For years, a chilling scream echoing from the depths of the woods sent shivers down my spine. Like many, I instinctively attributed this eerie cry to the fisher, often mistakenly called the “fisher cat.” It was common knowledge, a local legend passed down through generations: fishers scream. Though rarely witnessed, it was an accepted truth about this elusive woodland creature.
My first encounter with the fisher’s supposed scream dates back to childhood, perched high in a friend’s treehouse. He recounted a tale of a classmate’s cat vanishing, blaming a fisher and its banshee-like shriek. These vivid images stuck with me, fueling our imaginations with gruesome scenarios of the cat’s demise and instilling a fear of the hammock hanging precariously in the treehouse corner, deemed a haven for earwigs ready to invade our ears and brains. Childhood, however, is often a breeding ground for delightful inaccuracies.
From that day forward, any unsettling scream emanating from the woods – what I believed to be a fisher scream – conjured up the image of that unfortunate feline meeting its end. Whether the story was mere schoolyard fabrication was irrelevant. With the unwavering confidence of the misinformed, I perpetuated the myth: “Fishers shriek like banshees.” My passion for trail cameras, a hobby born from a desire to understand the unseen inhabitants of the woods, seemed to confirm this. I’d hear a bloodcurdling cry, and later, find nocturnal images of a fisher on my camera’s memory card – the pieces seemed to fit perfectly.
Then, curiosity led me down an internet rabbit hole dedicated to fishers. Intrigued by reports of fishers in Maine preying on Canada lynx, despite their significant size difference, I sought to learn more. These relatively small creatures, akin to miniature wolverines and weighing around twelve pounds at most, were described as meticulously dissecting lynx carcasses, sometimes even decapitating them, and strategically hiding portions for future meals. The childhood question, “which part of the cat would the fisher eat first?”, resurfaced with a morbid relevance.
However, as I navigated link after link, a stark realization dawned: my knowledge of fishers was woefully inadequate. The one “fact” I held as truth – the screaming – began to unravel as a myth. The chilling screams I attributed to fishers were, in all likelihood, the vocalizations of red foxes. Mass Audubon’s website explicitly states that 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 washed over me, but a National Geographic video echoed this very distinction. The video documented a camera crew visiting a Vermont resident who insisted on hearing fisher screams. In an attempt to identify the sound, the host played various animal vocalizations through a speaker in the woods. Barn owl, bobcat, hare, and then a red fox – to which the woman responded, “That’s either a fisher or a red fox.” The host clarified that the sound was indeed a fox, not a fisher, emphasizing that none of the scientists consulted had ever witnessed, heard, or confirmed a fisher screaming. Despite the expert opinion, the woman remained respectfully skeptical. While acknowledging the expertise, she asserted, “there are a lot of Vermonters that have heard fishers,” expressing disbelief that so many people with deep woods experience could be wrong.
Thoreau, in Walden, eloquently describes the dynamic between scientific knowledge and the wisdom of those intimately connected with nature, such as 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.” However, when science challenges deeply held beliefs, when it refutes what was considered truth, the natural human inclination is to resist, to perhaps even close our ears to the new information.
Weeks later, the reality that fishers probably don’t scream has settled in, yet questions linger. How do myths like the fisher’s scream originate and propagate? How could so many – my childhood friend, neighbors, the Vermont woman, and myself – be so mistaken? And why the persistent misnomer, “fisher cat”?
I tackled the simpler question first: why “fisher cat”? And even, why “fisher” at all? Defenders of Wildlife explains that “Fishers eat snowshoe hares, rabbits, rodents and birds, and are one of the few specialized predators of porcupines. Fishers are effective hunters, but are also known to eat insects, nuts, and berries when prey is not available.” In short, they are not piscivores; they don’t eat fish. Otters, however, do, and fishers bear a superficial resemblance to otters. Could this be the root of the “fisher” name?
A more plausible explanation links the fisher’s name to the European polecat. The polecat, also known as a ferret, was historically called “fitchet,” “fitch ferret,” or “fitchew.” When early American settlers encountered the fisher, they likely applied these familiar names. Over time, through linguistic evolution, it may have transformed into “fisher.” As for the “cat” designation, a common theory suggests it stems from both fishers and cats’ ability to climb trees. However, given the inaccuracies surrounding fishers, perhaps we should approach “popular explanations” with caution.
Regarding the scream, my hypothesis is this: fishers are reclusive creatures, yet we know they inhabit our backyards, even venturing into urban areas like the Bronx. Lacking frequent visual confirmation, we seek other evidence of their presence. An ambiguous, disembodied shriek perfectly fits this need for validation. Furthermore, fishers possess a certain appearance that aligns with the myth. Images of fishers with mouths open and teeth bared can easily evoke the imagined scream.
The fisher’s elusive nature allows for its mythologization. A quick Google search for “fisher cat scream” (embracing both the misnomer and misinformation) yields results like: it sounds like a woman being murdered; it’s an omen of impending doom; be vigilant with small dogs. One article, titled “Beware the Fisher,” warns, “You can hide your children and lock up your pets, but even then all may be lost. For there is no stopping the fisher!” Regarding the screams, the author compares the fisher 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 comments section of this article is particularly animated. Some readers refute the fisher’s negative reputation, while others caution pet owners who underestimate these “vicious killers” with “dracula teeth.” Another article, “The Fisher: Elusive, Fast and a Porcupine’s Worst Nightmare,” sparks similar debates. Reiterations and rebuttals of the same rumors are easily found, perpetuating the cycle.
Fishers are often portrayed as harbingers of suburban terror – and while they are indeed formidable predators – encountering one reveals a surprisingly small animal with a peculiar trot, quick to disappear back into the shadows.
As I grapple with the demystification of the fisher, larger questions emerge. What fuels this innate desire to understand? Why obsess over whether or not fishers scream – a detail seemingly irrelevant to our daily lives? Why invest time in secondhand witnessing, through motion-sensing cameras, the unseen occurrences in the woods? While mystery has its place in our backyards, my efforts to unravel the fisher’s scream myth seem to contradict a desire for the unknown.
Perhaps “mystery” is not the accurate term. The fisher’s scream was never a true mystery, but rather a widely accepted belief, “practically or instinctively known,” as Thoreau phrased it, despite lacking concrete evidence. A “true humanity.” Maybe “anomaly” is a better descriptor. Perhaps we are driven by an inherent, insatiable thirst for knowledge. “Curiosity killed the cat,” the cliché reminds us – and apologies for the repeated cat references – but does it also extinguish the wonder? In the pursuit of discovery, do we risk dismantling our “true humanity”?
Or perhaps our yearning to understand our animal neighbors stems from the same impulse that drives our human interactions. We seek connection, a sense of belonging within the worlds of those we share our space with, a desire to share our own world in return. Is this a misplaced desire when directed towards animals? Does a lack of interspecies neighborliness feel like a snub, our friendly gestures unreciprocated? If so, it shouldn’t. Squirrels at bird feeders aren’t seeking companionship; they are seeking birdseed.
As with human relationships, there’s a fear of familiarity breeding indifference. How many deer sightings before a deer becomes “just another deer”? Is it childish to maintain excitement at seeing deer regularly? Is such childlike wonder a negative trait in this context? Does a point arrive when there’s nothing left to discover, nothing left to be excited about?
Seeking answers, I turned to my bookshelf.
In his 1968 essay, “A Native Hill,” Wendell Berry recounts leaving New York City for Kentucky, specifically, “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 was leaving behind, Berry worried about what he was returning to, questioning if “I already knew this place as well as I ever would.”
This fear proved unfounded. “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, a simple adjustment in perspective, a refocusing of the lens, is all that’s needed. In Berry’s case, he “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.”
Complementing this, the joy of spontaneity counters the potential for staleness arising from deep familiarity with a place. A fox crosses the yard. Snowfall on a branch glitters in the sunlight and breeze. A woodpecker begins its work outside the window. The yard, the branch, the view from the window – all familiar backdrops in a theater of delightful unpredictability.
John McPhee, in a New Yorker piece, expresses a similar, somewhat whimsical desire. He writes, “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.” Despite an estimated 2,500 bears in New Jersey, where McPhee resides, and sightings in every county, the odds of a backyard bear encounter remained slim. (Spoiler: McPhee’s wife, Yolanda Whitman, eventually spots a bear from their living room.) “Quixotic” is indeed the apt descriptor. Our most whimsical hopes often inject the most interest into our lives.
Since accepting the silence of the fisher scream, my own quixotic hope became witnessing this very phenomenon. Logically, I knew it wouldn’t happen, yet the desire persisted. I pictured looking up into a tree, spotting a fisher, and that fisher, upon seeing me, unleashing a scream. The very unlikelihood fueled the fascination – the image of this elusive, shadowy predator shrieking from the treetops.
Writing it out, it sounds absurd. But if such ridiculous hopes and asininity maintain my curiosity, I embrace them. This isn’t to say they are essential for curiosity; quite the opposite. Focusing on the present reality, studying the tree itself, for example, instead of fantasizing about a screaming fisher within it, would be far more beneficial. Channeling Wendell Berry’s approach: What is the tree’s name? How old might it be? How tall?
Returning to Walden, Thoreau explains how philosophers and poets often approach nature “with expectation,” thereby limiting their perception. They project their preconceived notions onto nature, often leaving with unmet expectations. To truly embrace the unexpected – which is, perhaps, the true essence of discovery – one must shed these expectations. Those who approach nature without preconceptions find nature “not afraid to exhibit herself to them.” Yolanda Whitman, bear-less expectations in her living room, comes to mind.
During my determined, albeit biased, search for confirmation, I did stumble upon videos purporting to capture fisher cat screams. One video featured a young, possibly injured fisher; another, a fisher at a Humane Society in Cape Cod. Both animals were undeniably vocalizing, producing screams. While the sounds didn’t perfectly align with my preconceived notion, they introduced a sliver of doubt, preventing complete certainty. Roland Kays, who conducted extensive research on fishers, including their alleged screams, aptly summarized the situation with the maxim “an absence of evidence is not evidence of absence.”
Whether the screams I’ve heard were fishers or foxes remains inconclusive. And in a way, this uncertainty is a win. As long as the question lingers, it remains, in Berry’s words, “inexhaustible.” Logic points to foxes; Thoreau’s “true humanity” leans towards fishers. Arguments can be made for both. Just as frequently as a fisher appears on my trail camera, so does a fox – sometimes a fleeting blur of a bushy tail disappearing behind a tree, or an overzealous close-up resulting in a washed-out silhouette of large ears and a whiskered snout.
My journey into the fisher scream myth has led me to a broader realization, one that transcends fishers themselves. My explorations are physically bounded by stone walls and “No Trespassing” signs. Yet, my backyard – all of our backyards – perpetually offer the unexpected. Physical boundaries do not limit intellectual inquiry, and anything, from the way poison ivy vines intertwine around a tree trunk to a woodland shriek – fox or fisher – can serve as an invitation to those open to the wonders of the unknown.
