Although water witching, or dowsing — the location of underground water resources by use of a willow wand or some other sort of divining rod — was common in the settler society of the northern plains, the practice had its contemptuous critics.
And not only among the scientific fraternity. In 1907 the Jamestown Alert cautioned the public that persons plying devices of divination were hoodwinking “uneducated people.” Some of the dowsers were “perfectly honest” in their beliefs they could tap into “electrical energy” to locate water — but it only worked where there was plenty of water to be found thereabouts.
In 1901 the Press of Dickinson reported one local citizen had his wrist “severely wrenched” while exploring for water with a dowser, and another received “a terrific shock.” In all seriousness, the editor called on the legislature to ban water witching in the interest of public safety.
“Why is it,” asked the sophisticated Fargo Forum in 1911, “that every farmer employs a water witch before digging a well?”
Every neighborhood has its man with second sight and the power to charm away warts. Usually he also is the water witch.
Of course water is usually found. It can be found almost anywhere if a well is sunk deep enough.
Like the phrenologist and the clairvoyant, [the dowser] goes triumphantly onward, heralded as a man of supernatural powers.
The dowsers themselves claimed no supernatural status; they said they tapped into natural forces. They advertised their services — as did J. A. Johnson, from near Jamestown, who boasted of the fine wells he had located and declared, “I can convince almost anybody that water can be located by use of a steel ‘water witch.’”
Likewise, John Baldson, over at Osnabrock, was a celebrated dowser. And these are just examples of known and respected practitioners across the country. Baldson was an old settler — had come to Cavalier County from Ontario in 1886 — had held multiple local offices — and was a Republican state legislator. He was no quack.
The discussion continued. In 1944 an official of the state board of health condemned dowsers for inflicting drudgery on farm wives. Often, he alleged, they recommended location of a well distant from the farmhouse, when one could just as well have been secured nearby, thus saving the labor of fetching in water.
The town of Fessenden had a dispute in the late 1940s when the town fathers relied on a water witch to locate a city well — which, although good for a brief time, soon was depleted, and they had to secure water via a pipeline run out to Heimdahl.
One of my bright students recently has been going through records in the university archives of folklore collections made in the 1980s. She finds that when researchers interviewed water witches, the sessions quickly turned into how-to tutorials. I am certain that today, within the sound of my voice, there are believers and practitioners of water witching listening and nodding.
