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Bloodstoppers and Bearwalkers: Folk Traditions of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula
Remote and rugged, Michigan’s Upper Peninsula (fondly known as “the U.P.”) has been home to a rich variety of indigenous peoples and Old World immigrants—a heritage deeply embedded in today’s “Yooper” culture. Ojibwes, French Canadians, Finns, Cornish, Poles, Italians, Slovenians, and others have all lived here, attracted to the area by its timber, mineral ore, and fishing grounds. Mixing local happenings with supernatural tales and creatively adapting traditional stories to suit changing audiences, the diverse inhabitants of the U.P. have created a wealth of lore populated with tricksters, outlaws, cunning trappers and poachers, eccentric bosses of the mines and lumber camps, “bloodstoppers” gifted with the lifesaving power to stop the flow of blood, “bearwalkers” able to assume the shape of bears, and more.
For folklorist Richard M. Dorson, who ventured into the region in the late 1940s, the U.P. was a living laboratory, a storyteller’s paradise. Bloodstoppers and Bearwalkers , based on his extensive fieldwork in the area, is his richest and most enduring work. This new edition, with a critical introduction and an appendix of additional tales selected by James P. Leary, restores and expands Dorson’s classic contribution to American folklore. Engaging and well informed, the book presents and ponders the folk narratives of the region’s loggers, miners, lake sailors, trappers, and townsfolk. Unfolding the variously peculiar and raucous tales of the U.P., Bloodstoppers and Bearwalkers reveals a vital component of Upper Midwest culture and a fascinating cross-section of American society.
For folklorist Richard M. Dorson, who ventured into the region in the late 1940s, the U.P. was a living laboratory, a storyteller’s paradise. Bloodstoppers and Bearwalkers , based on his extensive fieldwork in the area, is his richest and most enduring work. This new edition, with a critical introduction and an appendix of additional tales selected by James P. Leary, restores and expands Dorson’s classic contribution to American folklore. Engaging and well informed, the book presents and ponders the folk narratives of the region’s loggers, miners, lake sailors, trappers, and townsfolk. Unfolding the variously peculiar and raucous tales of the U.P., Bloodstoppers and Bearwalkers reveals a vital component of Upper Midwest culture and a fascinating cross-section of American society.
408 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1952
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Displaying 1 - 11 of 11 reviews
January 25, 2026
It reads like it was published when it was published (1952). A lot of it was more historical than lore.
April 5, 2020
I like this! It had the info I wanted and did what I needed it to do. The language is dated, which made it a challenge to get through (especially being Native and a Yooper), as there's a lot of racism by ignorance embedded throughout the text. That said, I love having a collection of stories from oral accounts. It is the Native way to tell stories in this manner, so at least that was comforting.
March 26, 2015
The Upper Peninsula of Michigan is commonly called the U.P., thus its residents are Yoopers. The arrival of civilization in the U.P. created a number of resource extraction colonies to disassemble the wilderness paradise. Whites were attracted to the region to mine the furs, fish, copper, iron, and forests. Long winters and marginal soils have spared it from being obliterated by industrial agriculture and suburban sprawl. Population density is low. The biggest city, Marquette, has just 21,000 souls.
Richard Dorson (1916-1981) was born into an affluent family in New York City. He received his PhD from Harvard. When he was hired by Michigan State University in 1944, he had never heard of the U.P. In 1946, he boarded the ferry at Mackinaw City, landed in the U.P., and spent five months researching the folklore of the region. He visited mining communities, lumber camps, beer gardens, and Indian villages, seeking out the venerable storytellers. They included the Anishinabe, Cornish, Finns, Irish, French, Slovenians, Croatians, Swedes, and many others. He met quite a few fascinating characters, listened to a lot of tall tales, and obviously had a good time in the process.
Then he wrote Bloodstoppers & Bearwalkers, which presented a scruffy parade of rustic Yoopers. Harvard published it in 1952, after MSU refused to. Dorson’s book is valuable because it recorded the essence of a number of cultures, many of which no longer exist. Typical Yoopers were the opposite of wealthy East Coast dandies. The whites often came from the lower classes of Europe, forced out of their homelands by the turbulence of the Industrial Revolution. Many had little or no education; more than a few were illiterate. They were strong, hard-working people who did not bloat and rot from soft indoor living.
Most of Dorson’s sources were born in the nineteenth century, but the oral cultures they came from had deep roots in the past, and deep roots in the living Earth. There were Yoopers who could shapeshift into bears, wolves, pigs, and owls. Potent curses could cause the death of others. Anishinabe and Finnish shamans had powers for counteracting black magic. Fairies were everywhere. Yoopers spent their lives in a land that was spiritually alive, rich with power and vitality.
Dorson was hanging out with folks who were semi-Medieval at a time when modern America was dropping nuclear bombs, buying televisions, building skyscrapers, and zooming around in ridiculous automobiles. Sadly, the ancient art of storytelling, humankind’s oldest profession, was being brushed aside by modern mass entertainment — pulp magazines, soap operas, and movie thrillers.
In the nineteenth century, Yooper communities spent long winters in isolation. The waterways froze, the roads were buried under deep drifts of snow, and stores had no fresh produce for months. In springtime, when the ice melted, the arrival of the first ship was always a day of joyful celebration and clattering church bells — reconnection with the outer world. There was no television, radio, internet, phones, or recorded music. Entertainment on long winter nights came from telling old stories and singing old songs — experiences shared by gatherings of family and neighbors, not in isolation with techno-gadgets.
Many communities had bloodstoppers, who could stop heavy bleeding by speaking words of power, or a simple touch. There were far-sighted seers who could foretell the future, and psychics who could communicate with the spirits of the dead, or accurately describe things that were only known by you.
In those days, life was filled with mysteries — accidents, illness, deaths, disasters. Misfortunes were often explained as being the result of malevolent acts of evil people. The Anishinabe referred to these dark beings as bearwalkers, who could appear as animals, birds, or lights glowing in the night. The French called them loup-garous, something like werewolves, devious shapeshifters.
As we move into the post-antibiotic era, the post-carbon era, the era of spectacular climate juju, life will be filled with mysteries and misfortunes once again. Without the ultra-expensive safety net of high-tech medicine, folks who are unwell will either recover or die, as the fates desire. There will be few stores, if any. We’ll be far less mobile. Communication will be limited to those around us. We’ll actually have to go outdoors — yikes!
The whites ravaged the U.P. because they knew almost nothing about ecological history, the mistakes of their ancestors. They did not have great powers of foresight, nor deep reverence for the health of the ecosystem. They remained addicted to an incoming flow of goods from distant industrial centers. Few of them unplugged themselves from civilization and learned to live with the land.
The Anishinabe preserved a long tradition of reverence and respect for the family of life. Dorson noted that they “all live in the woods as if the cities of white men never existed.” Of course, anyone who has ever experienced a city will understand why. They inhabited the same region as the whites, but the land was their home, a sacred place, where they were reverend guests — an entirely different relationship.
Today, we have fabulous education systems, and instant access to staggering quantities of information. Today, there are specialists who actually understand ecological history, and are extremely distressed by the mindless destruction caused by consumer society. But our schools do not major in teaching reading, writing, and ecological history. Our religious leaders do not teach us reverence and respect for creation. Tomorrow doesn’t matter.
Oddly, most of the graduates rolling off the academic assembly line these days are barely distressed at all. They are lost in a fantasy world, mesmerized by a moronic belief in perpetual economic growth, eager to devote their lives to accumulating and discarding unnecessary stuff. Sadly, the more our society is educated, the faster we destroy the future. Circle what is wrong with this picture.
In 1900, many whites dreamed that their children would spend their lives mining and cutting pines. But in the decades that followed, as “infinite” resources became scarce, their communities and culture would be scattered to the winds. Many moved to Detroit, where there were no wolves, bears, or fairies, and their children were raised in the urban consumer culture, which displaced the old rustic one. Importantly, in just one generation, the culture of the youngsters was very different from the culture of their elders. Cultures can make sudden sharp turns, for better or worse.
Another huge cultural shift is certain to occur as the collapse of industrial civilization proceeds. At some point, all the daffy infantile balderdash of the consumer worldview will have no purpose whatsoever. The throbbing lust for McMansions, giant pickups, and huge TVs will become meaningless. The game of life will be nothing like today.
What can we do today to prepare the young for the coming storms? It would be awesome if we could help them acquire the intelligence needed to replace the loony consumer culture with a new one that is far more in balance with the family of life, something similar to the Anishinabe perhaps. We need to help them as much as we can before the lights go out.
Richard Dorson (1916-1981) was born into an affluent family in New York City. He received his PhD from Harvard. When he was hired by Michigan State University in 1944, he had never heard of the U.P. In 1946, he boarded the ferry at Mackinaw City, landed in the U.P., and spent five months researching the folklore of the region. He visited mining communities, lumber camps, beer gardens, and Indian villages, seeking out the venerable storytellers. They included the Anishinabe, Cornish, Finns, Irish, French, Slovenians, Croatians, Swedes, and many others. He met quite a few fascinating characters, listened to a lot of tall tales, and obviously had a good time in the process.
Then he wrote Bloodstoppers & Bearwalkers, which presented a scruffy parade of rustic Yoopers. Harvard published it in 1952, after MSU refused to. Dorson’s book is valuable because it recorded the essence of a number of cultures, many of which no longer exist. Typical Yoopers were the opposite of wealthy East Coast dandies. The whites often came from the lower classes of Europe, forced out of their homelands by the turbulence of the Industrial Revolution. Many had little or no education; more than a few were illiterate. They were strong, hard-working people who did not bloat and rot from soft indoor living.
Most of Dorson’s sources were born in the nineteenth century, but the oral cultures they came from had deep roots in the past, and deep roots in the living Earth. There were Yoopers who could shapeshift into bears, wolves, pigs, and owls. Potent curses could cause the death of others. Anishinabe and Finnish shamans had powers for counteracting black magic. Fairies were everywhere. Yoopers spent their lives in a land that was spiritually alive, rich with power and vitality.
Dorson was hanging out with folks who were semi-Medieval at a time when modern America was dropping nuclear bombs, buying televisions, building skyscrapers, and zooming around in ridiculous automobiles. Sadly, the ancient art of storytelling, humankind’s oldest profession, was being brushed aside by modern mass entertainment — pulp magazines, soap operas, and movie thrillers.
In the nineteenth century, Yooper communities spent long winters in isolation. The waterways froze, the roads were buried under deep drifts of snow, and stores had no fresh produce for months. In springtime, when the ice melted, the arrival of the first ship was always a day of joyful celebration and clattering church bells — reconnection with the outer world. There was no television, radio, internet, phones, or recorded music. Entertainment on long winter nights came from telling old stories and singing old songs — experiences shared by gatherings of family and neighbors, not in isolation with techno-gadgets.
Many communities had bloodstoppers, who could stop heavy bleeding by speaking words of power, or a simple touch. There were far-sighted seers who could foretell the future, and psychics who could communicate with the spirits of the dead, or accurately describe things that were only known by you.
In those days, life was filled with mysteries — accidents, illness, deaths, disasters. Misfortunes were often explained as being the result of malevolent acts of evil people. The Anishinabe referred to these dark beings as bearwalkers, who could appear as animals, birds, or lights glowing in the night. The French called them loup-garous, something like werewolves, devious shapeshifters.
As we move into the post-antibiotic era, the post-carbon era, the era of spectacular climate juju, life will be filled with mysteries and misfortunes once again. Without the ultra-expensive safety net of high-tech medicine, folks who are unwell will either recover or die, as the fates desire. There will be few stores, if any. We’ll be far less mobile. Communication will be limited to those around us. We’ll actually have to go outdoors — yikes!
The whites ravaged the U.P. because they knew almost nothing about ecological history, the mistakes of their ancestors. They did not have great powers of foresight, nor deep reverence for the health of the ecosystem. They remained addicted to an incoming flow of goods from distant industrial centers. Few of them unplugged themselves from civilization and learned to live with the land.
The Anishinabe preserved a long tradition of reverence and respect for the family of life. Dorson noted that they “all live in the woods as if the cities of white men never existed.” Of course, anyone who has ever experienced a city will understand why. They inhabited the same region as the whites, but the land was their home, a sacred place, where they were reverend guests — an entirely different relationship.
Today, we have fabulous education systems, and instant access to staggering quantities of information. Today, there are specialists who actually understand ecological history, and are extremely distressed by the mindless destruction caused by consumer society. But our schools do not major in teaching reading, writing, and ecological history. Our religious leaders do not teach us reverence and respect for creation. Tomorrow doesn’t matter.
Oddly, most of the graduates rolling off the academic assembly line these days are barely distressed at all. They are lost in a fantasy world, mesmerized by a moronic belief in perpetual economic growth, eager to devote their lives to accumulating and discarding unnecessary stuff. Sadly, the more our society is educated, the faster we destroy the future. Circle what is wrong with this picture.
In 1900, many whites dreamed that their children would spend their lives mining and cutting pines. But in the decades that followed, as “infinite” resources became scarce, their communities and culture would be scattered to the winds. Many moved to Detroit, where there were no wolves, bears, or fairies, and their children were raised in the urban consumer culture, which displaced the old rustic one. Importantly, in just one generation, the culture of the youngsters was very different from the culture of their elders. Cultures can make sudden sharp turns, for better or worse.
Another huge cultural shift is certain to occur as the collapse of industrial civilization proceeds. At some point, all the daffy infantile balderdash of the consumer worldview will have no purpose whatsoever. The throbbing lust for McMansions, giant pickups, and huge TVs will become meaningless. The game of life will be nothing like today.
What can we do today to prepare the young for the coming storms? It would be awesome if we could help them acquire the intelligence needed to replace the loony consumer culture with a new one that is far more in balance with the family of life, something similar to the Anishinabe perhaps. We need to help them as much as we can before the lights go out.
January 11, 2026
Bloodstoppers and Bearwalkers recounts folk tales that Dorson gathered from Upper Peninsula residents in the 1940s. The main text contains Dorson's narrative of how he heard the tales and the stories themselves. It is followed by an appendix with more analysis of how the tales fit into other myths and folk traditions that have been gathered around the world.
I loved the supernatural tales of loup-garous and bearwalkers, and learning more of the local Anishinaabe myths was fascinating. It's strange and wonderful to hear werewolf tales set in the area where you live. It was also curious to hear mythologized versions of events that I think of as history, like the French and Indian War. However, most of the rest of the book was not to my liking: lumberjacks and miners telling of bar fights, domestic violence, pointless murders, drinking bouts, etc.
Dorson is also extremely condescending when he talks about "the folk" versus "the intellectual" and how surprising it is to hear folk tales from educated people or hear uneducated people with a good sense of storytelling. The way he talks about Indigenous people is also dated at best, offensive at worst.
The book did make me wonder about what constitutes a "folk tale." Some of the stories seemed to just be about everyday mining accidents. (Dorson himself admits that the boundary between "folk tale" and "folk narrative" - everyday life narrated as an exciting story - is blurry.) And how can you know that the tellers aren't just coming up with something ridiculous on the spot? There's no evidence that these stories have come down through generations. Still, if you're from the UP, you'll probably enjoy this book.
I loved the supernatural tales of loup-garous and bearwalkers, and learning more of the local Anishinaabe myths was fascinating. It's strange and wonderful to hear werewolf tales set in the area where you live. It was also curious to hear mythologized versions of events that I think of as history, like the French and Indian War. However, most of the rest of the book was not to my liking: lumberjacks and miners telling of bar fights, domestic violence, pointless murders, drinking bouts, etc.
Dorson is also extremely condescending when he talks about "the folk" versus "the intellectual" and how surprising it is to hear folk tales from educated people or hear uneducated people with a good sense of storytelling. The way he talks about Indigenous people is also dated at best, offensive at worst.
The book did make me wonder about what constitutes a "folk tale." Some of the stories seemed to just be about everyday mining accidents. (Dorson himself admits that the boundary between "folk tale" and "folk narrative" - everyday life narrated as an exciting story - is blurry.) And how can you know that the tellers aren't just coming up with something ridiculous on the spot? There's no evidence that these stories have come down through generations. Still, if you're from the UP, you'll probably enjoy this book.
November 14, 2020
Ah, the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. A region which contains roughly a third of the state's landmass and only three percent of it's population. I did my undergrad at Northern Michigan University and during my time there, I fell utterly in love with the UP - and it's a love that has only grown stronger with time and distance. I still remember checking out a copy of Dorson's materpiece at the university's library and being enthralled by the tales inside. It started a habit of mine of always exploring the local folklore of a place whenever I move somewhere new. Now, this is a work of academic folklore (one of THE first works of truly academic folklore, actually. Dorson's work remains a benchmark in Folkloric studies to this day), and so this isn't the type of book you'd pick up to read a good ghost story of yarn. But the stories within are good, and yes, many of them smack of the supernatural - taken right from the mouths of Dorson's many interview subjects. Divided into several chapters, the work collects the stories of numerous groups within the Upper Peninsula, including ethnic communities (Native Americans, Finns, Cornish, etc) and profession (Lumberjacks, Miners, etc). Seriously, I can not recommend this book enough if you want to understand the soul of the UP.
September 20, 2017
Gets better every time.
January 30, 2014
In 1946 folklorist Richard Dorson crossed the Straits of Mackinac entering "an uncharted world of folk societies." He spent five months in the field interviewing Lake Superior fisherman, lumberjacks, miners, Ojibway Indians, and immigrants who worked in the copper and iron mines of the Upper Peninsula.
Dorson got the title from old-timers who said they had the power to stop blood from flowing from a wound or nosebleed, sometimes doing this over the phone. The Bearwalkers were evildoers similar to the Navajo Skinwalkers.
Some of the most fascinating passages deal with the Finlanders who emigrated from Lapland. They believed in noitas, or religious magicians, who cured the sick, charmed or cursed evildoers, and protected his people against invaders. In the old country, noitas were often burned for witchcraft. Dorson interviewed a man who claimed a noita hung by his neck for a week or two, and when he was cut down, twisted his neck about a bit and said, "This is good training for the neck muscles."
The Cornishmen, who worked in the copper mines, were almost as interesting as the Finns. These "Country Jacks" as they were called had many strange beliefs that have become local customs. A rooster crowing at midnight is the sign of death of a relative; a green Christmas makes a fat graveyard; if you wash your blankets in May, you drive your friends away; never return borrowed salt.
Dorson compares the old time lumberjacks of the Upper Peninsula to medieval knights in respect to standards of valor, honor, justice, and chivary. "The teamsters cherished their horses and the axeman their broadaxes as ever the armored knight his war steed and broadsword." Both spent a lot of time fighting for sheer fun. And, of course, they liked to drink. After six or seven months in the woods, they would blow four or five hundred dollars on rot gut whiskey.
The iron miners were another fascinating group. To kill a rat in the mine was worse than murder. Rats knew ahead when the ground was breaking; they could hear it. Also, the relationship between the miners and the owners provided grist for a curious folklorist. Cousin Jacks were followed by Finlanders, Swedes, Italians, Bohunks, Poles, and Irish. They were suspicious and envious of each other and couldn't understand each other, a situation the owners rather liked.
Dorsons chapter headings will give you a further idea of the ground he covered: Indians Stuffed and Live; Bearwalkers; Tricksters and Thunders; Canadians; Cousin Jacks; Finns; Bloodstoppers; Townsfolk; Lumberjacks; Miners; Lakesman; and Sagamen.
Dorson got the title from old-timers who said they had the power to stop blood from flowing from a wound or nosebleed, sometimes doing this over the phone. The Bearwalkers were evildoers similar to the Navajo Skinwalkers.
Some of the most fascinating passages deal with the Finlanders who emigrated from Lapland. They believed in noitas, or religious magicians, who cured the sick, charmed or cursed evildoers, and protected his people against invaders. In the old country, noitas were often burned for witchcraft. Dorson interviewed a man who claimed a noita hung by his neck for a week or two, and when he was cut down, twisted his neck about a bit and said, "This is good training for the neck muscles."
The Cornishmen, who worked in the copper mines, were almost as interesting as the Finns. These "Country Jacks" as they were called had many strange beliefs that have become local customs. A rooster crowing at midnight is the sign of death of a relative; a green Christmas makes a fat graveyard; if you wash your blankets in May, you drive your friends away; never return borrowed salt.
Dorson compares the old time lumberjacks of the Upper Peninsula to medieval knights in respect to standards of valor, honor, justice, and chivary. "The teamsters cherished their horses and the axeman their broadaxes as ever the armored knight his war steed and broadsword." Both spent a lot of time fighting for sheer fun. And, of course, they liked to drink. After six or seven months in the woods, they would blow four or five hundred dollars on rot gut whiskey.
The iron miners were another fascinating group. To kill a rat in the mine was worse than murder. Rats knew ahead when the ground was breaking; they could hear it. Also, the relationship between the miners and the owners provided grist for a curious folklorist. Cousin Jacks were followed by Finlanders, Swedes, Italians, Bohunks, Poles, and Irish. They were suspicious and envious of each other and couldn't understand each other, a situation the owners rather liked.
Dorsons chapter headings will give you a further idea of the ground he covered: Indians Stuffed and Live; Bearwalkers; Tricksters and Thunders; Canadians; Cousin Jacks; Finns; Bloodstoppers; Townsfolk; Lumberjacks; Miners; Lakesman; and Sagamen.
September 10, 2014
Bloodstoppers and Bearwalkers is a strange title for tales from Michigan's Upper Peninsula, yet at the same time most fitting. When the European man settled around logging and mining camps, they brought their old home myths and tales along. Dorson collected tales by word of mouth in the 1940's and compiled them into this collection. At times difficult reading because if the colloquialisms, I still recommend this book to any interested in the oral traditions of many various cultures which settled in Michigan's north country.
December 31, 2011
An interesting collection of folk tales from the different cultures that settled in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. The tales give some insight into how the cultures fit into the mix of the UP. I especially enjoyed the stories and viewpoints of the Cornish Jacks.
November 1, 2014
i just lost a little bit more respect for people of the U.P.
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