The Winsted Wildman: Connecticut's Classic Bigfoot-Like Cryptid and 1895 Newspaper Hoax Legend

In the rolling hills and dense forests of northwestern Connecticut—surrounding the quaint town of Winsted (a village in the town of Winchester), nestled along the Mad River and Still River in Litchfield County—a hairy, elusive humanoid has lurked in local lore for over a century. Known as the Winsted Wildman, this large, naked creature covered in thick black hair, standing 6-8 feet tall with a muscular build and savage expression, burst into headlines in the summer of 1895, terrifying residents and drawing armed posses into the woods. Described as bounding across roads, leaping fences, and emitting guttural growls while evading capture, the Wildman sparked a media sensation that boosted newspaper sales and tourism. Rooted in a probable hoax by local editor Louis T. Stone but fueled by genuine panic and later sightings, the legend echoes broader New England cryptid tales—like the silent phantom Black Dog of Meriden's Hanging Hills or the deformed Melon Heads of southwestern Connecticut. But was the Winsted Wildman a genuine unknown primate surviving in the Nutmeg State's woods, a misidentified bear or escaped animal, or a clever fabrication during a slow news cycle? And why did reports resurface in the 1970s Bigfoot craze? Let's trek through the historical accounts, newspaper frenzy, rational explanations, and cultural endurance of one of Connecticut's most entertaining cryptids.

The Winsted Wildman's story ignited in August 1895, a time when sensational "wild man" tales captivated American newspapers amid economic uncertainty and fascination with the untamed frontier. On August 21, the Winsted Herald reported that town selectman Riley Smith, while berry-picking with his bulldog in nearby Colebrook, encountered a "large man, stark naked, and covered with hair all over his body" bursting from bushes. Smith described the creature as six feet tall, muscular, with long black hair on shoulders and a thickly furred body, moving with lightning speed and great leaps. His dog cowered in fear, and Smith fled, "badly scared." The article, penned by editor Louis Timothy Stone (a young journalist known for tall tales), quickly spread via wire services to major papers in Hartford, Boston, New York, and beyond.

Sightings escalated rapidly. Within days, locals reported similar encounters: a "savage-faced" figure chasing people, sleeping on porches, or rummaging near farms. Mrs. Culver of Colebrook claimed it spent a night on her porch; others heard unearthly cries or saw it bounding fences. Panic gripped Winsted and surrounding towns like Norfolk and Colebrook—women feared venturing out, farmers guarded livestock. A reward was offered for capture; posses of over 100 armed men scoured woods, finding caves with bones (likely animal) and bare footprints that vanished. One group shot a "creature" lurking in brush—revealed as a stray mule. Reporters flocked, boosting tourism; satirical postcards mocked the hysteria.

The frenzy peaked in September 1895, with exaggerated reports of the Wildman growing tusks or reaching gorilla proportions. Yet by fall, sightings ceased abruptly. Stone later admitted fabricating the initial story to sell papers during a dull period—a common 19th-century "yellow journalism" tactic. Riley Smith's account was likely embellished or invented; no evidence supported an escaped gorilla or mental patient (as speculated). The hoax succeeded wildly, putting Winsted on the map.

Earlier whispers date to 1891: coach passengers saw a bipedal "gorilla" leaping fences near Winsted, speculated as an escaped circus animal. Isolated reports persisted into the early 20th century, but the legend revived dramatically in the 1970s Bigfoot boom. In July 1972, two young men near Crystal Lake Reservoir reported an 8-foot hairy figure emitting frog-cat-like sounds. In September 1974, two couples parked at Rugg Brook Reservoir fled from a 6-foot, 300-pound shaggy creature in moonlight; police found no tracks. These modern sightings—amid national Sasquatch fever—reinvigorated the tale, though investigations yielded nothing.

Of course, explanations favor the mundane. The 1895 flap was a classic newspaper hoax: Stone's sensationalism sparked mass hysteria, with suggestion turning bears, drunks, or shadows into monsters. Litchfield County's black bears—common then and now—match descriptions when standing bipedally (up to 6-7 feet). Escaped animals or hermits were speculated but unproven. Later 1970s reports align with Bigfoot cultural influence: witnesses "saw" expected traits amid heightened awareness. No photos, tracks, or bodies exist; searches (including armed 1895 posses) found zilch. Psychologically, the Wildman taps fears of the unknown in rural woods—echoing European "wild man" myths or Native tales of forest spirits.

Despite origins as hoax, the Winsted Wildman endures in Connecticut cryptid lore. Featured in books like David Philips's Legendary Connecticut (1984) and Patrick Scalisi's Connecticut Cryptids (2023), podcasts, and blogs, it's one of the state's "big three" alongside the Black Dog and Glawackus. Winsted embraces it lightly—local history tours mention the frenzy; no official monument, but the tale boosts heritage. In broader New England folklore—paralleling marine serpents off Gloucester or isolated island murders—it reflects 19th-century media power and timeless wilderness unease.

So, is the Winsted Wildman a surviving relic primate haunting Litchfield woods, or a masterful hoax reborn in modern misidentifications? Historical consensus: the latter—a fun slice of Nutmeg State weirdness. Like the silent phantoms or brutal crimes in our prior explorations, it warns that truth often hides behind sensational shadows. Hike Winsted's trails or reservoirs; listen for rustles. Likely just wind... or a hairy figure watching from the treeline?

Mike D. is a Connecticut-based writer who prefers to remain hidden—lest the legends come knocking.