Until recently, the chilling screams echoing from the woods were, in my mind, definitively attributed to fishers, often mistakenly called “fisher cats.” It was common knowledge, a local legend – fishers scream. You might never witness it, but it was accepted as fact.
My introduction to the fisher’s supposed scream happened in elementary school, perched in a friend’s treehouse. He recounted a tale of a classmate’s cat vanishing, blaming a fisher and its banshee-like shrieks. These vivid images took root. We conjured gruesome scenarios of the cat’s demise – which part would the fisher devour first? – and cautiously avoided the hammock in the treehouse corner, convinced it was infested with earwigs ready to invade our brains. We were, unknowingly, wrong about several things that day.
From then on, any woodland scream I heard – what I believed to be a fisher scream – conjured images of that ill-fated cat. Whether the story was mere playground rumor became irrelevant. With the misplaced confidence of the misinformed, I perpetuated the myth: “Fishers shriek like banshees.” My trail camera, a hobby for woodland wildlife observation, often captured fishers. It seemed to fit – eerie cries followed by nighttime photos of the suspected culprit.
A fisher captured by a trail camera at night, often mistaken for the source of unsettling screams in the woods.
Then, curiosity led me down an internet rabbit hole about fishers. I’d stumbled upon information about fishers preying on Canada lynx in Maine, despite their size difference. Intrigued, I delved deeper. Fishers, surprisingly like miniature wolverines, only weigh about twelve pounds maximum, yet they meticulously consume lynxes, sometimes decapitating them, strategically hiding pieces, and extending the meal over days. (The childhood question, “which part of the cat would the fisher eat first?” resurfaced with a new, unsettling relevance.)
As I navigated link after link, my ignorance about fishers became glaringly apparent. The one thing I was sure of – the scream – turned out to be a misconception. The screams I attributed to fishers were likely from foxes. Mass Audubon’s website explicitly states fishers are “pretty quiet creatures… There are also numerous YouTube sites with recordings attributed to screaming fishers, rather than what we believe is the actual vocalist, a red fox.”
Initially, disbelief set in, but a National Geographic video corroborated this distinction. The video team visited a Vermont woman who claimed to hear fisher screams. Experimenting, they played animal sounds in the woods, including a barn owl, bobcat, hare, and red fox. To the fox sound, the woman responded, “That’s either a fisher or a red fox.” The host clarified it was indeed a fox, emphasizing that no scientists he contacted had witnessed, heard, or confirmed fisher screams. Despite the expert opinions, the woman remained respectfully unconvinced. While acknowledging the experts, she insisted, “there are a lot of Vermonters that have heard fishers,” finding it hard to believe so many woods-savvy individuals could be mistaken.
Thoreau, in Walden, discusses the relationship between scientific knowledge and the practical knowledge of those intimately connected with nature, like hunters and fishermen. “We are most interested when science reports what those men already know practically or instinctively, for that alone is a true humanity, or account of human experience.” When science contradicts established local beliefs, it’s tempting to dismiss the findings.
Weeks later, I’ve accepted the likelihood that fishers are silent screamers. But this realization sparked new questions: How do myths like the fisher scream originate? How could so many – my friend, neighbors, the Vermont woman, myself – be so wrong? And why the persistent “fisher cat” misnomer?
I tackled the “fisher cat” question first. Why “fisher cats“? Why “fisher” at all? Defenders of Wildlife explains fishers’ diet: snowshoe hares, rabbits, rodents, birds, and they are specialized predators of porcupines. They also consume insects, nuts, and berries when prey is scarce. Essentially, they aren’t fish eaters. Otters are piscivores, and fishers bear a slight resemblance to otters. Could it be a visual misidentification?
A more probable explanation connects “fisher” to the European polecat. The polecat, known as a ferret, also went by “fitchet,” “fitch ferret,” or “fitchew.” Early American settlers, encountering fishers, applied these familiar names. “Fisher” evolved over time. The “cat” part might stem from both fishers and domestic cats being adept tree climbers. However, perhaps we should question any “popular explanations” regarding fishers.
Regarding the scream, I propose this: Fishers are elusive, yet we know they inhabit our areas, even urban fringes like the Bronx. Lacking visual confirmation, we seek other evidence of their presence. An unsettling, disembodied shriek fits the mysterious creature profile. Furthermore, fishers look like they could produce a bloodcurdling scream. Certain images – mouths open, teeth exposed – reinforce the sound I always imagined.
Fisher shyness allows for myth-making. Searching “fisher cat scream” online (embracing both the misnomer and misinformation) yields results claiming it sounds like a woman being murdered, an omen of misfortune, and a threat to small pets. One article, “Beware the Fisher,” warns of unstoppable fishers, suggesting, “You can hide your children and lock up your pets, but even then all may be lost. For there is no stopping the fisher!” The author likens the supposed scream to “an unearthly tormented specter wandering the woods late at night,” while admitting, “There is no proof that these screams are coming from a fisher.”
The article’s comment section is particularly animated, featuring debates between those debunking the fisher’s bad reputation and those warning pet owners about “vicious killers” with “dracula teeth.” Another article, “The Fisher: Elusive, Fast and a Porcupine’s Worst Nightmare,” shows similar discussions. Rumors and rebuttals about Fisher Cat Noises circulate endlessly.
Fishers are portrayed as suburban harbingers of doom. They are formidable predators, but seeing one reveals their small size, peculiar trot, and fleeting presence.
A fisher captured mid-trot, showing their surprisingly small stature despite their fearsome reputation.
Grappling with the fisher myth debunking, I realized broader themes are at play.
What drives this desire to know? Why fixate on whether fishers scream – inconsequential to daily life? Why observe, through trail cameras, unseen woodland events? Mystery exists in our backyards, but my actions seem to diminish it.
Perhaps “mystery” isn’t accurate. The fisher scream wasn’t a true mystery, but a perceived truth, “practically or instinctively known,” as Thoreau said, lacking real evidence. A “true humanity.” Maybe “anomaly” is better. Perhaps we have an innate desire to maximize our understanding. “Curiosity killed the cat,” the saying goes – apologies for cat references – but does it also diminish joy? Does discovery sometimes risk debunking our “true humanity”?
Or, does our yearning to know animal neighbors mirror our drive to connect with human neighbors? We seek relationships, belonging in shared worlds. Is this desire misplaced with animals? Does neglecting to know our backyard wildlife feel rude? Do we feel rejected when this neighborliness isn’t reciprocated across species, as if our friendly gestures are snubbed? If so, we shouldn’t. Squirrels at feeders aren’t seeking friendship, but birdseed.
Like human relationships, there’s fear of animal fatigue through familiarity. How many deer before they become “just deer”? Is excitement at deer sightings childish when they’re common? Is childishness bad in this context? Is there a point of knowing too much, losing excitement?
I turned to my bookshelf for answers.
Wendell Berry’s 1968 essay, “A Native Hill,” recounts leaving New York City for his Kentucky home, “the few square miles in Kentucky that were mine by inheritance and birth and by the intimacy the mind makes with the place it awakens in.” Beyond what he left behind, Berry worried about returning to a place he already knew “as well as I ever would.”
This proved untrue. “But now I began to see the real abundance and richness of it,” Berry wrote. “It is, I saw, inexhaustible in its history, in the details of its life, in its possibilities.” Sometimes, adjustment is needed – refocusing the lens, reevaluating the search. Berry “began more seriously than ever to learn the names of things—the wild plants and animals, the natural processes, the local places—and to articulate my observations and memories.”
Coupled with this is spontaneity – combating staleness from over-familiarity. A fox crosses the yard. Snow-covered branches sparkle in sunlight and breeze. A woodpecker works outside the window. Familiar yard, branch, view – a known backdrop for unpredictable events.
John McPhee, in a New Yorker piece, expresses a related, unlikely desire. “While I flossed in the morning, looking north through an upstairs bathroom window, I hoped to see a bear come out of the trees. If this seems quixotic, it was.” New Jersey has a substantial bear population – about 2,500 – and sightings occur in every county. Seeing one isn’t guaranteed, but possible. (Spoiler: McPhee’s wife, Yolanda Whitman, eventually sees a bear from their living room.) “Quixotic” is fitting. Unlikely hopes keep things interesting.
Since learning fishers don’t scream, my quixotic hope became witnessing this rumored phenomenon. Knowing it was impossible didn’t stop the desire. I imagined spotting a fisher in a tree, which would look at me and scream. The improbability was the appeal – seeing this elusive predator shrieking from the treetops.
Writing it out, it sounds absurd. But if ridiculous hopes and folly fuel curiosity, I embrace them. This doesn’t mean they’re essential for curiosity – quite the opposite. Focusing on what is present, studying the tree instead of a hypothetical fisher, is better. Channeling Berry: What is the tree’s name? Age? Height?
Returning to Walden, Thoreau describes philosophers and poets approaching nature “with expectation.” This limits their perception. They impose expectations, often unmet. To embrace the unexpected – the real goal – one must avoid this. Those approaching nature without preconceptions find nature “not afraid to exhibit herself to them.” Yolanda Whitman, bear-hope-free in her living room, comes to mind.
In my pursuit of confirmation bias, I did find videos of fishers screaming. One showed a young, possibly injured fisher; another, a fisher at a Humane Society in Cape Cod. Both were undeniably screaming. The sounds weren’t quite “right,” but enough to maintain some uncertainty. Roland Kays, who extensively researched fishers, including alleged screams, summarized it with: “an absence of evidence is not evidence of absence.”
Whether the screams I’ve heard were fishers or foxes remains unconfirmed. This ambiguity is, in a way, ideal. Uncertainty, to borrow Berry’s word again, is “inexhaustible.” Logic points to foxes; Thoreau’s “true humanity” leans towards fishers. Both arguments are plausible. Fishers and foxes appear equally on my trail camera – sometimes a fleeting blur of a fox tail, sometimes a washed-out close-up of fox ears and snout.
A red fox captured by a trail camera, the likely source of woodland screams often misattributed to fisher cats.
My takeaway transcends fishers, though they were the catalyst. My explorations are bounded by stone walls and “No Trespassing” signs. Yet, my backyard – all backyards – perpetually offers the unexpected. Boundaries don’t limit inquiry. Everything, from poison ivy vines to woodland shrieks – fox or fisher – invites those open to the unexpected.
