Hunting 19th Century Giant River Serpents

or 'The Battle of Tittabawassee'

The early days of sea serpent battles were raucous. If one could believe what they read in the press, the bloody-thirsty creatures were seemingly everywhere. Indignant citizens were constantly lobbying local authorities to rid their watering holes of the menace.

The June 4th, 1891 edition of the Cheboygan Democrat outlines one such saga, recounting the details of one village’s epic fight to defeat the “Northern Michigan Sea Serpent.”

It all started over some missing pigs. Mr. Edgar Lanphear’s free-range swine were suspiciously disappearing night after night. Intending to either “nail the thief or bust a suspender,” the upset farmer set out to catch the culprit in the act, and stood guard over his flock with a shotgun.

In what should have been an obvious tip-off, he failed to notice that a “pine log painted black moving along the ground” was actually a large snake slinking toward his herd.

Before he could stop it, the serpent “gathered up a porker and glided away” towards the Tittabawassee River—a winding body of water situated on the eastside of Michigan.

This turn of events understandably disturbed Mr. Lanphear, and he sought revenge for his fallen sow with the help of a detachment of infantrymen located nearby.

The Tittabawassee River flows southeast before joining forces with other tributaries of Lake Huron. Its outlet into Saginaw Bay was a notorious hotspot for serpent sightings over the years, and the location makes a believable entry point for a creature to journey into the state’s interior.

Acting on a tip from a group who had recently spotted the swine-stealing beast in a feeder-river, the armed men lined the nearest bridge and waited for their chance to level the approaching serpent.

The Democrat described the ensuing chaos:

“One hundred muskets and revolvers belched forth their fiery breath and 100 leaden messengers of death sped on their way and hustled across the calm water. The snake merely wiggled his tail and with a glance of scorn shot beneath the bridge and away.”

We can smell the gunpowder.

The show of force did little harm to the bacon-loving adversary, and the serpent—thought to be the same one creating “a commotion in Saginaw river towns last season”—escaped down river with its life.

Not willing to be out-maneuvered by a cold-blooded animal, the group sent word to an outfit of militia-men in the next town over. Their request was simple: “Call out militia and cannon ... There’s the big snake coming down the river. Shoot him.”

Determined to conquer the beast, Captain Moore of the Edenville militia shoved 24-pounds worth of “nails, railroad spikes, horseshoes and two rusty scythes” into his cannon.

The resulting shot connected with its intended target, thus mortally wounding the “terrible reptile” and turning the river “red with his blood.”

Locals gave the fallen behemoth’s staggering dimensions: “33 feet, 7 ½ inches long; 17 inches between the eyes; 11 feet 5 inches around and with a lower jaw 4 feet 2 inches long.”

The catch was labeled “one of the greatest scientific discoveries of the age,” and the monster’s skin was reportedly sent to the Detroit International Exposition for display. No further information on its whereabouts could be located.

The Isabella County Enterprise later corroborated the story of Gladwin’s “terrible sea serpent,” noting that it was 33 feet long but only “two feet around the head.” Their article lacked the harrowing details shared by other outlets and undersold the humongous serpent as just “an uncommon snake.”

In fact, the press’ main concern was for the area’s summertime traffic—without a sea serpent to attract vacationers, the editor supposed that “those northern Michigan beach resorts might as well go out of business.”

Ultimately, their fears were unfounded, as stories about serpents flourished along with the region’s tourism industry.

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