The Black Dog of West Peak

BOASTING THE HIGHEST elevations within twenty-five miles of the Atlantic coast south of Maine, the ancient lava flows known as the Hanging Hills rise steep and dark behind the city of Meriden, casting the old silver-making center into perpetual afternoon gloom. For years, the three distinct mountains in the range have provided hikers with the most challenging trails in central Connecticut, while the summit of West Peak, the most westerly of the hills, rising more than a thousand feet above sea level, has long been a mecca for lovers of panoramic vistas. Picnickers and campers have been attracted by the region's deep gorges and clear waters, like those of beautiful Lake Merimere, and, drawn by strange rock outcroppings, unusual geological formations and varied mineral deposits, geologists, too, have found this craggy country a profitable place for exploration and study.
However, such somber names of local geographical features as Black Pond, Misery Brook and Lamentation Mountain give some hint of the troubling shadow that has darkened the Hanging Hills for as long as people can remember. For death, often sudden and violent but almost always "accidental" -- has periodically stalked these mountains, touching victims in such alarming numbers that it has made the local folk wonder. Even in recent years, when a new name has been added to the casualty list, old-timers around the area tend to shake their heads knowingly. "It's the dog, again," they say. "The poor devil must have seen the Black Dog once too often." Then the haunting legend of The Black Dog of West Peak will be told and retold, much as it was generations ago, much as it will be, no doubt, generations hence.
Over a very long period of time, they say, many who have visited the Hanging Hills have seen the dog: a short-haired, sad-eyed, rather nondescript beast of vague spaniel ancestry. One man who had encountered the dog while hiking in the West Peak area described his color as not exactly black, but more like that of "an old hat which has been soaked in the rain a good many times." With his wagging tail and friendly ways, the little fellow could hardly be distinguished from a thousand others like him -- except for three extraordinary things. No matter whether he has been observed in the snow of winter or the dust of summer, he has left no footprints; and though he has frequently been seen to throw back his head and bark vigorously, no sound has ever been heard. But last and foremost, it is said of him, "If a man shall meet the Black Dog once, it shall be for joy; and if twice, it shall be for sorrow; and the third time, he shall die."
While at least a half-dozen deaths have been attributed by the folk living under the Hanging Hills to third meetings with the Black Dog, the most authentic stories about the fabulous creature were told by one W. H. C. Pynchon and published in the April-June, 1898 issue of Connecticut Quarterly. A geologist from New York who had come to the mountains around Meriden to examine the unusually accessible rock formations, Pynchon did more than anyone else to confirm and perpetuate the legend of The Black Dog of West Peak, which was apparently already a part of tradition long before his arrival on the scene. His account is well-remembered, even today.
On a beautiful spring morning, Pynchon said, he set out with a horse and buggy on the rough, dirt road that wound along past Lake Merimere to the summit of West Peak. Just as he reached the end of the lake, he noticed beside the road a great outcropping of gray rocks. He reined in his horse, got down from the wagon seat and began to examine the odd formation. It was there that he first saw the dog, standing atop the highest boulder, wagging his tail and appearing friendly in every way. When Pynchon was again ready to continue his journey, he was not displeased to find that the small black dog had decided to accompany him, trotting along behind the buggy as the geologist made his way over West Peak and then down the other side of the mountain into Southington. It was, thought Pynchon, a pleasure to have such a fine companion, as he drove through the lonely woods on that lovely day.
After taking a leisurely lunch at the tavern in Southington, Pynchon was surprised to see his little canine companion waiting patiently for him beside the buggy. As the New Yorker made his way back toward Meriden over the same route he had followed that morning, stopping occasionally to examine interesting geological features, the dog continued padding along behind or sitting quietly nearby during the scientist's rock stops. Finally, just at dusk, they reached the odd gray formation where the geologist had first picked up his companion for the day. Looking behind for his good friend, Pynchon only managed to see a shadow disappearing into the darkening woods beside Lake Merimere. Though he whistled and called for a time, he would see the black dog no more that day.
It would be several years before Pynchon once more returned to Meriden. When he did, he brought with him a close friend, another geologist, to share his studies and his delight in the natural wonders of the Hanging Hills. No stranger to the area, Pynchon's colleague had scaled West Peak many times before and looked forward to seeing once more the mountainous country he loved so well. However, Pynchon remembered that on the night before their West Peak climb, as they sat before a roaring fire in their Meriden lodging place, his friend had told him of seeing a strange little dog on two of his previous visits to the Hanging Hills. The New Yorker immediately knew from his companion's description that this must have been the same animal which had befriended him on his earlier excursion over West Peak.
When the two men began their ascent of West Peak the next day, the sun was bright but the air was cold; and since it was February, ice and snow still covered the ground. They chose to climb through a gap between two great cliffs below the summit, a route made difficult in many places by the slippery footing and the chill winds gusting through the cleft. As they moved upward, Pynchon said, he was struck by the drama of black, volcanic rock pinnacles sticking up through the snow. Since the gap through which they were climbing was always dark, even on the sunniest days, Pynchon recalled that somehow the words of the Twenty-third Psalm crossed his mind -- Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death -- and a shiver not entirely related to the chilly weather ran through his body.
As the climbers approached the top of West Peak, they stopped to rest briefly before attempting the last leg of their ascent. Then, looking up toward the summit to gauge the distance they had yet to go, they saw him, the same small black dog each had met before, standing on the highest ledge, wagging his tail -- and barking noiselessly. Anxious to greet their little friend, the geologists began their last push to the top, too carelessly, perhaps, in the case of Pynchon's colleague. Suddenly and quite unexpectedly, he lost his footing on the ice-covered rocks just below the summit. Before Pynchon could grab him, he was gone, sliding and smashing against the side of the cliff, to his death on the rock pinnacles hundreds of feet below. Once more the prophecy had been fulfilled: it was the third time the hapless victim had seen the Black Dog and the second time for Pynchon, who was, of course, filled with sorrow at the loss of his companion.
Although that ended Pynchon's account in the Connecticut Quarterly, it wasn't quite the end of Pynchon's story. Apparently undeterred by his friend's accident and his knowledge of the Black Dog's curse, the New York geologist made a final visit to Meriden, to retrace, it is said, the exact same route he had followed with his late friend. Someone else had to write the conclusion of Pynchon's story, because this climb would be his last. It ended when he plunged hundreds of feet to his death, landing in approximately the same spot where his friend had landed on that fatal day in February, a few years earlier. Had he seen the Black Dog? No one will ever know, of course, but for W. H. C. Pynchon, the fifth person within twenty-five years to lose his life among the crags and cliffs of the Hanging Hills, it would have been a third time.
The legend of The Black Dog of West Peak did not end with the death of geologist Pynchon by any matter of means. Over the years, many hikers in the region of West Peak and Lake Merimere have reported seeing the friendly little animal who leaves no footprints and barks without sound. Each sighting, they say, has been followed by great joy or great sorrow, even as the prophecy decrees. And each time some unfortunate soul suffers a fatal fall from the cliffs of West Peak -- as did an experienced young alpine climber on Thanksgiving Day in 1972 -- old-timers again shake their heads and repeat the ancient litany: once, it shall be for joy; twice it shall be for sorrow; and the third time, he shall die.

Note: It has recently been pointed out to us that W. H. C. Pynchon in fact died in Oyster Bay, Long Island in 1910, not in Meriden in the 1800s.

from Legendary Connecticut by David E. Philips / ISBN 1-880684-05-5 / $17.95

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