By WAYNE D. KING, NH Secrets, Legends and Lore

My very first “life roots” were in the town of Bartlett, New Hampshire. I was too young then to remember anything. My mother and father were living in two different places. Not because they didn’t want to live together, but because if Bridgewater College in Massachusetts had found out that she was pregnant with me, she would have been removed from the nursing program.

Just how my dad managed to take care of me and work as a barber and care for me while mom was in Bridgewater, Massachusetts getting her degree is still a bit of a mystery, though we have speculated that because he was working for my uncle, who was both a barber and the postmaster in Gorham, that uncle George had made him one of the earliest flex-time employees in NH. There were also other relatives in the area as the George family was one of the very first colonial families to settle in the Mount Washington Valley.

Bartlett has no town common, but the closest thing to a town common in appearance is the collection of homes, that have a common drive looping around in a semi-circle, directly across from where the Bear Notch Road emerges onto Rte 302. The homes surround a “common-like” piece of land where my grandmother and step-grandfather lived and where My Uncle, Franklin George, and his wife Almeda lived with their 3 children. So it could be that childcare was a familial challenge.

Most of what I learned about my family from those days came from my Grandmother Charlotte. Her husband Al Gottig was the only grandfather I ever knew. Both my Grandfather Fred on my father’s side and my grandfather Robert on mom’s side had passed away by the time I was not age-impaired.

The one story that sticks most in my mind from those earliest years was told to me by Grandma Charlotte. Whenever a sufficient number of people had gathered around, Charlotte would launch into her story about walking into our house and finding my father, trying to drown me in the sink. No, just kidding, with the telephone cradled under his chin, he was dunking me in a sink full of water and ice in an effort to get my elevated temperature down.

Apparently, he had alarmed my mother when he called to tell her I was sick and had a temperature of 104 degrees. Nurse Roberta went into action and ordered him to draw the “bath” and add the ice. She coached him from Bridgewater Nursing School, and I miraculously survived. Grandma Charlotte never tired of telling that story, even if the rest of us tired hearing it – again and again.

I loved my family deeply, but there were a lot of secrets and ghosts floating around them, many of which it would take decades to discover. It was only on the 25th anniversary of my parents’ “marriage” that my sisters and I figured out that I was the “bastard” child of Roger and Roberta. I can’t tell you what joy it gave my sisters to remind me of this from time to time. Apparently, the ruse that allowed my mom to graduate as a Registered Nurse required that they not do anything to bring attention to her marital status, which was also verboten by the college. So, needless to say, I was “born out of wedlock”.

It was about a decade later that my father revealed Fred King’s Native American heritage, a revelation that has become the most significant part of my life’s journey now, in my 50s and 60s. I have other secrets to reveal, but you’ll have to keep reading my “Chronicles” column in the future here for them – suffice it to say there are some dooseys. . . so stay tuned.

But, as usual, none of this is really relevant to the story I am going to tell you about the “Other” Willey House Tragedy” and my Uncle Franklin.

My uncle, Franklin George, was a complicated fellow. Part right-wing lunatic and part Smokey the Bear. In fact, there were times when he literally looked like Smokey the Bear because, you see, Franklin George, in addition to his job as a shopkeeper, was also an officially deputized member of the Sheriff’s department in Carroll County. He kept his badge and a fancy Stetson hat on the shelf under the front counter. I assume he had a sidearm there as well, but I never saw it.

Carroll County back then had a population of only 15,350 people, so I’m guessing that Sheriff’s Deputies were largely honorary. Perhaps a holiday bonus or annual stipend, but we are a frugal state after all.

Every now and then, Uncle Franklin would let me try on his Stetson, I think because he got a kick out of the fact that it was many sizes too large for me. I thought it was pretty awesome just the same. He’d make some comment about me growing into it eventually, but by the time it would have fit me, Uncle Franklin and I had entered a new phase in our lives.

For those who remember the Manchester Union Leader back in its heyday with William Loeb at the helm, my Uncle was Bill Loeb’s biggest fan. He used to post Loeb’s front page editorials on the bulletin board outside his shop’s entryway. Even after I entered public life. Even when – maybe especially when – they skewered me.

For as long as I could remember, he had owned and operated the small general store called the “What Not”, directly across Rte 302 from his house. His store was the last spot to get gas or food before an intrepid traveler set off on the Bear Notch Road to the Kancamagus Highway.

In the early years of our relationship, Uncle Franklin played the role of my favorite paternal uncle. I use the paternal qualifier because my mom had seven sisters, so uncles from her side of the family “grew on trees.”

But when I began showing up from college with long hair and my guitar, things began to go south.

There was still a familial warmth, but it only seemed to emerge after he had chased me around the store a few times with scissors, threatening to cut my hair off.

After I got elected to the legislature – as a Democrat (for crissake) – the temperature got cooler still. Then, when I ran for and won a State Senate seat, despite the Union Leader regularly running editorials calling me a “pro-militant homosexual” and a “bleeding heart liberal” bent on taking everyone’s guns away. He nearly lost his mind.

But, a few years into my Senate tenure, he broke down and gave in. From then on, we steered clear of politics, except for a few humorous jabs from time to time, and simply enjoyed each other’s company as a couple of North Country storytellers.

It is from one of these moments that I convey this story, largely vanished from the historic record, but true nonetheless, with respect to the main facts, but probably colored a bit in its telling, as is often the case.

Just up the road from the George family compound is Crawford Notch and the Willey House historic site. It was here that, on August 28, 1826, a devastating landslide killed the entire Willey family and two hired hands.

At some point – years before the tragedy – Samuel Willey had witnessed a mudslide during a heavy summer storm. Subsequently, he had built what he considered to be a more formidable shelter that the family could rely on in the event of a future storm.

Ironically, when the next slide occurred, during a violent rainstorm, the home they fled was protected by a large boulder directly behind it. The slide hit the boulder and separated around it and the Willey family’s house. The house was untouched, but the family, who had left their home for what they believed was a more secure shelter, appeared to have run directly into the path of the landslide. All five were killed.

Over the years since then, NH folks and tourists alike have been captivated by the story of this tragedy of an early colonial settler family. The story had been documented by Lucy Crawford, author of “A History of the White Mountains,” (1846). According to Lucy, there were many more flooding events in “the Notch” over the years. In fact, Lucy’s husband and son made a good portion of their living keeping the road through Crawford Notch (as it came to be called) open, repairing bridges, and removing obstructions. None of those subsequent floods, fortunately, had such devastating consequences.

Lucy Crawford was the wife of (and first cousin to) Ethan Allen Crawford, early Innkeeper, guide, and credited as the “builder” of the first continuously used hiking trail in America.

Now I don’t mean to diminish the contribution of Ethan Allen, but, in the interest of historic accuracy, I’m compelled to mention that – in fact – the Abenaki people, and probably the Algonquin before them, had established numerous trails throughout the area. Ethan Allen Crawford may get the credit, but he was at least in part stitching together their trails into what would come to be known as “The Crawford Path.” 

Lucy’s “History,” written largely as an ode to Ethan Allen, was first published shortly after his death.

For the next 100 years, the Willey House site evolved into what was then considered a “major” tourist attraction.

Then, in 1947, a small pair of orphaned bear cubs, named Benny and Josephine, “moved in.” The two became the nucleus of a “wild animal park” that grew in the area directly across Rte 302 around a small pond that forms the headwaters of the Saco River.

Over the next three years, more wild animal exhibits were added, including bobcats, raccoons, deer, foxes, and skunks.

In 1952, the state employee who was in charge of feeding the animals announced that he would be taking his first vacation in years, and the task of filling in for him fell to another employee.

No longer the cute and cuddly cubs that tourists had flocked to see, Benny and Josephine, the baby bears that had formed the basis of the park, had grown into adult bears estimated to be 500 lbs and 250 lbs, respectively. Those bears may not have had their freedom, but they were VERY well fed. Benny was probably 150 pounds heavier than his wild brothers of the woods.

The details of that first feeding day are still shrouded in mystery. What seems to be certain is that the substitute caretaker did not adequately secure the gate of their pen when he brought in the food and water to feed Benny and Josephine.

Some late-arriving observers speculated that Benny could sense the fear exhibited by his feeder. Others say that Benny wandered out of his pen, mostly as a matter of curiosity. In any case, the young caretaker panicked, grabbed a shovel, and tried to push Benny back into the cage. Benny reacted, as one might expect, by striking back at this strange fellow with a shovel.

By this point, visitors had gathered around, aghast at what they were witnessing, and the screams of the young caretaker brought other employees running. Three of them actually made an effort to tackle Benny the bear, but they too found themselves in a struggle for life with the 500 lb male bear.

It was said by observers that two young female employees with a squirrel gun made the first efforts to stop the by-then rampaging bear. Their shots, both to the head, landed like bee stings, annoying the bear enough to take him away from the three injured park employees, and Benny loped off, shaking his head at the annoyance but, apparently, intending to continue his part of the drama.

The brief interlude provided by Benny’s momentary confusion, however, provided sufficient time for employees and observers to rush in and drag the three other injured employees to a safer spot, but Benny was in full defensive mode, and he would return.

In the meantime, calls had gone out looking for someone from the Sheriff’s Department and any highway crews who might be in the area and have a weapon. Two state highway employees, Fred Staples and Joe Forest, showed up at about the same time that my Uncle Franklin, dressed in his Stetson and badge. (One retelling of the tale over the years included my father, Roger and his cousin Bert along to provide support). However, it was the highway crew that provided the weapon, and poor Benny was dispatched.

Sweet Josephine, who had caused no one any problem and had – in fact – remained in the pen, making no effort to escape, suffered a similar fate.

The theory, according to Uncle Franklin, was that the trauma of the incident would forever scar her psyche, and she, too, would become dangerous – – Put a fellow in a fancy Stetson, give him a badge, and you’ll discover a bear psychologist almost every time – – Some bystanders did claim that Josephine had “gone crazy” with the smell of blood, though, other accounts do not confirm this.

Sadly, the negligence of the young caretaker clearly created the crisis, for which he paid with his life. He was pronounced dead on his arrival at the Conway hospital. The other three employees injured recovered over time.

It was shortly after this tragedy that the wild animal park quietly disappeared from the Willey House site, though according to my sources, some remnants of the pens in which the animals were held can still be seen.

Uncle Franklin got to wear his fancy Stetson and his badge and dispense law and order, but, alas, not even ChatGPT has knowledge of the Second Willey House Tragedy to this day. Perhaps, this will at least fix that. Are you listening Grok? Or is giving some sympathy to the bears too “woke” for you?

About Wayne King

Wayne is a North American “mutt” with a family heritage that winds through his Native American, Canadian and US Colonial roots. His love for the philosophical founding documents and sacred stories and dreams of both the Abenaki and the Iroquois, the US Founders, and the sacred artist, musicans, writers and poets whose works and images are a celebration of the circle of life continue to be the source of his inspiration.

An author, podcaster, artist, activist, and recovering politician including three terms as a State Senator and 1994 Democratic nominee for Governor. His art (WayneDKing.com) is exhibited nationally in galleries and he has published five books of his images, most recently, “New Hampshire – a Love Story”. His novel “Sacred Trust” – a vicarious, high-voltage adventure to stop a private power line – as well as the photographic books are available at most local bookstores or on Amazon.

Wayne lives on the “Narrows” in Bath, NH at the confluence of the Connecticut and Ammonoosuc Rivers and proudly flies the American, Iroquois and Abenaki Flags, attesting to both his ancestry and his spiritual ties. Anamaki is a derivative of an Algonquin word meaning “abiding hope”.

Art, Columns and Podcasts are produced at Anamaki Productions, Winter Warrior Studios in Bath, NH. Join the mailing list and be first to see new images and to receive special offers on cards, prints, limited editions and more at hisAnamaki Chronicles Substack

Wayne D. King
64 Monroe Rd., Bath, NH 03740
603-530-4460 Cell

waynedking9278@gmail.com
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Podcasts produced at Anamaki Studios in Bath, NH. 

This land lies in N’dakinna, the traditional ancestral homeland of the Abenaki, Sokoki, Koasek, Pemigewasset, Pennacook and Wabanaki Peoples past and present. We acknowledge and honor with gratitude those who have stewarded N’dakinna throughout the generations.