Frank McDermott and about 30 others listened intently as historian Mike Davis presented his research on the presence of rattlesnakes in western Maine, including Raymond and Windham, in the 1800s. Davis, who is the assistant director of Bridgton Historical Society, has delved deep into the history of the vipers, and was invited to discuss the topic recently by the Raymond-Casco Historical Society at its museum complex on Route 302 in Casco.
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| Now frequented by hikers, Rattlesnake Mountain was once infested with the fearsome Timber rattlesnakes. The town's early settlers exterminated the vipers 'for the greater good." COURTESY PHOTO |
The town of Raymond, according to Davis, was literally the “capital” of rattlesnake country in Maine in the early to mid-1800s. The Oxford Democrat newspaper informed its readers in mid-century that, “…they (timber rattlesnakes) are even found…in Windham and Raymond.” History does not record precisely where in Windham the snake colonies were located but is believed to have been on hillsides around Sebago Lake. Today, the venomous reptile resides in all New England states except Rhode Island and Maine.
Stories about people-encounters with the intimidating but reclusive reptile are numerous in the documents and testimonials of Raymond history.
The most well-known accounts involve early settler entrepreneurs John Cash and Benjamin Smith who, after discovering a mountain near their farms in Raymond was infested with timber rattlers, decided to supplement their agricultural earnings by peddling the therapeutic value of rattlesnake oil for various human ailments, especially rheumatism and neuralgic pain. The pair scoured the big hill they would later dub Rattlesnake Mountain capturing or killing dozens of the beasts using crotched sticks and long knives. Smith related a story, published in 1929 in the Lewiston Evening Journal, about how he caught a snake that had swallowed a woodchuck.
By skinning and boiling the snake’s remains, Smith produced what he called a “cure-all elixir” for multiple human maladies, hawking it at public gatherings such as fairs and militia musters. Suspecting the dangerous venom was released through the snake’s disquieting fangs, Smith removed the long, curvy teeth from live snakes with pincers he used to repair his boots. He entertained his customers by putting live rattlers under his shirt, letting them squirm around his chest and back. History suggests that sales of his elixir were brisk at some venues.
One story about Smith claimed he suffered a bite from one of his captured snakes but survived the wound by covering the wound with mud. Following the close call, it is said he developed the odd habit of darting his tongue in and out of his mouth, mimicking his pets. A different narrative claims that Smith, bitten by a snake that had “regrown” its fangs, died in great agony.
Still another Ben Smith finale story appeared in the Lewiston Saturday Journal (April 3, 1909). Ninety-nine-year-old businessman William Rolfe told the newspaper, “Well, in those days rattlesnakes were very plenty in and around Raymond…they were found by the hundreds, and he (Ben Smith) would catch them alive, defang ‘em, and take ‘em to fairs. But one time he got a big, ugly one and got bitten in the hand.” Rolfe’s story suggested that Smith died from the bite.
And here is where the Ben Smith legend becomes even more murky. According to historian Ernest Knight, Smith’s research and sales prowess “paid off,” as he lived to the age of 82.
John Cash’s demise was recounted in Down East magazine in an October 1977 story; the publication reported, “…Cash handled (the snakes) freely and having removed the fangs (but) ignorant of the fact that these specialized teeth are quite rapidly replaced…Cash was one day found dead in the room he shared with his “pets…”
From the slim historical records, it appears more than just a few people suffered bites and experienced either a lengthy, tormented sickness, or succumbed to dreadful symptoms that included burning pain, blue or black skin color, blistering, facial twitching, puffed-up lips, up to 9 days of fever, fever dreams and slow organ failure.
There was no known cure.
Many fishermen and hunters were known to abandon their activities in fear of encountering the vipers, who were also known to kill cattle and sheep.
Loggers on the slopes of Rattlesnake Mountain who were cutting great oaks for the construction of ships faced jeopardy daily.
Alas, the fearful Raymond inhabitants declared war and resolved to eliminate the threat of timber rattlesnakes entirely. Organized snake hunts utilizing firearms, knives and axes blanketed the mountain. Hundreds of the slithering denizens were killed in a single day. According to Bridgton historian Davis, one enterprising snake hunter captured a live rattler, attached explosives to its tail and released it back to its den, whereupon the explosion exterminated the entire colony.
Subsequently, total annihilation resulted from a combination of wildfires, inbreeding and snake hunts.
Maine Native American folklore acknowledged the timber rattlesnake, claiming its steady rattle and luring gaze was hypnotic and lulled the victim into its strike. The Wabanaki, reported Davis, wore leaves from the ash tree and sported ash bark as both a deterrent and an antidote.
The “Indian method” was adopted by the early European settlers in Maine. Davis reported that an Oxford man swore a sure-fire cure for a bite was to cut the still quivering heart from a live snake and swallowing it. He claimed, “It cured me of the fits.”
Another bogus cure, said Davis, asserted that eating the meat of a rattlesnake prevented consumption (tuberculosis). Whiskey was reported to have lessened many of the symptoms.
By 1870, virtually all the snakes had been destroyed “for the greater good,” observed Davis.
Local lore has it that the last rattlesnake was discovered and killed on the steps of Raymond’s Webbs Mills Church where it surprised the arriving brethren early one Sunday morning.
Modern place names commemorate the presence of the once ubiquitous serpents. History credits John Cash and/or Ben Smith with naming the Raymond Mountain – two ponds: Great Rattlesnake and Little Rattlesnake Ponds also memorialized the great snakes. Fear that the ponds’ conspicuous names would discourage tourism, they were officially changed in the 1920s to Crescent Lake and Raymond Pond respectively. On June 7, 1929, the Lewiston Evening Journal reported, “Rattlesnake Pond…loses its distinctiveness and becomes one of a thousand crystal ponds.”
Although none have been confirmed, to this day, reports of timber rattlesnake sightings persist, which brings us back to Frank McDermott’s encounter.
About 20 years ago, McDermott was looking over property near Raymond Pond where he planned to build a barn.
“I was standing near a rock wall when I heard this strange noise; something I’d never heard before.” Next, he observed a snake, about 3-feet long and “brownish” in color, emerge from beneath the rocks. It disappeared, but then re-emerged, sounding a warning that McDermott determined was the distinctive clatter of a rattlesnake. He never saw it again but wonders to this day if perhaps he had viewed a protracted descendent of the once common reptile of the Raymond countryside.
Such sightings will likely persist into the future.
Windham Historical Society president Susan Simonson contributed research for this story. <
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