How we feel about cryptids poses an interesting exercise in how we approach the frightening and unusual, which might have some implications about how we connect with each other over our fears.
According to J. W. Ocker’s The United States of Cryptids: A Tour of American Myths and Monsters, a cryptid is “a creature or species whose existence is scientifically unproven.” Bigfoot is probably the most famous American cryptid, though Ocker mentions “lake dinosaurs, monster cats, jet-sized birds, lizard-people, fish-people, wolf-people, moth-people, frog-people, and goat-people” as some of the more prominent garden variety cryptids.
Though we often think of cryptids as monsters, they aren’t necessarily monstrous. An ordinary animal living in the wild where it shouldn’t—like an Amazon river dolphin happily doing the backstroke in Lake Mead—can be considered a cryptid. Still, the archetypal cryptid blends the unusual with the terrifying to catch our attention. A ravening beast with razor claws and the head of an oversized alligator is more notorious than a mildly undersized guinea pig.
Though cryptids can be benevolent, they usually commit mayhem, exsanguinating small animals, clawing up buildings, and spooking pedestrians. And yet they aren’t objects of shame—rather, people are strangely proud of “their” cryptids. Ocker’s book, which chronicles the cryptids claimed by locales in all the 50 states, banks on this “local hero” reputation, organizing the book not by cryptid chronology or type, but by state.
Whether we’re staking out a hotspot with a camera or celebrating at a festival, cryptids have a way of bringing a community together, of boosting a shared identity. And cryptids are big money. Ocker cites a study reporting that cryptotourism generates as much as $140 million in the United States. You can support your local cryptid by visiting a museum, chugging a craft brew, or taking an after-hours walking tour with the hope of actually spotting the creature. No matter what, you are guaranteed an experience.
And cryptid bonding runs deep. I grew up just beyond the natural range of the Jersey Devil, and as I kid I read and re-read James F. McGloy and Ray Miller, Jr.’s The Jersey Devil, old enough to understand the words but too young to appreciate that the legend was more about hype than history. Sure, Mrs. Leeds’ thirteenth child hadn’t been seen for decades, but it could still be out there, right? Though the book made an impression, I might have been better off with a copy of John McPhee’s The Pine Barrens, which artfully described the vanishing lifeway of “Pineys” as it stood around the time McGloy and Miller were sensationalizing the Jersey Devil. Still, when I first spied Ocker’s tome, the first thing I did was hunt for the Jersey Devil to make sure “my” cryptid was given his just due.
Southern Nevada isn’t notorious for a cryptid along the lines of a Mothman or Fresno Nightcrawler, but I’d suggest that two local institutions share the horror fascination that we feel with cryptids, one historic and one still extant.
Atomic tourism was at its height in Las Vegas from 1951 to 1962, when about 100 atmospheric atomic blasts at the Nevada Test Site provided brilliant pyrotechnics and rattled roulette wheels on the Strip. At first indignant and terrified at the thought of city-leveling bombs being detonated in their vicinity, after Las Vegans noted that the tests coincided with a bump in tourist visitation, they hopped on board. Atomic cocktails, weddings timed to coincide with the blasts, all-night watch parties—the Bomb was big business in Las Vegas for over a decade, and a point of pride.
After above-ground testing stopped and atomic testing lost its luster, Area 51—and its ubiquitous gray aliens—became a nationally-notorious center for speculation about alien life on Earth. Indeed, the grays became the closest thing Las Vegas has had to a civic cryptid—remember when the Aviators were the 51s?
What I find notable about cryptids is that they are simultaneously terrifying and endearing. A walking pair of pants sounds kind of goofy, but it’s also scary when you think that something so not human might be able to confidently stride across a backyard. From the skunk ape of the Florida Everglades to the indescribable Hodag of Rhinelander, Wisconsin, even the least photogenic cryptids have a homey charisma. Adopting them as our own might make the truly terrifying a bit less so, giving us a way of taming the unknown. Considering the thought that alien intelligences may be visiting our planet, abducting humans, mutilating cattle, or scoping out feeding grounds for their Gargon herds is enough to ruin anyone’s day. But put the aliens on a baseball jersey, and they are suddenly not so ominous.
It’s hard to say precisely what deep-seated fear the Loveland (Ohio) Frogman speaks to, but there’s got to be something unsettling about an elementary-school-sized bipedal amphibian. What, on the surface, does it have in common with Arkansas’s wampus cat? They seem different, but aren’t they both manifestations of the usual fauna? Does it maybe tell us that while local manifestations are different, we all share the same fascination with the unproven? Which might explain why cryptids are more than just local heroes—they are a way for out-of-towners to reach out and connect. Just because someone hangs a Jersey Devil wanted poster on their wall doesn’t mean they wouldn’t love to snag a Snallygaster t-shirt from Maryland.
So our fascination with cryptids might be one way for us to reach out to others, to compare and contrast our improbable might-be with theirs, and maybe learn that we aren’t so different. When it comes down to it, what difference does the odd bat wing or antler make, when we’re all just searching for our own unique spin on a universal trend?
I know this is a little outside my usual subject matter, but one of the great things about having my own space to write is that I can change it up when I want to. I’ll probably never write about cryptids again, but getting to explore them has given me some ideas about how important it is for us to be unique—while claiming commonality with others.
So until next time, expect the unexpected, stay informed, and I’ll stay informal.
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