The Squonk: The Worst Cryptid Ever

Meet the Squonk, Pennsylvania’s saddest—and quite possibly worst—cryptid. Ugly, covered in warts, and cursed with terrible self-esteem, this pathetic little forest creature reportedly spends its days crying and, when cornered, can become so miserable that it dissolves into a puddle of its own tears.

ANIMAL CRYPTIDSFOLKLORE

losZorros

8/26/20267 min read

The Squonk: The Worst Cryptid Ever

Somewhere beneath the hemlock trees of northern Pennsylvania, something was crying.

Not growling. Not screaming. Not making the blood-curdling howl of an unknown predator preparing to drag an unfortunate lumberjack into the darkness. Crying.

According to early twentieth-century lumberjack folklore, the forests of Pennsylvania were home to an animal called the Squonk, a strange little creature cursed with loose, ill-fitting skin covered in warts and moles. The Squonk was apparently aware that it wasn't much to look at and didn't handle the situation particularly well. It hid in the forest, avoided other creatures and spent most of its waking hours weeping about its appearance.

For an animal that wanted to be left alone, this created an obvious tactical problem. Anyone trying to find a Squonk simply had to follow the trail of tears it left behind. One hunter supposedly figured this out and on a cold moonlit night near Mont Alto, Pennsylvania, a man named J.P. Wentling tracked a Squonk through the forest by listening for its cries. Wentling eventually mimicked the creature's call and somehow convinced it to climb into a sack.

He began carrying his prize home but after a while, Wentling noticed the sack getting lighter. The crying had stopped too. When he finally opened it, the Squonk was gone. All that remained were tears and bubbles. The poor bastard had literally cried itself out of existence.

Welcome to the Oddex, Squonk. We've seen worse monsters. Well, no, actually we haven't. Sorry, Squonk. 😢

Deep in the Pennsylvania Lumberwoods

The Squonk supposedly inhabited the hemlock forests of Pennsylvania, particularly the heavily wooded northern portion of the state. During the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, this was serious lumber country, where enormous stands of eastern hemlock and white pine supported a booming logging industry.

Logging camps created their own culture. Men worked long days in remote forests, often living together for extended periods with relatively little entertainment beyond cards, drinking, practical jokes and stories. Those stories produced an entire ecosystem of creatures.

They became known as fearsome critters, imaginary animals supposedly inhabiting the North American wilderness. Lumberjacks swapped stories about them around camp, embellished the creatures as the tales traveled and occasionally used them to frighten inexperienced newcomers.

Some were genuinely dangerous. The Splintercat supposedly smashed headfirst into trees so violently that branches fell off. The Slide-Rock Bolter lurked on steep Colorado mountains waiting to slide downhill and swallow unsuspecting travelers. The Hugag had legs without joints and therefore couldn't lie down.

Then Pennsylvania gave us an animal with self-esteem issues.

The Squonk belongs firmly within this tradition, and understanding that context is important. We're not dealing with a collection of mysterious eyewitness reports that zoologists subsequently tried to explain. We're dealing with American folklore deliberately filled with absurd animals. That makes the Squonk considerably different from Champ or the Fouke Monster, and frankly, absolutely wonderful.

What Is the Squonk?

Descriptions of the Squonk originate primarily with lumberjack folklore rather than claimed zoological observations, so there isn't much point pretending we can construct an accurate anatomical profile.

The classic Squonk is generally depicted as a small, four-legged forest animal with sagging or poorly fitting skin. Its hide is covered in blemishes, particularly warts and moles, and the animal is so unhappy with its appearance that it cries almost constantly. It is shy and primarily active around twilight and dusk. According to the earliest published account, experienced hunters could track one by following the wet trail created by its tears. Cold, moonlit nights were supposedly the best time to hunt them because the Squonk moved reluctantly in freezing weather and its crying could be heard beneath the hemlock trees.

Catching one presented a different problem. When frightened or cornered, the Squonk possessed one of the least intimidating defense mechanisms in cryptozoology: it could completely dissolve into its own tears.

Its mock scientific name was wonderfully appropriate: Lacrimacorpus dissolvens. Roughly speaking, a body dissolved by tears. Whoever invented the Squonk understood the assignment.

The History of the Squonk

The earliest known published description of the Squonk appears in William T. Cox's 1910 book Fearsome Creatures of the Lumberwoods, With a Few Desert and Mountain Beasts. Cox wasn't simply some fellow collecting monster stories for entertainment. He was a forester and conservation official who had spent considerable time around the logging industry, and his book preserved the tall tales circulating through North American lumber camps.

Cox understood exactly what kind of stories he was recording. In his introduction, he described lumberjacks as imaginative storytellers and noted that tales changed as they moved between logging regions. Stories originating in Maine might eventually turn up in California, strengthened and improved along the way. Remote camps had their own legends, jokes and supposedly dangerous animals, which were particularly useful for entertaining the veterans and confusing newcomers.

The Squonk appears on page 31 of Cox's book.

According to his account, the animal's range was unusually limited and few people outside Pennsylvania had even heard of it. Cox described the creature as deeply unhappy because of its ugly, badly fitting skin and claimed it wandered the hemlock forests continuously crying.

He also recorded the story of J.P. Wentling, supposedly a former Pennsylvanian then living in St. Anthony Park, Minnesota. Wentling was said to have captured a Squonk near Mont Alto by imitating its cries and coaxing it into a sack. During the trip home, the sack became lighter until Wentling discovered that his captive had dissolved completely, leaving only liquid behind.

The Squonk appeared again in Henry H. Tryon's 1939 collection Fearsome Critters, which helped preserve lumberjack folklore after the great logging-camp era had begun disappearing. Tryon acknowledged Cox's earlier work and shared the goal of keeping these stories from vanishing along with the culture that created them.

And somehow, this ridiculous little animal survived.

Was Anyone Actually Seeing Squonks?

Probably not.

This is one of those rare Oddex files where we don't need to assemble a lineup of bears, diseased coyotes, escaped exotic animals and prehistoric survivors.

There isn't a meaningful body of historical eyewitness evidence suggesting that Pennsylvania lumberjacks were encountering an unidentified species. The Squonk belongs to the tradition of the fearsome critter, where impossibility was part of the joke. An animal that literally dissolves into tears conveniently guarantees that nobody will ever be able to produce a specimen.

Even the mock Latin name in Cox's 1910 account tells us not to take the zoology too seriously.

That doesn't mean the Squonk has no value as a cryptid story. Quite the opposite. It gives us a glimpse into a particular moment in American history when men working in isolated wilderness created their own mythology. Imagine spending months in a Pennsylvania logging camp more than a century ago. The forest beyond the fire is genuinely dangerous. Bears and other animals are out there, accidents are common, medical care is distant, and there isn't exactly a television in the bunkhouse.

Someone starts telling stories. Another lumberjack improves them. Somebody repeats the story at the next camp, changing a few details. Eventually the woods are populated with impossible animals whose habits become increasingly elaborate. Most importantly, everybody gets a laugh.

The Squonk wasn't an unidentified animal that accidentally became folklore. Folklore was its natural habitat.

How Did This Thing Become a Cryptid?

This may be the most interesting part of the Squonk story.

The modern idea of a “cryptid” has become much broader than the original cryptozoological search for animals whose existence hasn't been scientifically established. Bigfoot, lake monsters, folkloric creatures, paranormal entities and creatures invented as tall tales now frequently share the same category online. That has allowed the Squonk to escape the lumber camp and join Bigfoot and Mothman.

It's a strange promotion. Unlike the Mothman reports around Point Pleasant or generations of alleged Champ sightings, there isn't much of a mystery to solve here. The Squonk's documented history leads directly into the tradition of lumberjack tall tales. William T. Cox wasn't presenting his book as a sober zoological catalog; his collection included creatures with anatomies and behaviors that were intentionally impossible.

But the internet loves a weird monster, and the Squonk has one enormous advantage over many obscure creatures... it's memorable. You can read fifty stories about large hairy humanoids and struggle to remember which one came from which forest. Tell someone about the ugly little Pennsylvania monster that cries constantly and melts into a puddle when frightened, and they'll remember it tomorrow.

More than a century after Cox put the Squonk on paper, that joke is still working.

Our Take

We need to establish something immediately. The Squonk is almost certainly not real.

There is no convincing evidence that an unidentified, wart-covered mammal roams the hemlock forests of Pennsylvania, and we feel reasonably confident that no known biological process allows an animal to convert itself completely into tears and bubbles when experiencing emotional distress.

We're putting this one in the folklore column. But we absolutely love it.

The Squonk represents something that deserves a place in the Oddex alongside the supposedly serious cryptids. Humans have always populated the wilderness with imaginary creatures, and not all of them were created because someone saw an unexplained shape in the darkness. Some existed because people sitting around a fire wanted to tell a good story.

There's also something strangely charming about the Squonk. Most cryptids are presented as extraordinary because they're enormous, frightening or mysterious. Bigfoot can throw rocks. Mothman has glowing red eyes. The Fouke Monster supposedly terrorized families around Fouke, Arkansas.

The Squonk can't even handle being the Squonk. Its defining characteristic isn't strength, aggression or supernatural power. It's embarrassment. The creature hides because it doesn't want anyone looking at it, cries because it's unhappy with itself and, when somebody finally catches it, becomes so overwhelmed that it ceases to exist.

That's terrible monster behavior. It is also fantastic folklore.

So we're officially awarding the Squonk the title of Worst Cryptid Ever, but we're doing it affectionately. If you're wandering through the Pennsylvania woods one evening and hear quiet sobbing beneath a hemlock tree, don't chase it. Don't try to capture it. And definitely don't put it in a sack. Just keep walking.

The little guy has enough going on.

Like the Squonk (or at least feel a little sorry for it)? Check out these posts: Shunka Warak'in and the Fresno NIghtcrawlers

Field Notes: Squonk Quick Facts

📍 LOCATION: Hemlock forests of Pennsylvania

👀 FIRST DOCUMENTED: 1910*

😭 CLASSIFICATION: Fearsome Critter / Folkloric Cryptid

💀 THREAT LEVEL (1–10): 0

📖 STATUS: Folklore — Almost Certainly Fictional

🏆 ODDAGEDDON DISTINCTION: Worst Cryptid Ever

*The Squonk may have circulated orally among lumberjacks before 1910, but William T. Cox's Fearsome Creatures of the Lumberwoods provides the earliest known published account.