Information on the Proboscis Bird stems from a 18th century journal; it was recovered from the expedition team's surviving members, none of which were the book's author. The book was once on display, but has not been seen since 1963; it is suspected to have been misplaced, stolen, or damaged beyond repair and disposed of. The first Europeans to come into contact with the birds, this is a dramatized combination of their accounts. You can listen to the dramatization via the BCwPA podcast, or read it below.

Loud, heavy boots trekked down the mountainside, the ground cragged and gritty with sandstone. Gear clanged and rattled, the noise bouncing down into the valley, announcing the party’s invasion. Deer and rabbits fled while squirrels and birds watched from their perches. A turkey vulture followed above. Crossing over this chain was no easy feat, and the exploration team was exhausted and marred by misfortune. Once 60 men strong, they numbered less than 30, losing several along the way to illness, violence, and bad luck. Most unfortunate was the loss of their guides, who simply disappeared two weeks prior, and the team’s expert frontiersman, only two days ago. Concerns heightened. The expedition, or perhaps the land, was cursed. Thomas Fallam, leader of the party, was also experiencing some malady. Outwardly in good health, with no injuries or symptoms, he never seemed to sleep. He was seen and heard rummaging through the camp at night, staring down into a fire, or standing alone in the woods. It was feared he was coming down with the ‘madness of the mountain’, an illness believed to develop in some who breathe in air from high altitudes. They could only watch and hope the signs abated over the course of their descent.

Drawn by rich forests, abundant wildlife, the anticipation, expectation of discovery and wealth led them here. In what is now called the Allegheny Mountains, the land peaks at 3,400 feet, gradually sloping into a valley; nearly 300 miles from the nearest settlement, it would be an understatement to call the trek challenging, even for an experienced, well-equipped team. Expeditions once cut through Virginia to find nearby access to the Pacific Ocean, later to support England’s claim over the territory, and, now, to increase the English' s presence and survey for settlement.

A strong, refreshing breeze occasionally whipped up towards them. While it made it harder to walk down, it felt wonderful, cooling them off on their trek into the lowlands. Dressed in wools, the men were usually hot or cold, but never comfortable. They dressed in baggy coats, thinner waistcoats, stockings, and tall, stuffy leather boots. While the material kept a body warm in the cold, there was nothing one could do in the heat but remove layer after layer. And, when wet, the clothing became heavy. 

The lower and lower they walked, the thicker and more humid the air became. The next day was even more terrible. Weighed down by their attire, further down, they encountered sloshing mud. Their surroundings morphed from a dense forest to a bog; a stream cut through their path, then another. The ground became slicker and tacky, the unavoidable mud gripping and pulling boots right off the foot. The water pooled around their ankles, then calves, saturating them entirely, irritating and hurting their skin. There were no attempts at drying–and no hopes of temporary relief for the rest of the day. The pleasant breeze died, which added boiling in the humidity to their list of complaints. The night was barely tolerable. Fallam wandered in a circle around camp; the rhythmic, yet occasionally erratic, slap of his bare feet put the men on edge.

Finding good footholds the next day was a struggle. The earth was just as soaked as they were, squishing and squeaking with each step, fizzling with water like a wrung sponge. The mosses built tall knolls that were easily tripped over, reaching 3 feet high in some places; the vibrant, bubbly tangle of vegetation and rock was tied in place and smothered by vines and bushes. Before them, in the distance and under the setting sun, was a beautiful sea of gently swaying wildflowers, herbs, and grasses in yellow, orange, and green speckled with bright white and red.

Seeking a place to camp, they settled on a small, somewhat dry hill under a sprawling swamp maple; the area was littered with clusters of broken sticks, little bones, and long-lost feathers, The debris was not a welcome sight. Something had been here and attacked–and likely more than just once, counting all of the bones. While the carnage looked far from fresh, the possibility that whatever made it could still be somewhere, hidden in the vast bog, was not a welcome consideration. 

There was also a smell; the valley, though lovely to look at, emitted a foul aroma, like putrid vegetables and fish. The hill somehow smelled even worse than the disturbances released earlier in the mire with each muddy stomp. Fallam, with an unblinking, wild, wide-eyed stare, smiled as the party discussed whether to go back or forward, whether they should spend the night elsewhere. Concluding the debate, he insisted they should stay, as he would like “a chance to see what kind of beast might do such a thing.”

The team built a small fire, cooked leftover game, and argued over watch; no one felt much like sleeping, even though their weary bodies demanded it. The roar of insects was an eerie combination of new sounds and a few familiar ones. The sway and windy jerk of grass and leaves teased invisible creatures and possibly concealed real ones’ movements. The firelight played tricks, creating the reflective glint of nonexistent eyeballs and shadowy figures. And the smell—it never let one feel at ease, always returning with a new, acidic, deathly edge.

The journal recounted many thoughts and fears of an imagination run amuck: the undead waiting on the scummy swamp bottom, crawling up from the water once they gave in to sleep; a giant serpent in the tree, posed to strike with its mouth spread wide and breathing heavily; a slinking, diseased, evil panther circling the mound, plotting how to take them down one-by-one. Fallam sat near a fire, his eyes fixated on the darkness.

Leaning against a tree and never quite falling asleep, one noted a shift in the atmosphere late that night. A breeze picked up and cut through the bog, smacking into the camp along the way; the scent it carried was beyond foul. Sickened, he fell on all fours. Senses overwhelmed, head spinning, mouth-watering, he tried to hold his nose and keep his meager dinner inside. Pallid, his eyes rose slowly, leveling with the field's pointed, woozying top. The air stilled once more, but in the distance, just out of the firelight's reach, the bog was rustling. Not the way the wind would rustle it but the way something walking through it would. Frightened into a stillness, he held his breath once more, fingers quivering, legs tight springs. A musket sat a few feet away; he grabbed it. There was nowhere to run. And yet, that is what Fallam did; sprinting towards the movement, he disappeared into the night.

More shaking appeared in the grasses, but not in the same place. The movement was all around and the general stench of the air intensified. Splashing, squelching, wet sounds encircled the hill, as did muted thumpa-thumps. He called out, expecting a mad Fallam, but received no response. 

A clawed foot reached from the field. It hung above the moss, slowly splaying out and down, squishing into the green. Another claw breached, attached to a long, stick-like arm. A round body bobbed up and down in a rhythm of three quick movements. The creature's head was tucked into itself; feeling the air upon it, it stretched, exposing a wrinkled gullet with tufts of hair scattered over it like a nearly bald head. A long line of fur was upon its back, standing on end and pointing out in two directions like a bat's wings frozen mid-flap. It stared up at the author, sending a shiver down his back; it had no eyes, only a long rectangular head of melty, rumpled skin. The flesh on the tip of its face inflated into a ball, hissing and deflating in a puff of air. The animal shined in the firelight; a brown ooze dripped from its body and trailed down its legs, gathering bits and pieces of what it traveled through.

Undoubtedly, this creature was the source of the hill's bad smell. It walked forward with hesitant movements, its head twitching up and down, its bulbous nose inflating, deflating. Frozen, he recounted watching the creature as a shout sent the camp into chaos. Its face tilted upward, it gave a deep sniff and flapped two heavy wings before rushing forward and into his arm. Scared, he scuttled backward, hitting his back against the tree. The thing had fallen, as well, landing awkwardly on its back; it rolled around, righting itself after a slight struggle. It shook, puffing its feathers out, then continued forward, unbothered. Looking around frantically, he realized the things were coming into the clearing in hordes. The explosive sound and acrid smell of gunfire surrounded him. Clumps of the things fell in heaps. Yet, the creatures ambled forward.

From all sides, the beasts stepped onto the hill, walking over corpses of their brethren, towards the fires, sniffling loudly. One broke from the shrinking circle, a beeline into a burning pit. As the flames hit, it honked, thrashing wildly, flapping, kicking, and snorting. Another ran, and another, and another. They clinked against a cook pot, the fifth attack sending it rolling downhill. The birds sizzled and smoked and fluttered around; their honking stopped most of the shooting. 

The sniffling restarted, a loud, audible wave; the birds changed course, some running for the tumbling pot. Others began charging those who had caught on fire or were shot, pecking and tearing at their flesh hungrily. 

Killing a massive amount, they then captured every bird that had wandered in or near their camp. The animals were unafraid of humans initially, but also couldn’t successfully evade capture even when they tried. Throwing together a makeshift pen, the animals were drawn in and corralled over the course of several weeks. It seemed that the more birds they had nearby, the more newcomers were drawn in. Building larger and larger pens, they set trap boxes and lures, the birds an unending stream of intrigue and food. The little camp was surrounded by hundreds of stinking birds by the weeks’ end: from old, nearly featherless elders to fuzzy, yet mostly bald chicks. The hatchlings were easiest to work with; less than 6 inches long, and even less intelligent than their parents, they ate anything presented to them and did not mind poking, prodding, or handling as much.

Unusually docile at night, as the sun rose, they grew more aggressive. They pecked at hands, feet, faces, anything in reach, with a sharp, one-toothed beak that was hidden under their fleshy nose; surprisingly strong and vicious, the attacks left deep, painful wounds. Aside from pecking, they would relentlessly hiss and screech, as well as violently thrash around. The “Stenchbird” was decidedly butchered at night to avoid these unpleasantries.

Easy to make into a meal, the birds’ aromatic, tough meat tasted as disgusting as it smelled. Conserving their supplies, they suffered through countless portions of the bird, half-heartedly searching for their missing leader. The creatures’ feathers were foul and coated in an unpleasant oil. While they could have been implemented as stuffing or quills, their scent and feel would persuade few to use them if any alternative was presented. 

In fact, this smelly oil was an overall issue. Tainting meat, feather, and skin, the secretion and its smell clung to clothing, gear–everything it touched. Spread by hands, utensils, work spaces, and the birds, it made both the skin rashy and stomachs sickly. Before they could begin to figure out a way to circumvent it, an evil descended upon the birds: they were increasingly cannibalizing each other, even with various feeds being provided.

After a month, with the search for Fallam unsuccessful and the animals’ strange behavior a sign, the expedition made the decision to pack up and return home while they could. The bulk of the birds were exterminated; others were slain for provisions. Only four men survived the trip back.