What Lurks North explores cryptid sightings, haunted places, and forgotten folklore from the Great White North. If you love the unknown, you've found your next obsession.
Podcast Host, Script Writer: Sunnie G. Music Score, Sound Design & Background Music by Jun Low
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Beneath the ice beneath the pine an older rhythm keeps the time. Drumming the earth breathing the storm this northern land is not alone. From tundra bear to seed of life, from prairie cold to great spine, where northern lights and silent spend and winter.
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That the choices you make in life sometimes catch up with you in ways you never imagined. And then there are the men who get caught between worlds. Not punished in the fire, not sent to rest, but condemned to right the wrongs they left behind. Out in the forests of Labrador, people tell stories about a man who's just that. His name is Old Smoker. You've rode this trail a thousand times. You know every turn, every bend, and every snow-drifted ridge. But tonight feels different. The light is flat. Your own footprints blur under a thin layer of fresh snow. Your dogs hesitate, sniffing the air, ears flicking to some sound you can't hear yet. You tell yourself it's nothing. You've done this before. Then the wind shifts. A low whistle threads through the trees, carrying a sharp, sudden crack. A whip. Your heart jumps. The dogs pull against the harness, anxious. You strain to see through the falling snow, but nothing comes into view. And then you hear it again. A voice. Distant and steady. Not urgent, just calling commands you can't quite make sense of. Shapes move between the trees. Fourteen dogs, each one impossibly white, moving in perfect rhythm. And behind them, a figure. He's tall, covered head to toe in white furs. His face is obscured, but somehow you feel he's studying your every movement. The sled he's on doesn't drag, doesn't falter. It floats across the snow like the ground itself is carrying it. Your dogs stiffen. You can't move. He stops in front of you and turns back. You can't look away. His voice comes again, clearer this time, direct. You feel it in your chest more than your ears. Follow. Something inside you tightens. Rational thought disappears. You realize you can't stop. You yell for your dogs to pull forward, and they follow your lead. Your team falls in line behind him, almost instinctively, pulled by some invisible thread. Suddenly, the storm thickens. Snow bites at your face. Visibility drops to near zero. Every tree looks the same. Every turn is a mirror of the last. And still, he moves ahead, steady, unfaltering, guiding. Minutes stretch like hours. Your muscles ache. You wonder if this was really the trail you've known all your life, or if you've been somewhere else entirely, lost in the snow and trees, and only now been found. Then, faintly at first, a shape emerges in the distance. A cabin. Warm light spilling from its windows. Shelter. Safety. You pull your dogs to a stop and blink. The white shapes are gone. The wind carries only your own breath. No figure. No other sled. No other dogs. Nothing but snow and silence. You don't question it. You just know. Somewhere out there, moving ahead in the storm, old smoker is still guiding. And because you noticed him, you lived to see another day. Old Smoker is rooted in Labrador folklore. It all leads back to a man from Newfoundland named Esau, who crossed into Labrador to trap. When trapping didn't work, he turned to bootlegging. He was eventually caught by the RCMP, sent to jail, but returned with a plan. White huskies, a white painted sled, and white furs from head to toe. He moved through storms, rendering himself almost invisible. He peddled a harsh moonshine that they referred to as smoke, so he quickly earned the nickname Smoker. The legend says he met his end in a fall, his back broken, but not before promising that he'd spend whatever came next making up for all he'd done in life. And so he did. Old Smoker became a wandering guardian of the winter trails, warning travelers of storms, guiding the lost, and appearing only when he was needed. One Canadian remembers his encounter with him clearly. Back in the 1950s, the man and his friend were cutting wood by a small cabin when the stillness of the late afternoon turned heavy. A whip cracked across the trees. And then a voice, low and commanding, calling out to dogs they couldn't see. Another crack, sharp and echoing, followed. The two men looked at each other and somehow knew it was old Smoker. They decided then and there that they had to leave. They gathered their things quickly and made for shelter. Half an hour later, the storm hit. White out conditions rolled in. Snow and wind reducing the world to gray and white. Had they lingered, they might not have found their way back or survived. Out in Labrador, people know the land speaks. Old Smoker is one of those voices. He isn't here to harm you, but he demands attention. And he deserves respect. If you hear him, you don't call out. His voice will reach you if he wants it to. And trying to summon it will only confuse the path he's guiding you on. He'll let you know when to move when you hear the whip crack or the faint commands to his ghostly dogs. It's not a warning to run, it's a guide. A signal that the trail you thought you knew has changed and you need to follow. If he shows you a way, you trust it. Don't break off to explore and don't second guess him. Step out of line, and the guidance disappears. Now, it's not just him you're respecting. It's the land, the forests, the frozen trails, the snow, and even the wind. Watching, listening, and noticing the shifts in the world around you. That's what allows him to do what he does. You honor him when you honor the wilderness itself. Old Smoker is in a spirit of vengeance. He doesn't punish curiosity or courage. He only shows the way for those who pay attention, who move with care, and who allow the world and him to work in the order they were meant to. The legend runs deepest along the isolated stretches of Black Tickle and Porcupine Bay in Labrador. These are lands where the forest meets the sea, where spruce and fir grow thick and the wind can whip through the trees with sudden fury. The trails here are narrow and winding, often hidden under drifts of snow that can rise faster than anyone expects. The people who live in these parts know the rhythm of the land, the sound of the ice shifting underfoot, the subtle cues that tell you a storm is near. And it's in these spaces where visibility can vanish in an instant, and the wilderness feels vast and unknowable that old smoker is said to appear most often. Even when the wind dies down and the snow settles, the memory of him lingers. It's in the hush between trees, the quiet stretches where the trail disappears into the white, where the world feels empty yet full of possibility. So when you hear cracks in the wind, when a storm appears to be rolling in faster than it should, when the trail you know twists into something unrecognizable, remember, old smoker isn't out to scare you. Sometimes he's the hand that guides you home. Next Monday, we head to Lake Okanagan, where the calm surface hides depths that have inspired stories for generations. Those who live near the lake know to keep their eyes open and their questions closer. Not all of what moves beneath the water is meant to be seen. This has been what lurks north. Stay safe out there.
