Along Alaska's Great River by Frederick Schwatka - First Edition

Today, I met Frederick Schwatka, an Army lieutenant and explorer who, in 1883, floated with six other men down all 1,300 miles of British Columbia’s and Alaska’s wild, unforgiving Yukon River on a purpose-built river boat.

Did I say boat? I meant raft— a simple, unwieldy, 16’x42’, almost silly-looking log raft with maximum row speed of 1-mile per-hour (hold onto your fur-lined hats!)—for one of the most important river journeys in western exploration.

Published in 1885, Along Alaska’s Great River is Schwatka’s travelogue from Portland, Oregon, ascending the inland (or inside) passage to Alaska as far as the “Chilkat country,” where he and his men employed over three-dozen Chilkats to help them traverse the glacier-clad Chilkoot Pass of the Alaskan range to the headwaters of the Yukon. From there, they passed through 150 miles of lakes, rapids, etc., before floating down the main Yukon flow for over 1,300 miles. At the time, it was the longest raft journey ever recorded ‘in the interest of geographical science.’

And they did all on this…

Are you kidding me?

The thought of this 1,300-mile journey being undertaken aboard a raft without cover is mind-boggling. Even Schwatka, who’d previously endured a grueling 2,700-mile sled exploration to search for the lost Franklin Expedition, scratched his head in retrospect.

How many libraries have their books with the original “Received Dec 12, 1885” stamp?

“Looking back, it seems almost miraculous that a raft could make a voyage over thirteen hundred miles, the most difficult part of which was unknown…The raft is undoubtedly the oldest form of navigation extant, and undoubtedly the worst.”  

In books with prose often as dry as their centuries-old bindings, I was pleased to see Schwatka’s story peppered with playful wit, bordering on Twain—like here, on the way north from Portland, when his positioning ship stopped in Victoria, British Columbia on the Queen’s birthday.

“Our vessel tooted itself hoarse outside the harbor to get a pilot over the bar (shoal), but none was to be had till late in the day, when a pilot came out to us showing plainly by his condition that he knew every bar in and about Victoria.”

From Victoria, the ship continued north, through Queen Charlotte Sound, which I’ve sailed through several times, the most recent with glassy waters made rough only by surfacing whales. Schwatka and his men weren’t so lucky.

“…we again felt the “throbbing of old Neptune’s pulse,” and those with sensitive stomachs perceived a sort of flickering of their own.”

Learn as you go. That’s a key takeaway from my research of historical travelogues. Set a goal. Make it huge. Get people excited about it. Raise money to do it. Plan as well as possible. Start it. Then fight like hell to survive because your idea of your capabilities relative to nature’s is nowhere near correct. The seven-man raft crew seemed especially to have their hands full in this regard.

“…too often in the most trying places our experiments in testing the questions were failures, and with a sharp snap the oar would part…and the craft like a wild animal unshackled would go plowing through the fallen timber that lined the banks…We slowly became practical oar makers, however, and toward the latter part of the journey had some crude but effective implements that defied annihilation.”

Once again, I am astounded at the resolve and skill of these men to accomplish such a herculean task. That of the topographer is especially impressive.

“The errors in dead reckoning of Mr. Homan, my topographer, in running from Pyramid Harbor in Chilkat Inlet to Fort Yukon, both carefully determined by astronomical observations and over a thousand miles apart, was less than one percent…”

Like most explorers of the day who penned a travelogue, Schwatka is all plot, tight lipped with private feelings. But—be it a square-rigger or a bunch of logs lashed together—a captain’s bond with his vessel is special and unique in exploration—enough to make the crustiest sailor shed a tear. Here, Schwatka’s words at the end of the story say it all.

“Here too, the old raft was laid away in peace, perhaps to become kindling-wood for the trader’s stove. Rough and rude as it was, i had a friendliness for the uncouth vessel, which had done such faithful service, and borne us safely through so many trials, surprising us with its good qualities. It had explored a larger portion of the great river than any more pretentious craft, and seemed to deserve a better fate.”

An incredible accomplishment, and a nice read overall. Unfortunately, Schwatka’s personal story ended a few years later, with his death at 43—a morphine overdose deemed suicide. He seemed to deserve a better fate too.

Along Alaska’s Great River by Frederick Schwatka was read thanks to a membership at The Athenaeum of Philadelphia.

Holding History: The 1589 Printing of The Principal Navigations, Voyages and Discoveries of the English Nation

Wait, wait! I haven’t finished writing the book’s title yet: The Principal Navigations, Voyages and Discoveries of the English Nation Made By Sea or Land to the Farthest, Distant Quarters of the Earth at Any Time Within The Compass of these 1600 Years.

You get all that?

It is by Richard Hakluyt, an English writer, preacher and “sometime student of Christ-Church in Oxford.” (It actually states that in another version of the book.)

Once again, I was able to hold this piece of travel and publishing history thanks to my membership at the Athenaeum of Philadelphia, an independent member-supported library in operation since 1814. It is my favorite writing spot in the city, which I want everyone and yet no one to know about.

Like that font? It’s called Migrain. My eyes hurt after only a few lines. But what this book lacked in legibility, it gained in the sheer fact that it was written during the era of Queen Victoria I (the Uno) and I was able to hold it.

The chapters are quite literally all over the place. Bits of a voyage to Guinea, trips to Norway detailed so slowly and somehow still with so few details that I didn’t care if they made it or not, and a description of a woman, Helena, who seems to have been quite a catch back in the day. If I can sum up the 800-page tome in one line, and British exploration at that time too, it would be: “We heard they had stuff. We wanted it. Here’s how we got it.”

To pull from the book:

“Experience proveth that naturally all Princes be delirious to extend and enlarge their dominions and kingdoms.”

Another line stated that rulers who do not try to conquer others will be seen as weak by their people, and not respected. So, they sought distant lands and riches. Terrible things happened to the native inhabitants. The spoils went to the English ruling class.

Notice the change in font and style half way through “Richard Eden” in the title? That’s a 16th Century moveable type “whoops!”

As for the prose, I can only shrug. “…the regions are extremely hot and the people very black,” one story says of Africa. AFRICA!

Can’t you just feel the wind in your hair as you walk the Great Rift Valley with the Maasai, learning the mysteries of the land gleaned from millennia of oral history? Nailed it.

Several paragraphs ended with:

“And to have said this much of these voyages, it may suffice.”

Or “And to have said this much on elephants and ivory, it may suffice.”

Which is the British origin of Forest Gump’s, “And that’s all I have to say about that.”

BUT WAIT!

What REALLY made this book a treasure to hold, beyond its age, is that it was gifted to the Athenaeum by Mathew Carey (1760-1839), an Irish-born American publisher and economist who lived and worked in Philadelphia. And like any good Philadelphia story, his involves Ben Franklin, railing against the establishment, and cross dressing.

Carey started his career in Ireland as a bookseller and printer but got into trouble with the British House of Commons after publishing works that criticized the Irish Penal Code, Parliament, and dueling—not a fan. Carey fled to France where he wound up meeting and befriending Benjamin Franklin. (Because who DIDN’T know Ben Franklin back then?)

After working for Franklin for a year at his printing press in Paris, he emigrated to the newly formed United States in 1784. Upon his arrival, he was given $400 by Franklin’s buddy, Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier, Marquis de Lafayette (American Revolution, French Revolution, Napoleon. That Lafayette.) to set up his own publishing business and book shop. He became one of the biggest publishers in the country.

Oh, and since he had ticked off the British so badly, when he went from France, back to Ireland and then to America, he had to dress as a woman and sneak on the ship to avoid imprisonment. Because freedom.

To hold the book of the man who once shook Ben Franklin’s hand, Lafayette’s hand, and became a publishing tycoon in the early days of this country was a pretty mind blowing experience.

And to have said this much of Mathew Carey and his copy of The Principal Navigations, it may suffice.