some men called out and said they would come and help him. Then I went to the door, walking over to the furnace in my course. There was no fire caught in our car.  How to get out alive I could not imagine. The cars around me were either ablaze or covered with such masses of rubbish as to almost completely hem me in. But I saw a man climbing up the rubbish and I followed him. I got on to the side of the car which had turned over and crawled along it. It seemed to be filled with people jammed together screaming and crying for help. There was another man behind me and both tried to help me along but it was too slippery and I found I could do no better than crawling along by myself. When we got to the end of the car, these men, Mr. Tyler of Saint Louis and Mr. White of Chicago, helped me down. When I got down, I found myself in the water, snow and ice up to my knees. Mr. Tyler was bleeding about the head, face and hands with a dreadful gash over his eye. Mr. White was unhurt and told me it was his eighth railroad accident. Under the corner there was a man whose head lay lower than the rest of his body, and his limbs were all crushed by the car. He asked us to help him, and we did so as best we could, until others came and carried him away, suffering intensely. I do not know who he was. All this time the Ashtabula fire bells and the bell of the engine that had passed over were ringing furiously. The blinding snow fell around us, illuminated by the light of the fire which had attacked the wreck. The banks looked as high as those near Niagara at first. The bridge had broken off short at each end, leaving nothing but the abutments. By this time there were plenty of men around to help us, but there was a perfect panic, very few having any presence of mind at all. Many who could have saved themselves as well as not had to be dragged out of the cars or they would have burned to death. The women really showed the most courage, and yet there were very few of them saved. We were helped up the hill to the engine house, pushing through the snow and ice and clambering up the steep, rugged banks of the Creek. The injured were brought in, some of them horribly mangled, but very few of them unable to speak. There were 3 ladies there, a Missus Graham of New York, Missus Bingham of Chicago, and another lady and myself. My escape was the most remarkable. My only injury being no more than a scratch upon my wrist. Missus Graham was only slightly injured. Missus Bingham had her left leg and spine hurt, and the other lady whose name I don't know was also terribly injured. Before we had got up the hill the whole train was on fire. We heard the shrieks of the wounded and dying, and the whole scene was as bright as day. Men were working as hard as they could to help the sufferers of their fiery prison. A physician came in about half an hour, and we took buses and went to the village. We were drenched through and through, and our clothes froze to us. I was taken to the Fisk house. Three men were brought in, badly wounded, one of them a Frenchman from Saint Louis, most horribly. Nobody around there could speak French, and we could not learn his name. He moaned most piteously all the while. Our car, The Palatine, was better preserved after the fall than any of the rest. The others were a mass of splinters, iron, pieces of glass, et cetera, and fragments and sections of the bridge were all mixed in with the cars. There was no assistance whatever from the fire department, but I was told that there were tanks of water there at the engine house which could have been used by the fire engine and we wondered why they were not used. I only saw one of the company's officers there, but he was doing everything he could to assist the wounded. Our car was the third from the last and from the easy way it fell I judged it was fairly on the bridge when it fell with it. The last car fell down end wise, the rear end resting on the abutment. I think the second car was the one I climbed over and I think everybody in it must have perished. I left Ashtabula Saturday afternoon about 2:00 and arrived here this afternoon. I lost all my portable luggage but my trunks probably left Albany by an earlier train, and I hope to find them awaiting me at Milwaukee. Everybody in our car escaped, although more or less injured, almost everyone getting out through the windows. As I said before, I concluded to try the door and succeeded in making my escape by it.” The second crash she mentioned hearing in that account was the City of Buffalo sleeper car landing on her car, The Palatine. It had crushed the smoking car, Yokahama before falling over and landing against The Palatine, its rear in the air. As those who could escape made their way out, the trapped found themselves in a race against time. A fire had started and would make its way through the majority of the cars over the hours following the crash. She mentioned in her account that questions about the fire department had come up. A lot of that came in the days following as rumors and speculation took on a life of their own. See, the railroad company had to pay out compensation to victims of crashes, but only to those who were actually on the train. If someone claimed to have family who perished in an accident, they would need to provide a body or some other trinket to prove it. The rumor was that the company had prevented the fire department from dousing the flames in an attempt to destroy as many bodies as possible. One witness even testified at the coroner’s inquiry that a railroad official had told her they were letting the fire burn for that reason. That rumor was put to rest when all the testimony was heard, however, and the reason for the fire being left to burn wound up being incompetence. The coroner found that no one in charge knew how to properly handle such a big event and leaders who should have taken charge simply dropped the ball. Because of the fire, the true death toll will never be certain, but it’s estimated that 92 people perished in the accident. At the time, it was the worst rail disaster in U.S. history, and to this day it’s the worst the state of Ohio has ever seen. Gas Stop Blame in tragedies like the Ashtabula train disaster never really falls on one person. Often it’s a series of mistakes and choices that lead to a bad outcome. You could blame the design of the bridge, but the fact that it could make it from concept to reality means the process of building bridges back then was just as broken as the design. The coroner’s report also calls out a lack of competent inspection over the 11 years the bridge stood, stating that if anyone who knew what they were doing had inspected the structure it would have been shut down and fixed. That aside, the fire was the result of the railroad company not making changes to their cars mandated in a law from 1869 that required rail cars in Ohio to have self-extinguishing heaters. Then the fire not being put out in a timely manner made things worse. There are always cries for justice when something terrible happens, and the public only sees what they want to. Those who believe the railroad company to be a heartless entity, run by soulless individuals only driven by profit would never accept the verdict of incompetence as a reason for the fire going on as it did. They would never see the company, or anyone who worked for it as anything more than demons, responsible for untold chaos. But companies are made up of individuals, and more of them than most might realize actually do care about their work. One of those who worked for the railroad, who had dedicated his life to the safety of the public, was Charles Collins. As the chief engineer of the rail, his name was listed as having something to do with most of the designs and safety measures around the bridges and tracks. He’d helped design countless bridges, and even played a small part in what would eventually become the failure of Amasa Stone’s bridge in Ashtabula. He’d been forced away from that project, but it still bore his name as one of the designers. Weeks after the tragedy, on January 20, 1877, Charles Collins would be found dead in his home from an apparent gunshot wound to his head. Many assumed he’d taken his own life, wracked with guilt over the bridge and what he could’ve done to prevent the loss of life. But his family and friends didn’t accept that. Laid to rest in a Mausoleum in the Chestnut Grove Cemetery in Ashtabula, his tortured soul is said to wander the grounds. But he isn’t moaning in regret, wishing he could un-pull the trigger, he’s more likely trying to tell anyone who will listen about his killer. His assistant, Mr. I. C. Brewer, found the body when calling on his boss on a Saturday morning. It was obvious Charles had been there for a few days, most likely since the night of January 17th, following his testimony about the bridge disaster to the Ohio Legislative Committee. He was holding a Colt Navy revolver in his left hand, and it appeared he’d shot himself in the mouth. He was laying on his bed, and the hand that clutched the revolver was resting partly on the thigh of his left leg, the arm resting along the left side of his body. The official story was that he had returned home after testifying and ended his own life, but let’s walk through the room and the scenario in more detail.  Nearly two years after Mr. Collin’s death, two separate medical examiners, Dr. Stephen Smith and Dr. Frank H. Hamilton, re-evaluated the evidence in a search for answers. Each doctor independently looked at the skull and the evidence of the case and came to their own conclusions. The bullet entered the left side of his head and exited on the right side a little further back than it entered. For starters, Charles Collins was right handed, so using his left hand and firing into the left side of his head seems a little odd. Both examiners also called out the trajectory of the bullet, noting the angle the round took would be extremely difficult, if not impossible for Mr. Collins to pull off. It was also noted that the shot itself would more than likely not have killed him right away, instead possibly paralyzing him and leaving him waiting for death. If he didn’t die right away, he would have likely tried a second shot, or maybe even sought help for the wound assuming it didn’t result in paralysis. The injury could have been enough to send him into shock, possibly knocking him unconscious as well, but there are problems with that theory too. Dr. Smith notes in his report that paralysis was unlikely due to the position of the body. If he had been paralyzed, the left arm would have fallen off the bed and the gun would have fallen out of his hand. He also notes that shock and unconsciousness were unlikely because the body was found resting on a bed that looked very tidy and shock would have resulted in convulsions that would have left the blankets and general area in disarray. Dr. Smith also notes that the force of the weapon being discharged against the head would have been enough to send it across the room from recoil. Dr. Hamilton came to a similar conclusion, noting that the body would have only been able to come to rest as it did, with the revolver in the hand, if it were placed there. Then there’s the fact that he’d agreed to go on a trip to take care of some bridge inspections for the company. He’d even packed his bags and had them waiting next to the bed, as if planning to leave the following morning as promised. He could have packed the bag and then changed his mind, but it is just another oddity that sticks out. That’s a lot of information, so I think a quick summary is in order. Charles Collins’ assistant, Mr. Brewer, found him dead on January 20, 1877. Charles was laying in his bed at home, on his back with a revolver loosely held in his left hand which was laying along his left side and resting on his thigh. What initially appeared to be a single gunshot through his mouth turned out to be a gunshot that entered the left side of his head and exited the right side. His packed bags were sitting on the floor of the bedroom, seemingly ready for a trip he’d planned to take on Thursday morning. Now, while the circumstances seem to point to foul play, I need to also point out a couple of things that line up with suicide. Charles had tried resigning his position of chief engineer with the railroad the Monday prior to his death. The company refused his resignation, with his boss taking the time to talk in depth about the issues Charles was having with the disaster and his own guilt. It was a very emotional time in general for him, and the day he died he’d spent hours testifying before a committee dedicated to finding the truth of the incident. To anyone outside, it would appear he was going through a lot mentally, and I can only imagine what was actually going on inside his mind. Not only did he feel somewhat responsible for the deaths of nearly a hundred people, but he was also being looked at as a villain by some in the community for not having done something to prevent the disaster. The part that stands out to me the most is the position of the body and the fact that he used his left hand even as a right handed individual. I’m no forensic scientist, but I’ve seen my fair share of CSI and one thing they always made a note of when it came to staged scenes was that people tend to drop the gun after shooting themselves. Would he really have been left with it resting in his hand like that? Both doctors that examined the skull and the case thought it was odd for him to be found like that, and even in the 19th century they had enough knowledge and experience to know something wasn’t right. The Last Mile We’ll never know with complete certainty if Charles Collins’ life ended at his own hand or at the hands of another. There were never any suspects vetted or even proposed, so even if we could prove foul play there would be no one to investigate. Charles Collins would be the final official victim of the tragic disaster, and out of the rubble would rise changes to how railroad safety was approached and a new hospital that sits in Ashtabula today near the site of the crash. You can even see the new bridge, a mound of earth piled on a double concrete arch that the river flows through, from the windows of the facility. Built to allow a place for victims of any future tragedies, the Ashtabula Regional Medical Center stands as a reminder of that horrible night a century and a half ago. As season 2 of The Long Way Home rolls on, I’m going to be sharing a lot of stuff like this. Going in depth on tales I share over on YouTube. Over there on my channel, Legends and Tales, I share stories like this one from all over the United States. It’s something I’ve been doing for a few years now, among other projects, and I’m excited to grow it as I move through 2025 and beyond. This podcast is going to be an extension of that series, diving deeper into stories and tales and sharing stuff that just doesn’t fit in the video format. Subscribing on YouTube will bring both Legends and Tales and The Long Way Home to your feed whenever new episodes drop, and The Long Way Home on its own is available wherever you prefer to listen to podcasts. Some of the upcoming episodes here on The Long Way Home will be tied into older episodes of Legends and Tales, but newer stuff will be coming as well over the course of the season. As always, make sure to follow and rate The Long Way Home, no matter where you choose to listen. You can check out my books on Amazon or at joshbearheartlegendsandtales.com, and even send me a message on select podcasting platforms. I want to thank you all for joining me on this drive. Remember, the destination isn’t as important as the journey, and the journey is always better when you take The Long Way Home.

This is the first transcript of the new season. I'm going to be uploading the written transcripts for each episode of season 2 here for those who would like to read them. Opening The year is 1889. You’re sitting around a campfire after a long day of logging. The sweat has finally dried off your brow and the smell of smoke and beans fills the air. You’ve only been on the job for a few weeks, having moved to northern Wisconsin to escape the city life that had become too busy to bear. Lost in your own thoughts, you don’t even notice when someone new joins the circle sitting around your fire. The sound of a match striking pulls you into the moment and you look up to see the man lighting a cigarette, tossing the used match into the fire as he looks over at you. “So, you’re the new kid, eh?” “Yeah.” “The kid from New York?” You nod and look back at the fire. “Hopefully you’ll last longer than the last greenhorn we had. I could smell his momma’s milk pouring off him. Just try not to get yourself killed and keep an eye out for the hodag.” You perk up. “Hodag?” “A terrible beast. Long, sharp claws like a lion. Horns like a bull. Its tail is enough to make the ground quake and it loves fresh meat. It’s got spike all down its back, and it’d just as soon kill ya as look at ya. Just don’t wander off alone after dark in these parts.” That’s how the story of the hodag started. A tale told around the campfire at logging camps in the 19th century. But if not for one man in the 1890’s, it might stayed as nothing more than a tale, lost to time and forgotten by all but a few. Welcome to season 2 of The Long Way Home. I’m your host, Josh “Bearheart” Hawk, and as we start a new year, I’ve got some amazing things coming your way. If you’ve been listening for a while, you might notice there’s a new format for this season and I’m a little more organized. My goal this year is to give you something to listen to on those dark, lonely nights as you travel down dirt roads in the middle of nowhere or work your way along a desolate freeway. The destination isn’t really important, it’s all about the journey, and the journey is made so much better when you take the long way home. Opening Mile We all love a good legend. Some of the best memories I have of my childhood involve sitting around a fire, or maybe in the living room by the light of a candle as some relative or friend recounted the story of a ghost or monster that supposedly stalked some small town in rural Ohio. My mom used to live by the “Haunted Ohio” book series that Chris Woodyard wrote, using the stories of hauntings to find places to take us on moonlit nights. We’d pile in the Chevy Astro van, alongside one of her friends and their kids, and head off in search of ghosts and demons. But my favorite stories always revolved around monsters. Bigfoot was a personal favorite. The thought of some large, ape-like man walking around the woods and messing with campers was intriguing. I think it was more about the idea that a creature like that would be real, tangible. It wasn’t like ghosts that only showed up in pictures, it was something that I could potentially really run into. As I grew older, I found myself constantly on the lookout for new cryptids to learn about. Whether it was the Loch Ness Monster, Mothman or Ohio’s own version of bigfoot, the grassman, I was hooked on finding these mysterious creatures. Then, as the internet age entered its heyday, some of the legendary creatures I’d sought became a little less real. Questions about the most famous bigfoot video, the Patterson-Gimlin film, were raised and the possibility of that footage being a hoax went mainstream. Faked footprints came out of the woodwork, and bigfoot wasn’t quite so big in my mind. Then there was the famous Loch Ness Monster picture, the one where you could clearly see the head of some animal popping out of the loch in black and white. That turned out to be nothing more than a fraud as well. As sites like YouTube picked up steam, more and more hoaxes took hold. Not only were people finding out about hoaxes from decades prior, they were also actively creating them in the modern day. You couldn’t trust anything you saw online, and before long my hope for any of these amazing monsters being real died. But hoaxes are nothing new. People have been lying about things like monsters and ghosts for centuries, mostly for fame or notoriety, but also aiming for a laugh or two at the expense of their friends or family. And that’s where Eugene Shephard comes in. Eugene was a land surveyor in the 1800’s, making his living helping logging companies to determine what logs they could use on a parcel of land, and what was nothing more than a waste. He was intimately familiar with lumberjacks and their stories, having spent a considerable amount of time in the camps, and he was also a well-known prankster. It was 1893 when Eugene gathered a group of men together and hatched a plan. The story of the hodag was well known to many at the time, though it was really only shared by lumberjacks, and Eugene thought he could have some fun with it. He was apparently somewhat skilled in the art of taxidermy, at least skilled enough to put together a decent facsimile of what a hodag might look like using a log and some parts from a few animals. Gathering some men around his creation, he had several photographs taken as if they had just finished a hunt, with some kind of rather strange creature at the center of the group. The creature was posed on a log, and the men were standing around it with pitchforks and guns pointed as if preparing to finish it off. One of the men is laying down at the feet of the beast, as though he had been slain in the attempt. By modern standards the photo looks rather goofy, but it was enough to capture the attention of the newspapers. The story spread like wildfire, with Mr. Shephard telling anyone who would listen of the brave and daring mission to take down a monster that had been stalking the woods of Wisconsin. There was even a rumor of dynamite being needed to finish the thing off. As much fun as the prank was, the hype eventually died down and things went more or less back to normal for everyone. They’d all had their fun, gotten a few laughs and made the papers, but Eugene wasn’t done. Three years later, in 1896, he would once again grab headlines, this time nationwide, when he reported that he’d caught a hodag alive. The beast was supposedly locked in the shed near his house, caged and secured. He was even offering the public a chance to glimpse the creature for a fee. People came from far and wide, and he told them all how he’d tracked the hodag to its den, sealing it behind some large rocks before going for the help of another group of men. When they had enough help, they doused a sponge in chloroform, attaching it to the end of a pole and easing the pole into a small opening in the den until it was close enough for the fumes to knock the creature unconscious. Removing the rocks, the men loaded the hodag into a wagon and brought it to Eugene’s shed where it was locked away. After telling the captivated crowd this story, he would lead them back and give each person a chance to peer through a hole in the wall and see the monster. The thing would even move about and make noises, seemingly agitated when the crowd grew too loud. As the news traveled around the country, it caught the eye of several in the scientific community and other interested parties who began asking for a closer look. These individuals could only be held at bay for so long, and eventually Eugene had to come clean and admit he’d hoaxed the whole thing. In reality, he’d created another facsimile and enlisted his sons to help make the thing move and add some noises of their own to the mix. While some people were understandably upset at being lied to, the town of Rhinelander, Wisconsin, where Eugene lived, saw the publicity as an opportunity. Over the next few decades, the town would embrace the legend and the hoax, building it into their towns story and eventually erecting a statue of the hodag in front of their visitor center. For Eugene’s part, he would spend the next couple of decades continuing his land surveys and opening a resort in Rhineland before passing away in 1923. Gas Stop It’s kind of funny when you think about how a hoax could be the basis for a booming tourism industry, but that’s exactly what the hodag is. The legend itself was around before Eugene Shephard, but it was kind of a local thing and limited mostly to loggers as one of the many stories they would tell. The legend tied into the story of Paul Bunyon in a way, focusing on an ox. One version involves the ox wandering away from camp, and another tells of what happens when the ox dies. From The Republican, a newspaper based in Wauseon, Ohio, the best story I found on the origins of the hodag was written in the November 15, 1929 edition: “Once upon a time there was an ox which had led an unusually hard life at the hands of his various drivers up in the north woods of Wisconsin. Among lumberjacks it is believed that the hide of an ox is invulnerable to everything but the profanity of its drivers. When the animal dies, its customary burial ceremony is cremation, and it requires seven years of continuous fire to reduce to ashes all the profanity which had accumulated in its body during its lifetime. So when this particular ox died, a brush fire was built around its body and kept going for seven years to obliterate all the curses which had been heaped upon it in English, French, Irish, Scandinavian and German while it had toiled in the lumber camps. At the end of the seventh year the fire was allowed to die down but instead of there being left no trace of the ox, out of the heap of ashes, there rose, phoenix-like, a fearsome creature, such as is pictured above, which exhaled an obnoxious odor and the swish of whose tail made the earth tremble.” That beast wouldn’t be one you’d want to run into in the middle of the woods, day or night. My guess is that the tale itself was probably more of a warning about treating the animals around camp with respect. Oxen, and later on horses, carried a lot of the load in lumber camps, and they needed to be treated right because replacing them was difficult and no man wanted to have to pull logs and equipment around on his own. Well, no man except maybe Paul Bunyon. I mentioned him a minute ago, and while he is only loosely tied to the story of the hodag, he was an idol among lumberjacks. There’s not really any proof he existed as a real person, though it wouldn’t be completely out of the realm of possibility that a large man could have been the basis for the legend. A lot of you out there probably envision someone like a giant when you hear the name Paul Bunyon, but in actuality he was reported to have been closer to 8 feet tall and 300 pounds. While that may be well above average, especially for the mid to late 19th century, the tallest man ever recorded was 8 foot 11 inches tall and someone being over 7 feet tall isn’t really unheard of. But the fun of Paul Bunyon was in the tales of him and his lumber camp. It was said that he ruled with an iron fist over as many as 3000 men at his largest lumber camp. They said his yell broke the branches off trees and he was a heavy smoker, smoking a bushel of tobacco at a time out of a giant pipe. My favorite tale that I found of his camp involved running out of beans. It was the middle of the winter, and the camp was dealing with the biggest snowfall anyone had ever seen. The camp cook braved the cold weather and deep snow alongside a giant blue ox, presumably the same big blue ox known as Paul Bunyon’s side-kick babe, and made his way to the nearest town to get more beans to feed the men. The trip was over 100 miles one way, and they had to cross a frozen river and lake both going and coming back. It was on the trip back when trouble set in, with the spring thaw apparently happening in a matter of hours with the temperature going from well below freezing to nearly a hundred degrees. That dramatic change would have been bad enough, but the cook and the ox just happened to be in the middle of the lake when it thawed and they both plunged below the surface. Thankfully for the cook, the ox was large enough that he could stand on its head and keep himself just above water. He’d be stranded there until at least nightfall when Paul Bunyon would show up and save him. You’d think that would be the end of it, but old Paul wasn’t thrilled at the loss of what was supposed to be the camp’s main source of food. The loggers, unsurprisingly, refused to work without something to eat and Paul needed a plan before things got out of hand. Thinking quick, he had his men dam up the little river that flowed out of the lake and then build campfires all around the now thawed body of water. It might’ve seemed pointless, but apparently it was enough to get the lake boiling and cook the beans, along with the remains of babe. For the rest of the summer, the cook would feed the men hot soup from the lake and the camp was saved for another year. Part of me feels like some of the 19th century lumberjacks might’ve been decent authors had they been born in a different time or place. The Last Mile So we’ve talked about the hodag, and jumped into the legend of Paul Bunyon. That’s the kind of stuff you can expect with season 2 of The Long Way Home. I’ve got a ton of Legends and Tales to dive into, as well as some other just random stuff that’ll come as we move along the road, and I hope you’ll stick around for future trips. Like I said at the beginning, my goal for this season is to focus on stories and the kinds of things I’d like to hear when out driving late at night, or even as something to listen to while cooking, cleaning or playing games. I think the world has been spinning so much faster than it used to in recent years, and taking some time to slow down and just share some really cool stories is just what we all could use a little more of. Make sure you’re following me on whatever platform you might be listening on so you don’t miss new episodes as they drop, and check out my books on Amazon or joshbearheartlegendsandtales.com. I want to thank you all for listening and I’ll see you on the next road trip!

Hospitals for children should not exist. I should probably explain a bit more than that though. A person who has not even experienced life, who’s never had their first love, never fallen behind on their mortgage and all the other good and bad experiences life has to offer shouldn’t have to face death. That anyone could imagine a world where innocents suffer is beyond comprehension, and if there is a being that allows all the suffering, I only hope I get to face them one day. See, it’s my job to ferry their souls. I’ll never forget the first one. She was only 4, and her parents were inconsolable as she lay taking her final breaths. I’d been hovering for weeks, waiting on the day to come. The doctors and nurses had been in and out, running tests and doing everything in their power, but there was never truly any hope. I didn’t want this assignment either, it was forced on me by my boss. At first, I thought it was a joke of some kind, that he was just getting me back for the prank I’d pulled on him the year prior. No one wants this kind of job, but someone has to do it. I only have to focus on one area, and there’s only a couple of hospitals where I spend the majority of my time. I’m not allowed to set foot outside the walls of these places, but there’s enough going on within to keep me busy most days. I wander the halls, peeking into rooms where families wait, hoping beyond hope their child will be able to leave. And many do get to walk out. Some leave after a few days, never needing to return, some recover in a few weeks or months. The rest are the ones I watch closely. I never know when their moment is. People think there is some kind of schedule or date they are destined to die, but in reality it’s all random chance. There’s been a few over the decades that I thought were doomed, only to see them get better. There’s also been more than there should have been that appeared to be recovering, only to take a turn and close their eyes for the final time. You might wonder what it’s like to die. I can’t honestly answer that question, as I’ve never died, but I can provide some idea based on my observations of those I’ve ferried. Most of them take some time to fully realize what’s happened. They look around the room, some try to interact with their loved ones who are sitting there crying. The worst ones for me are the young children, usually those under 10, who will try to hug their parents and get their attention, not realizing it’s their body laying just feet away. Fear usually takes over when they first see me. I’m not exactly the nicest-looking being. I have to comfort them, tell them it’s going to be OK. Sometimes they run, not realizing there is nowhere to go. The soul can’t exist very far from where the body died. It’s tethered to the location in some way. They hit the limit, most often just down the hallway from their room, and they’re snapped right back to where they started. This isn’t unique to children, even adults fall apart when they realize their life is really over. I’ve seen some of the most religious people you can think of fall to the ground and cry for hours. People who had spoken to their family only minutes prior about how they were ready to leave, afraid of what comes after when it’s actually time to pay the piper. Through all of this, I wait. I’ve got all the time in the universe, after all, so I wait for them to come to grips with what’s happened. Sometimes, I even ferry other souls as those who weren’t ready figure out this is real. When I’m not actively helping someone, I spend a lot of time walking the halls of the buildings that act as my prison. I know this particular assignment is only temporary, though that term is a lot different for me than it is for mortals. I was given the job the day the first hospital went up, and I’ll be here until the walls are crumbling. Yes, there will be souls still here long after the buildings cease operation. I know of others like me, wandering the halls of buildings long since abandoned. They wait for the souls of those who still cannot accept what’s happened. It’s our job, after all. So, why share this? Why reveal myself now? Because something’s happening, something I can’t explain and I don’t know what to do about it. The number of souls I’ve had to ferry over the past few months has increased, nearly doubling. I’ve been trying to find a common thread, but I keep coming up short. And it’s not just children you know are going to die, it’s those who seem perfectly healthy, in for routine checkups or broken bones. They’ll come in, seemingly alright, and within hours they’re being admitted and dying. My first thought was some kind of disease, but the doctors and nurses haven’t been able to pinpoint anything. The children themselves aren’t much help either. I’ve asked several of them if they remember anything odd, but none can point to anything in particular. So far, the only common, or at least seemingly common theme seems to be related to the time they arrive. Most of them seem to be initially arriving early in the afternoon, and only on certain days of the week. They are registered and see the nurse, with no problems. It’s only after they see the doctor that the issues seem to arise. I’ve tried to follow some of them around, waiting in the lobby for new arrivals and keeping up with them as they go through the process, but I do have others to keep an eye on and I find myself called to the rooms of those who’ve slipped away more often than not. By the time I return to the child I was following, they’ve either been released or it’s too late. The worst part of it is that there is never a cause of death mentioned. I do my best to follow up, visiting the morgue and glancing at what paperwork I can, but it’s always listed as ‘undetermined’. Now that I think of it, most of the ones I’ve checked might even have the same doctor listed, but that could just be a coincidence. After all, the doctor who signs the death certificate isn’t necessarily the doctor they saw when they arrived. I feel so helpless in this situation. I can’t really do anything, and even if I figure it out, it’s not like I can tell anyone. Well, anyone alive. If it is a doctor doing it, I can only hope they are caught before it’s too late. I’ve ferried those who were killed in the past, and it’s never something I do willingly. When they know their life has been ‘cut short’ it’s much harder to convince them to come with me. They don’t understand that sticking around isn’t really an option, at least not as a way to get retribution. There’s one child here, even now, that was murdered by someone he knew. I’ve spent years trying to get him to move on, but he refuses to go. He thinks his parents let it happen, and even when I told him the man was caught and killed for his crime it didn't help. Several of these recent cases have been the same, even as I try to explain they likely weren’t killed. They refuse to leave and I’m running out of options. If something doesn’t give soon, I’m afraid the hospital is going to be overrun with souls, and a place like this should never have more dead than living.