The following is a Washoe Tribe tale of the naming of Lake Tahoe. This story was told to the C.F. McGlashan family by Elizabeth May, an American Indian foster child of the McGlashans. C.F. McGlashan is widely considered the patriarch of Truckee. The tale, titled The Legend of Tahoe, was published in the August 1905 edition of “Sunset” magazine. It was later reprinted in the North Lake Tahoe Bonanza on May 4, 1983. The story was written by Nonette V. McGlashan, daughter of Charls Fayette and Nona Keiser McGlashan. The Legend and history was submitted by Sierra Sun columnist Jim Porter. Jim first heard the story when it was told by the McGlashan’s granddaughter Nona in the summer of 1981 at the Old Gatekeeper’s Cabin in Tahoe City. Reprint of the story below. 

I wish I could tell the tale in the broken words and with the strange gestures of the old Indian woman, for it will doubles lose it weird pathos, even if I try every so hard to tell it exact. 

The ong was a big bird, bigger than the houses of the white man. Its body was like the eagle’s and its wings were longer than the tallest pines. Its face was that of an Indian, but covered with hard scales, and its feet were webbed. Its nest was deep down in the bottom of the lake, out in the center, and out of the nest rushed all the waters of which fill the lake. There are no rivers to feed the lake, only the waters from the ong’s nest. All the waters flow back near the bottom, in great undercurrents, and after passing through the meshes of the nest are sent forth again. Every plant and bird and animal that gets into these undercurrents, and sometimes even the great trout that are swept into the net-like nest and there are held fast to furnish food for the ong. 

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He ate everything, he liked everything, but best of all he liked the taste of human flesh. No one ever heard or saw anything of such poor mortals as were drowned in these waters, for their bodies were carried to the ong’s nest and no morsel ever escaped him. Sometimes he would fly about the shores in quest of some child, or woman or hunter, yet he was a great coward and was never known to attack any one in a camp, or when two or more were together. No arrow could pierce his feathers, nor could the strongest spear do more than glance from the scales on his face and legs, yet his coward’s heart made him afraid, for his toes had no claws, and his mouth no beak. 

Late one fall the Washoes were making their final hunt before going to the valleys and leaving the lake locked in its winter snows. The chief’s daughter was sixteen years old, and before leaving the lake he must select the greatest hero in the tribe for her husband, for such had been the custom of the Washoe chiefs ever since the tribe had come out of the Northland. Fairer than ever Indian maiden had been was this daughter, and every unmarried brave and warrior in the tribe wished that he had performed deeds of greater prowess, that he might be certain of winning the prize. That last night at the lake, around the big council fire, each was to recount to the chief the noblest achievement of his life, and when all were heard the chief would choose, the women would join the circle, and the wedding take place. For many years the warriors had looked forward to this event, and the tribe had become famed because of acts of reckless daring performed by those who hoped to wed the chief’s daughter.  

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It was the morning of the final day and much game and great stores of dried trout were packed ready for the journey. All were preparing for the wedding festivities, and the fact that no one knew who the bridegroom would be, among all that mighty band of warriors, lent intense excitement to the event. All were joyous and happy except the maiden and the handsome young brave to whom she had given her heart. In spite of custom or tradition her love had long since gone out to one whose feet had been too young to press the warpath when last the tribe gave battle to their hereditary foes, the Paiutes. He never had done deed of valor, nor could he even claim the right to sit with the warriors around the council fire. All day long he had been sitting alone on the jutting cliffs which overhung the water, far away from the laughter and shouts of the camp, eagerly, prayerfully watching the great Lake. Surely the Great Spirit would hear his prayer and give him the moment he longed for, yet he had been here for days and weeks in unavailing prayer and waiting.  

The afternoon was well-nigh spent and the heart of the young brave had grown cold as stone. In his bitter despair he sprang to his feet to defy and curse the Great Spirit in whom he had trusted, but ere he cold utter the words, his very soul stood still for joy. Slowly rising from the center of the Lake, he saw the dreaded Ong.

Circling high in the heavens like a great black thundercloud, the monster swept now here, now there, in search of prey. The young brave stood erect and waited. When the Ong was nearest he moved about slightly to attract its notice. He did not have long to wait. With a mighty swoop, the bird dashed to earth, and as he arose, the young brave was seen by all to be clasped fast in its talons. A great cry of horror arose from the camp, but it was the sweetest note the young brave had ever heard. the bird flew straight up into the sky until lake and forest and mountain seemed small and dim.

When it reached a great height it would drop its prey into the lake and let the current draw it to the nest. Such was its custom, and for this the brave had prepared by unwinding from his waist a long buckskin cord and tying himself firmly to the ong’s legs. The clumsy feed could not grasp him so tightly as to prevent his movements. At last, the great toes opened wide, but the Indian did not fall. Again, they closed and opened and the enraged bird thrust down his head to see why his victim refused to fall. In a mighty rage the ong tried in vain to grasp him in his teeth, but the strong web between the bird’s toes sheltered him.

Again, and again the bird tried to use his horrid teeth, and each time his huge body would fall through the air in such twistings and contortions that those who watched below stared in bewilderment. But what the watchers could not see was that every time the huge mouth opened to snap at him, the young brave hurled a handful of poisoned arrowheads into the mouth and down the big throat, their sharp points cutting deep into the unprotected flesh. The bird tried to dislodge him by rubbing his feet together, but the thong held firm.

Now it plunged headlong into the lake, but its feet were tied so that it could not swim, and though it lashed the waters into foam with its great wings, and though the man was nearly drown and wholly exhausted, the poison caused the frightened bird such agony that it suddenly arose and tried to escape by flying toward the center of the lake. The contest had lasted long and the darkness crept over the lake and into the darkness the bird vanished.  

The women had been long in their huts ere the council fire was kindled and the warriors gravely seated themselves in its circle. No such trifling event as the loss of a young brave could be allowed to interfere with so important an event, and from most of their minds he had vanished. It was not so very unusual for the ong to claim a victim, and, besides, he had been many times warned by his elders that he should not go hunting alone as had been his habit of late. 

But while the warriors were working themselves up to a fine frenzy of eloquence in trying to remind the old chief of their bygone deeds of daring, an Indian maiden was paddling a canoe swiftly and silently toward the middle of the lake. Nona, the chief’s daughter, understood no more than the rest why her lover had not been dropped into the lake nor why the ong had acted so queerly, but she knew that she could die with her lover. She took her own frail canoe because it was so light and easy to row, though it was made for her when a girl, and would scarcely support her weight now. It mattered nothing to her if the water splashed over the sides; it mattered nothing how she reached her lover. She kept saying his name over softly to herself, “Tahoe! My darling Tahoe!” 

When the council was finished, the women went to her hut to bid her come and hear the decision her father was about to render. The consternation caused by her disappearance lasted until the rosy dawn tinged the Washoe peaks and disclosed to the astounded tribe the body of the ong floating on the waters above its nest, and beside it an empty canoe. In the foreground, and gently approaching the shore, was the strangest craft that ever floated on water! It was one of the ong’s great wings, and the sail was the tip of the other wing! Standing upon it, clasped in each other’s arms was the young brave Tahoe and the daughter of the chief. In the shouts of the tribe, shouts in which warriors and women and children mingled their voices with that of the chief, Tahoe was proclaimed the hero of heroes! The decision was rendered, but the ong’s nest still remains, and the drowned never rise in Lake Tahoe.