Monster Monday: The Nandi Bear

In the highlands of western Kenya, the land rises gently into long grass and scattered woodland. At dusk, the horizon softens. Shapes lose their edges. And in that space, between what is seen and what is assumed, something has been described for over a century.

Not a lion. Not a hyena. And not an ape. It’s not anything that fits comfortably into the known catalogue of African predators.

It has been called the Nandi Bear.

The name is misleading. There are no bears in Africa. In prehistory, the Atlas bear – a subspecies of the European brown bear, ranged from Morocco to Libya, but disappeared around 1,200 years ago. In sub-Saharan Africa, the only bear species to have ever been recorded was Agriotherium, which became extinct approximately two million years ago.

And yet, again and again, witnesses reached for that word, not because it was accurate, but because nothing else quite worked.

The Land and its People

The Nandi region is not wilderness in the romantic sense. It is lived-in land. Grazed, walked, and worked. Livestock are part of daily life, and with them comes a long, inherited awareness of predators.

In such landscapes, animals are not abstract. They are known through behaviour, through what they take, how they move, and what they leave behind.

Yet sometimes, something appears that does not behave or look as expected.

In Nandi accounts, this animal was described not just by its shape, but by its manner. It was said to move with a heavy, deliberate gait. To favour the head of its prey. To appear suddenly at the edges of habitation, then vanish just as quickly.

These are not the details of myth alone. They are the details of observation. Filtered through fear, yes, but clearly still rooted in experience.

What Is the Nandi Bear?

Descriptions of the Nandi Bear vary, but certain features repeat with striking consistency. The powerful, front-heavy build is something almost all witnesses have described. Similarly, the long, shaggy hair is inextricably linked to what we think of as the Nandi Bear.

Behaviour wise, a low, almost lumbering gait and a tendency towards being nocturnal all hint at something out-of-the-ordinary for the region.

It was also often said to attack livestock, and occasionally people, focusing on the head, and capable of crushing bone with immense force.

To European observers in the early 20th century, this was baffling. The closest comparison they could find was a bear. But what they were likely seeing, or trying to describe, was possibly something far more familiar, and yet somehow not quite right.

William Hichens and the East African Unknown

One of the most intriguing threads in the story of the Nandi Bear runs through William Hichens.

Hichens was not a passing observer. He lived and worked across Kenya and Tanzania in the early 20th century as a Colonial Administrator. Reporting accurately and subjectively was part of his everyday work, yet he took a sustained interest in reports of unusual animals. He is unusual in that he did not limit himself to a single mystery.

He investigated numerous animals now known as cryptids, and was said to have encountered three during his time in Kenya and Tanzania. These include the Agogwe (a so far undiscovered potential hominid not unlike the Orang Pendek – think in terms of a small Bigfoot), the Mngwa (a mystery big cat), and the Nandi Bear.

Of these, the Nandi Bear and the Mngwa share a particularly interesting overlap.

The Mngwa, the Nunda, and a Shared Language of Fear

Further south, in Tanzania, reports emerged of another animal: the Mngwa.

Described as a large, elusive, cat-like predator, the Mngwa was associated with sudden, violent attacks and a reputation that extended beyond any known species. Like the Nandi Bear, it existed in that uneasy space between recognition and uncertainty.

It was also known by another name: Nunda (or Nunda).

Translated loosely, this has been interpreted as meaning “fierce animal.”

The linguistic overlap is striking. Not because it proves the two creatures are the same but because it suggests a shared framework. A way of describing something dangerous that does not need to be taxonomically precise.

Hichens moved through both regions. He heard these accounts not as isolated stories, but as part of a broader pattern – a recurring idea of an animal that sits just outside the known.

During his time, Hichens also wrote articles on ‘lion men’, ‘lizard men’, and even a book on Africa’s mystery beasts. In context, he also wrote about the cultural tribal dances and their meanings, and the behaviour of leopards. Despite the sensationalism of some of his subjects, his approach was broad and open-minded in all cases.

Furthermore, the Nandi Bear is known as Chemosit by the Kalenjin of the Rift Valley, although some argue this is a slightly different animal. The same goes for the more baboon-like Koddoelo of the Pokomo people, and the Shivuverre – also from Kalenjin folklore, the Mubende Beast, and Nyangau (Swahili), all of which at some time have come under the broad description of the Nandi Bear.

Sightings, Patterns, and Silence

Accounts of the Nandi Bear persisted through the early and mid-20th century. Colonial records, settler reports, and local testimony all contributed to a body of descriptions that, while varied, retained a core consistency.

And then, gradually, they stopped. The last widely cited sighting dates to 1998. Since then, there has been silence.

This absence is often treated as evidence against the animal’s existence. But it can also be read another way. If something did exist, something rare, elusive, and already under pressure from expanding human presence, its disappearance would not be surprising.

Unfortunately, in this day and age, its extinction would be all but guaranteed.

Explanations: Known Animals, Unknown Edges

The Nandi Bear sits at an intersection where explanation becomes interpretation.

The Hyena Hypothesis

The most widely accepted explanation is the spotted hyena. Its sloping back, powerful jaws, and bone-crushing behaviour align closely with many of the descriptions.

And yet, there are discrepancies. The size. The posture. The sense, repeated in multiple accounts, that this was something heavier, more deliberate.

I’m also loathe to believe that those living among the animals of the region would make this mistake. The spotted hyena is well known, and locally called Fisi.

That said, I have seen for myself how local people can be isolated from the wildlife around them. Poverty and lifestyle can mean they simply don’t encounter them every day. But still, taking this to the point of such a major misidentification is hard to believe.

A Larger Hyena, Out of Time

Here, the thinking of Bernard Heuvelmans becomes relevant.

Heuvelmans proposed that some cryptid reports may reflect relict populations of animals thought to be extinct. In this case, that has led to speculation about larger, prehistoric hyena species surviving longer than expected in isolated regions.

There is no direct evidence for this. But the idea persists because it offers a middle ground: not myth, not fantasy, but something biologically plausible that has simply slipped through the net of formal recognition.

A similar argument could be made for the likes of Agriotherium. Agriotherium was a large, heavy-built carnivore that is considered to be the only bear to have ever colonised sub-Saharan Africa. Its fossil remains have been found throughout South Africa and Ethiopia, dating from 11 million years ago to just two million years.

Misidentification and Memory

Equally, the Nandi Bear may be an accumulation of misidentified encounters with hyenas seen under poor conditions, their features exaggerated by fear and retelling.

But this does not diminish the phenomenon. It explains how it forms, in some cases. But not necessarily all.

Why the Nandi Bear Remains

What is striking is not just that the Nandi Bear was reported but how consistently it was described, across time and by different witnesses who had no reason to align their stories.

And what is perhaps more striking still is how quietly it has faded.

No dramatic conclusion. No definitive identification. Just a gradual absence.

In that way, it resembles many of the animals that sit at the edge of human awareness. Occasionally seen, never fully understood, and eventually, perhaps, gone.

The Animal We Don’t Quite See

The Nandi Bear may never have been a single, identifiable species.

It may have been a hyena, seen differently. A memory, shaped collectively. Or, as Bernard Heuvelmans might suggest, the last trace of something that once moved more widely across the landscape.

But whatever its origin, it tells us something consistent.

That even in places we think we understand, the places mapped, named, and studied, there still remain gaps. Not just in knowledge, but in interpretation.

And sometimes, those gaps take on a formidable shape. Not fully seen. Not fully known. But still, waiting in the darkness for us to remember.

It’s an idea I’ve returned to often in my own writing—particularly in The Daughters of the Darkness, where the boundary between predator and myth can feel especially thin. Landscapes like these don’t just hold animals. They hold memory, interpretation, and the quiet suggestion that something may once have moved there that no longer does.

Or perhaps still does, just beyond the edge of certainty.

Monster Monday: The Serpent of the Pacific

Cadborosaurus and the Long Memory of the Sea

Along the rugged coastline of the Pacific Northwest, the ocean feels older than most of the towns that overlook it – which of course it is. But here, its ancientness seems to seep into the landscape, untroubled as it is from development and civilisation.

Here the mountains fall directly into deep water. Fjords cut into the land like knife wounds. Offshore, the seabed plunges quickly into abyssal depths where cold currents move through darkness few people ever see.

It is exactly the sort of place where stories grow easily.

And for more than a century, sailors, fishermen, and coastal residents have reported seeing something unusual moving through those waters – a long, serpentine creature now known as Cadborosaurus, or simply Caddy.

Whether it is a real animal, a misidentified whale, or simply a recurring maritime legend remains unresolved. But the sightings themselves are both surprisingly persistent and at least in some ways, consistent.

A Name Born in a Newspaper

The creature takes its name from Cadboro Bay, near Victoria on Vancouver Island in British Columbia.

In 1933, several witnesses reported seeing a long, serpent-like animal moving through the water. The story was picked up by Archie Willis, editor of the Victoria Daily Times, who coined the name Cadborosaurus – literally “the lizard of Cadboro Bay.”

The name was first suggested in a letter written to the Victoria Daily Times by a I. Vacedun in the same year (1933).

The nickname Caddy quickly followed. And, it must be said, the appearance of Caddy in the newspaper, just a few months after the infamous Spicer sighting of the Loch Ness Monster is unlikely to be coincidence.

Victoria Daily Times Headline, October 20, 1933.

But the sightings themselves are known to predate that newspaper headline.

Some of the earliest documented accounts date back to 1897, when witnesses Osmond Fergusson and D. Mattison produced sketches of a strange serpentine animal they had observed in the water.

Since then, reports have surfaced periodically along the Pacific coast from Oregon to Alaska, though most cluster around Vancouver Island and the inland waters of British Columbia.

Some researchers estimate more than 300 sightings across the past two centuries. Which raises a simple question. What exactly are people seeing?

What Witnesses Describe

Descriptions vary, but the core image remains remarkably consistent. Witnesses often describe a creature between 15 and 45 feet in length, moving through the water in a series of vertical undulations. In short, the accepted, looping motion of a sea serpent we imagine when the subject is raised.

Common details include:

A long neck and horse- or camel-like head
A series of vertical humps or coils trailing behind the head
Small flippers positioned near the front of the body
A tapering tail ending in a fluke
In some cases, spines or ridges along the tail

Some reports claim the animal can move with surprising speed, as much as 40 knots. However, it has to be considered that these estimates could be exaggerated guesswork made in the excitement of the moment.

Interestingly, the movement described by many witnesses, the vertical undulation, is not typical of most large marine animals.

It is, however, exactly how a long, flexible body would move if it were swimming close to the surface. But, it should also be said that many of the sightings veer from this generalised description. Some are clear cases of misidentified debris or known animals – especially out of place ones like swimming deer.

You can find reported sightings here.

The Kemp Sketch, Victoria Daily Times, October 20, 1933. Image sourced from Cadborosarus.ca.

The Scientists Who Took It Seriously

Unlike many cryptids, Cadborosaurus did attract serious scientific attention. Two Canadian researchers became particularly associated with the phenomenon:

Dr. Edward L. Bousfield, former chief zoologist at the Canadian Museum of Nature
Dr. Paul H. LeBlond, an oceanographer at the University of British Columbia

Beginning in the late 1960s, they collected eyewitness accounts and attempted to build a biological profile of the creature.

Their research culminated in a controversial proposal: that the sightings might represent a real but unrecognised marine animal, which they formally named Cadborosaurus willsi.

They even suggested the creature might be a surviving lineage of marine reptiles related to ancient sauropterygians, though this interpretation was widely criticised by other scientists.

Most marine biologists remain sceptical.

But one particular piece of evidence kept the debate alive.

The Naden Harbour Carcass

In 1937, workers at a whaling station in Naden Harbour made an unusual discovery.

While processing a recently harpooned sperm whale, they found an unidentified carcass inside the whale’s stomach.

The animal was about 10 feet long and appeared largely intact. Witnesses described it as having a dog-like or horse-like head, a long body, and a tail resembling that of a serpent.

Photographs were taken, and the carcass was transported to the American Pacific Whaling Company headquarters before being examined in Victoria.

The official verdict from the Royal British Columbia Museum was straightforward.

It was declared to be a fetal baleen whale.

And then, as happens frustratingly frequently for anyone interested in solving mysteries, the specimen disappeared. There was no museum accession record, and the carcass itself was apparently discarded.

Bousfield and LeBlond later argued, along with other scientists and researchers since, that the specimen did not match known whale anatomy, and they considered it potential evidence for Cadborosaurus.

Most zoologists remain unconvinced.

But without the specimen itself, the question cannot be settled.

The Naden Harbor Carcass: Image Credit: Cadborosaurus.ca

Could It Be a Known Animal?

Over the years, researchers have proposed a long list of explanations.

Among the most commonly suggested:

Giant eels. Large eels can reach impressive lengths and have flexible bodies that could create the looping motion reported by witnesses.

Basking sharks. When decomposing, basking sharks can lose their snouts and fins in ways that make their skeletons resemble long-necked sea serpents.

Oarfish or ribbonfish. These extremely long, ribbon-shaped fish occasionally surface in northern waters and can appear startlingly serpentine.

Unusual whale behaviour. Pods of whales or porpoises surfacing in sequence can create the illusion of a single long animal.

There are also more speculative ideas. Some have suggested a zeuglodon-like whale, similar to the extinct Basilosaurus, whose body shape was remarkably serpentine.

Others favour large conger eels, though the known breeding grounds for Atlantic eels, the Sargasso Sea, make this explanation less convincing on the Pacific coast.

In truth, every proposed solution solves some details and fails to explain others.

A Coast Made for Mysteries

Part of the reason the legend persists is the incredible geography of the region.

The Pacific Northwest coastline is immense and complex. Thousands of islands, fjords, inlets, and deep channels cut through the region. Offshore, some of the deepest trenches on Earth descend quickly to depths and regions that remain unexplored.

Many of these places are remote, difficult to access, and rarely surveyed in detail. Even today, new marine species are still being discovered in the Pacific.

That does not mean a sea serpent is waiting just beyond the next headland. But it does mean the ocean remains a place where surprises are still possible.

The Long Life of a Sea Serpent

Modern sightings of Cadborosaurus still appear occasionally, though they rarely gain much media attention. More often they pass quietly through local news, online forums, or the memories of fishermen who know these waters well.

Whether those witnesses saw a giant eel, an unusual whale, or something genuinely strange and unknown is impossible to say.

But the story itself has endured for over a century. And perhaps that persistence is the most interesting part of the mystery.

Because long before the name Cadborosaurus appeared in a newspaper, the coastal peoples of the Pacific Northwest had their own stories of serpentine creatures moving through these waters.

Stories passed down through generations. Stories of long shapes moving just beneath the surface.

Stories that still surface, now and then, whenever the sea is calm.

Monster Monday: The Yeti — Footprints in the Snow

Footprints are powerful things.

They suggest presence without confrontation — a body that was there, but no longer is. In high mountain places, where weather erases evidence quickly and distances distort scale, a single line of tracks can feel profoundly unsettling. It is no surprise that the Yeti, more than almost any other cryptid, has been defined not by clear sightings, but by impressions left behind.

The Yeti does not announce itself. It lingers at the edge of vision, half-formed in snow, mist, and memory.

The First Western Encounter

The modern Western story of the Yeti is often traced to 1921, during a British reconnaissance expedition to Mount Everest led by Charles Kenneth Howard-Bury. While crossing the Lhakpa-La pass at around 20,000 feet, members of the party observed dark figures moving across a distant snowfield. They also noted a trail of large footprints, unlike those of any animal they recognised.

Local guides described the tracks as belonging to something known in regional folklore. Through mistranslation and embellishment, this was rendered in Western newspapers as the “Abominable Snowman” — a phrase that would stick, despite being at odds with the more nuanced local descriptions. Some researchers have since suggested that elements of the original terminology may have referred more generally to wild or bear-like creatures, an ambiguity that would echo through later attempts to categorise what was seen.

What is striking about these early reports is how restrained they were. There was no claim of attack, no dramatic encounter. Just distance, scale, and uncertainty. Something large had crossed the snow.

Images are sourced from Unsplash, Pexels, or other royalty-free libraries where possible. Where not, credit is given to the original creator when available. Some images may be used under fair use for commentary or educational purposes. If you are the rights holder and have any concerns, please contact me for prompt credit or removal.

One Name, Many Creatures

One of the enduring problems in Yeti research is the assumption that it refers to a single, clearly defined animal.

Across the Himalayan region, different cultures describe different beings: some tall and upright, others smaller and more animal-like; some solitary, others encountered in pairs; some associated with high snowfields, others with dense forest. Hair colour, gait, and behaviour vary widely between accounts.

Rather than weakening the Yeti legend, this diversity strengthens it.

It suggests that “Yeti” may be a category rather than a creature, a name applied to unfamiliar encounters in extreme environments. In this sense, the Yeti functions much like other global wild-man traditions: a boundary figure, occupying the blurred edge between known animals and imagined ones.

Where the Yeti Really Lives

Popular imagery places the Yeti high on frozen ridgelines, silhouetted against endless snow. In reality, this is one of the least likely places for a large, undiscovered mammal to live year-round.

Modern thinking increasingly suggests that if a Yeti-like animal exists at all, it would spend most of its life below the snowline, in remote forests and rugged valleys where cover, food, and shelter are more reliable. Seasonal crossings of high passes could account for the famous footprints, while keeping the creature largely hidden for the rest of the year.

This reframing does not make the Yeti less mysterious, it makes it more plausible.

Footprints, Photographs, and the Problem of Proof

The most famous Yeti evidence remains the footprint photographs: oversized impressions in snow, often distorted by melt, refreeze, and shadow. These images have been endlessly reproduced, debated, and dismissed.

But footprints are inherently deceptive. Snow stretches, collapses, and reshapes under weight. Familiar animal tracks can appear enormous under the right conditions. Perspective plays tricks in featureless landscapes.

It is also worth noting that some famous Yeti evidence has been questioned long after the fact. In a handful of cases, relatives or associates of expedition members later suggested that footprints may have been exaggerated, staged, or misinterpreted. Claims that emerged decades after the original events, often when those involved were no longer alive to respond.

Whether these retrospective doubts reflect new information, fading memory, or a desire to impose rational order on unresolved stories is difficult to say. What they do illustrate is how cryptid encounters rarely end when the expedition does. They continue to evolve, shaped by cultural pressure, reputation, and our collective discomfort with uncertainty.

The footprints endure not because they are conclusive, but because they resist tidy explanation.

From Mystery to Caricature

Once the phrase “Abominable Snowman” entered Western culture, the Yeti’s fate was largely sealed. It became a creature of novelty and spectacle, sometimes threatening, often comic.

Films and television leaned into this transformation, from light-hearted moments in One of Our Dinosaurs Is Missing, to outright creature features like Abominable, and later family-friendly reimaginings such as Smallfoot.

Entertainment keeps the Yeti visible, but it also flattens it. Complexity gives way to costume. Mystery becomes marketing.

Modern adventure shows, including series like Expedition Unknown, walk a sometimes not-so-careful line between curiosity and spectacle. They undoubtedly keep public interest alive but in doing so, they risk turning genuine mystery into a checklist of expected outcomes.

A Monster That Refuses to Settle

Perhaps the Yeti’s greatest strength is its refusal to be pinned down.

It does not fit neatly into zoology, folklore, or fiction. It shifts between categories depending on who is looking, and from where. In this way, the Yeti mirrors the landscapes it is said to inhabit. Places where maps end, weather dominates, and certainty is a luxury.

The Yeti endures not because it has been proven, but because it remains unresolved. A set of footprints leading out of sight. A shape moving where nothing should be. A reminder that even in the modern world, there are still edges we do not fully understand.

If you enjoy this kind of grounded monster storytelling, my novels explore similar themes of wilderness, fear, and folklore, where the line between the known and the unknown is rarely clear.