King of the Forest

An Adirondack magnate and his palace in the wild

Story by Benjamin Pomerance

Edward H. Litchfield lay on his belly, sketching away. An open sketchbook sat on the ground in front of him, an 11-year-old boy’s visual diary of his family’s trip to Germany. A half-finished rendering of a castle covered the page in front of him. The rest of the book contained similar images, memories of the wonderful things he had seen—animals and armor but most of all castles, beautiful medieval citadels like nothing he had ever seen at home in America. Someday, the boy thought to himself, I won’t have to draw castles. I’m going to have one of my very own. I’m going to be king.

''I have a sketch book my grandfather used at the age of eleven on a trip to Germany,'' Pieter Litchfield, Jr. recalls today. ''He sketched castles, animals, and armor. When he was older and successful, he was still interested in castles, animals, and armor.''

"When he was older and successful, he was still interested in castles, animals and armor."

Edward H. Litchfield stood in the woods, wondering why he was there. Nothing but trees surrounded him in the Adirondack wilderness, a seemingly boring trip for a 21-year-old used to living in the lap of luxury in New York City. Yet Edward was astonished by what he saw—the creatures of the forest, the fish of the streams, the sunsets that looked like Monet had flung his palette at the sky. Everything here was so different, a universe apart from his family’s mansion in the ritzy Prospect Park neighborhood of Brooklyn. Perhaps even then, in that summer of 1867, the monarch-to-be realized this would be the place to build his kingdom.

Edward H. Litchfield stood in the woods again, happy to be back. Nobody knows for sure why he came back to Adirondack Park. Heaven knows, he didn’t have to. That 11-year-old artist had grown into an overnight success, a wealthy lawyer whose name had become one of the most noted in all of New York City. The gates of the world were open to the young millionaire, the portals of the late-1800s high society begging for his entry. Yet something deep within young Edward yearned for the woods, calling him back to the site of that family vacation in 1867. In 1893, the Adirondacks got their wish. Edward came up by train from New York City, following the route taken by so many rich and famous capitalists of that era, disembarking in the village of Tupper Lake. There, he found a guide, a man of the woods known only as "Puffer," an Adirondacker entrusted with the task of helping the affluent tourist find the best places to hunt and fish. When they set out on that summer day, ''Puffer'' hadn’t an inkling that he would end up being entrusted with helping Edward make one of the biggest purchases of his entire life.

Edward H. Litchfield surveyed the land around him, slowly taking out his wallet. Nobody knows for sure what made Edward decide to buy the land that day, no more than they know what made him come back to the Adirondacks in the first place. Yet his grandson thinks he has a pretty good idea. ''He was still interested in castles, animals, and armor,'' Pieter Litchfield says. ''I can’t say for certain, but I assume it was pretty much a lifelong obsession that he finally had the means to finance.''

So that day in 1893 when Edward and ''Puffer'' came across an 8,000-acre tract of land that was for sale, the lawyer asked the guide what he thought of the land and "Puffer," presumably, gave his approval. That was all Edward needed. He bought the entire package right on the spot, trading the owner $25,000 for the deed to the undeveloped property. To many outsiders, it seemed as if Edward had lost his mind. To Edward, it seemed as if he was just starting to find it.

Castles and armor would have to wait. Animals came first for Edward at this time in the millionaire’s life. He wasted no time in turning the land near the present-day hamlet of Long Lake into a nature park, the sort of luxurious game preserve he had seen while visiting some of the finest estates in Europe with his family. After surrounding the periphery of his newly acquired 8,000 acres—which Edward promptly christened ''Litchfield Park''—with fifteen miles worth of wire-mesh fence, he began his hunt for animals. This would not be a sanctuary for mundane creatures like ducks and deer, he decided. Instead, Litchfield Park would be a home for exotic animals, a natural haven like none the aged mountains had ever seen.

Elk arrived first, twelve cows, and one bull carried by steamer from Wyoming in the summer of 1894. Several calves were born that first year, and Edward was encouraged. More elk arrived in the ensuring five years, many of them giant creatures weighing more than 300 pounds each, as did moose of similarly gargantuan proportions. Enthralled by his early success, he sent away for more unusual creatures to roam his land. By the turn of the century, he boasted a menagerie that may have bee the most eclectic in America. Black-tail bucks from Germany, fox squirrels and pheasants from England, Angora goats from Turkey, jackrabbits from Kansas and wild quail from Georgia could all be seen on Edward’s property on any given day.

Edward H. Litchfield crouched low, staring at his herd through the lens of a telescope. He loved to hunt, but using his animals as prey was only a secondary purpose of Litchfield Park. The ultimate goal of his game preserve was to amuse his guests by letting them watch his exotic creatures at play. To aid this objective, he installed high-powered telescopes in his ''hunting house'' on Beaver Brook and in the tea house he constructed on the shores of Duck Lake. One particular moose calf became quite used to this constant human contact, flattering and cajoling table scraps from Litchfield Park guests on a regular basis. Eventually, he was allowed in the hunting house on a regular basis, given the name of ''Bolivar,'' and permitted to join Edward and company in their daily activities, including mealtimes.

Yet while the early years of Edward’s game preserve were a resounding success, it soon became evident that Litchfield Park would never live up to the expectations of its owner. Of all the species Edward attempted to introduce to the mountains, only one—the beaver, which was extinct in the Adirondacks when Edward founded Litchfield Park but plays a very prominent role in the Adirondack ecosystem today—survived more than a decade. Most of these European species died off in the sub-zero Adirondack winters; those not killed by cold were easy prey for the carnivores of the mountains.

The coup de gras came in 1902, when Edward spent hundreds of thousands of dollars purchasing a herd of wild boar from a German zookeeper. Edward’s goal was to host the first boar hunts in America, a plan which backfired in more ways than one. Not only did the harsh winters and lack of forage food on the Litchfield Park grounds lead to the elimination of the entire herd in less than ten years, but the few boars that did survive the winters frequently turned the tables on the hapless hunters. More than once, Edward and his distinguished guests were forced to spend the night in a tree, cornered by the very quarry they were trying to hunt. When the last boar died in 1911, one can’t help but wonder if visitors to Litchfield Park were more relieved than sad.

Edward H. Litchfield sat alone in his  Prospect Park home, dejected. The year was 1910 when Edward reluctantly gave up his dream of a home for exotic animals. Yet the millionaire landowner’s melancholy didn’t last long. Something triggered a buried impulse, re-ignited a boyhood passion deep within the man. Later that year, he began making it a reality.

''I can’t speak for certain, but I assume it was pretty much a lifelong obsession he finally had the means to finance.''

''Castles, animals, and armor,'' Pieter Litchfield repeats about his grandfather. ''I can’t speak for certain, but I assume it was pretty much a lifelong obsession he finally had the means to finance.''

He had the means and the kingdom; all he needed now was the finishing touch. In 1911, he began working on it, a secret endeavor Edward revealed only to his closest friends. By summer, a virtual city had been erected on the grounds of Litchfield Park—now up to 12,000 acres—with 600 workmen canvassing the grounds. Edward was building a new home, a structure on a bluff overlooking his private lake, with most of the rooms facing westward so inhabitants could enjoy the setting sun. That much the outside world was allowed to know. What they didn’t know was that New York City architect Donald Barber, a Litchfield family friend, was designing it and Scottish engineer Robert Craig, who had been the private builder for William Randolph Hearst, was supervising its construction. Edward was providing the $500,000 necessary to make it happen. And the new home, the showpiece of Litchfield Park, would be nothing less than a castle.

Edward H. Litchfield walked through the construction site, glancing from side to side at the workers around him. Most were Italians, labor gangs recruited in Italy with claims of a rosy future in America before being herded onto boats and shipped across the Atlantic in steerage. In Litchfield Park, they lived in rough-hewn shacks and in tents, and never left the premises of Edward’s estate unless they quit or were fired. Surprisingly, their biggest complaint was neither the rustic living conditions nor the constant attacks from mosquitoes and black flies. Instead, it was the occasional encounter with Edward’s animals that drove the workmen crazy. More than once, a worker would awaken in the night only to see the eyes of a bull moose or cow elk staring back at them, scavenging for the table scraps Edward’s guests had accustomed them to receiving.

It took two full years of labor to complete the palatial structure Edward demanded. Yet when work finally ceased on Nov. 17, 1913, the edifice that stood on a bluff overlooking Edward’s private lake defied description. Built entirely from pink Morris granite, Litchfield Castle rose eighty feet into the air, stretching 146 feet from turret to turret. The front of the chateau, accessible only by a five-mile tree-lined driveway, sported a 700-foot veranda guarded by a pair of marble wolfhounds; the rear, facing the lake, was terraced with granite retaining walls and massive bay windows. Inside, more than 100 rooms were ready for habitation, each featuring its own custom-designed ceiling and most sporting fireplaces of black marble. The centerpiece of the entire structure was the Trophy Room, a chamber of mammoth proportions designed by Edward himself. At one end stood the 15-foot-tall fireplace from the Madison Avenue apartment of architect Stanford White, while the other side boasted a doorway that once stood in the entrance of a home in Pompeii. Between these two features, and beneath a 35-foot-high ceiling designed by Louis Tiffany, were works of art, antique furniture and, most prominently, Edward’s own hunting trophies. The castle was finished, ready for its king.

''Nobody in these hills have ever seen a place like this before.''

Edward H. Litchfield stood in his great hall like a proud father, a flock of visitors circled around him. ''Nobody in these hills have ever seen a place like this before,'' Roger Craig allegedly told Edward after his citadel was completed, ''and nobody will see one like it again, either.'' Edward couldn’t have agreed more. Eager to display his chateau to the world, he opened the park for visitors every Thursday, leading them through his house and grounds like a proud father. Yet in 1928, the visits suddenly stopped. Souvenir hunters had been robbing the king of the castle, making off with pieces of the statues, chunks of marble from the fireplaces and even a bottle of Scotch from the dining room sideboard. Livid, the monarch of the wild closed his wrought iron gates, cutting off the public from his empire forever.

''There was a significant amount of vandalism,'' Pieter Litchfield says. ''In addition, a portion of the estate was opened for public hunting, but after some abuses, that practice was stopped as well.''

To this day, the pallor of these exploitations hangs over Litchfield Park. The Park, now consisting of 28,000 acres of valuable timber, has been expanded enough to gain its own ZIP code. Only a small wooden sign marks the heavily electronically guarded entrance, and the structure Edward once loved to show off to the world cannot even be seen from the road. Those select few who see it, though, say it is a sight to behold. Long Lake photographer Jonathan Esper says admittance to the castle was well worth the $100 he paid for a rare open house. ''I was most impressed by the size and collection of the private library, as well as the great room with all the animal trophy heads,'' Esper remembers of his visit. ''I drive by the entrance road to Litchfield Park all the time, so it was nice to finally see what was back in those woods.''

Back in those woods, Litchfield Castle still stands, now the summer residence for Pieter Litchfield and his family, forever emanating its original air of medieval grandeur to the few who are permitted to see it. And somewhere safe in the Litchfield family home rests a child’s sketchbook, the original plans still intact for an 11-year-old boy who knew someday he would grow up to be king of the forest.

Do you know any stories about Litchfield Park?