Just in time for good weather when reading on your device is not high priority here in the Northern Hemisphere - here is the last installment.
The wind was sweeping up the entire 120 miles of Lake Champlain's length, and in the great canyon between the Green Mountains of Vermont and the Adirondacks of New York, Champlain was a cauldron of heaving and trembling fury. Coming out of the Richelieu above the last Canadian bridge where the draw keeper nearly blew all the steam out of his boiler saluting us with his whistle, we hugged the Vermont side of the lake. Coming up in the lee of the Rutland railroad trestle, which partially broke the force of the waves, we slid under the drawbridge and took the whole force of the lake quartering on our port bow while we ran for Rouses Point. The quiet water back of the breakwater and in front of Marnes' Inn looked mighty good to us, even though Champlain was piling completely over the breakwater. Leaving Wilton with the boat, and Spy hunting rats along the breakwater, I went ashore and reported to the American immigration officers. I then went to the Customs House, declared all goods purchased in Canada, and returned to the boat with the inspector. The officer, a good-natured gentleman by the Teutonic name of Cavanaugh, inspected our boat and cargo by looking at it from the shore.
Weather conditions kept us at Rouses Point until the morning of September twenty-sixth. It poured down rain, and the wind blew a near tornado without ever a lull. On the morning of the twenty-fifth, when we hoped to get under way down the lake a 50-foot Government rum chaser put out from Rouses Point. They went right out, turned around, and came right back again. The skipper declared the lake too rough for them. If it was too rough for their boat, it was certainly too rough for us. There was nothing for us to do but keep company with Dr. Marnes at his hotel, and hope for better weather.
On the morning of the twenty-sixth, the hoped-for better weather came in the form of a fair day and moderate wind. The lake was still rough, but after what I'd seen of it I was for getting down Lake Champlain - and out of it, as fast as we could possibly make the 120 mile run. So, we got an early seat, hugged the New York shore down around Cumberland Head, missed Plattsburg by six miles, and headed for Valcour Island.
From the south end of Valcour Island we drove diagonally across the lake to Burlington, picked up some mail and telegrams, and cruised down and across the lake to Essex, New York. At Essex we found two hotels boarded up for the winter, but succeeded in finding a woman who operated a sort of boarding house. She took pity on us and provided us with food and beds.
As may well be imagine, in cruising from Oregon to Vermont, a distance of nearly 5,000 miles over the inland waterways; we had successfully voided every peril to which an 18-foot boat could be exposed in making such a journey. Over that entire route one of Wilton's worst fears had been we might have a collision with some other boat when we got into eastern waters where boats are numerous. But, he'd been crossing a bridge that never existed, because when we got into the waters where such a mishap might be dreaded, all the boats had been pulled for the winter. We had the water pretty much to ourselves.
It was thus somewhat of a surprise when we cruised down the Vermont side of Lake Champlain near mid-day on September twenty-seventh, and sighted a motor boat. The boat, a cabin cruiser, appeared through my glasses to be in trouble. It was dangerously near a rocky shore, drifting apparently without power, and on a sea that was far from placid. We cruised on, and when we got near the other craft it was evident that she and her crew were in trouble. Gazing through the glasses I saw two men struggling desperately to get securely anchored. The main anchor was down, but the boat was rapidly swinging around toward the rocks.
Running alongside the cruiser, I called out to a man who was fumbling with a coil of rope: "Throw us a line, and we'll tow you off." The line sang through the air, I caught it, and in less time than it takes to tell it, we had the larger craft in tow and we were heading for open water. The boat would have made about ten of ours', and with the thing tied on astern of us, in a strong headwind and a rough sea, it seemed we were trying to pull down the State of Vermont. For a minute or more Transcontinental thrashed the water and never moved but up and down on the waves. But gradually the bow of the cruiser swung around, and we began to move. After we had overcome inertia, the wind, and the pounding sea, we had about a half knot of speed ahead left which could be converted into a towing service.
Having acquired somewhat of a white elephant, I began studying our charts in an effort to see where our burden could be safely disposed of. The most likely place seemed to be Basin Harbor, Vermont, about three miles south of the pint where we took the boat in tow. Eventually we got to this beautiful land-locked little cove, with a mud bottom and just the right depth for anchoring; dragged the cruiser in, and cast her off. When the men aboard the cruiser got their anchor down we went alongside and boarded the craft.
A man came across the deck, and extending his hand, said: "Tripp is may name. Which of you gentlemen is Mr. Hoag?" The matter of getting acquainted was quickly disposed of. The two men were Leon L. Tripp, and George Hisgen, the President and Treasurer respectively of the Albany Boat Corporation at Watervleit, New York. Getting acquainted with these gentlemen under such circumstances was one of the greatest pleasures of our cruise in eastern waters.
A few minutes after we'd gone aboard their boat, Mr. Tripp stared at me as if in dumfounded amazement. I was actually beginning to feel somewhat annoyed under his gaze when he spoke, saying: "We've been reading about you boys all summer. What stroke of fate or Providence was it that brought you all the way from the Pacific Ocean to take us in tow just at the moment we needed it - and this, when we are probably the only two boats on this enormous lake?" It was a coincidence if there ever was such a thing, but we felt the pleasures of it were ours.
The boat which Mr. Tripp and Mr. Hisgen were operating was Tramp II, the property of Mr. Hisgen. It had been sunk in Lake Champlain, the men had raised it, and were taking it back to Albany for repairs. Being in bad condition, ignition troubles had put their motor out of commission a few minutes before we took them in tow. To get under way again required a hot battery and certain parts which could be obtained in Vergennes, Vermont, the nearest town of any consequence. Mr. Tripp and I went ashore, and eventually found a farmer with a rank down-east dialect who agreed to drive us to Vergennes with a flivver. It was late in the evening before we got back with the supplies. No hotel accommodations being available at Basin Harbor, Wilton and I remained aboard the cruiser. While the other men busied themselves at cobbling up the motor, I went to work and prepared a meal in the galley.
Tramp II in her crippled condition had about the same speed as Transcontinental, so on the following day the two boats cruised on down Lake Champlain together. We were soon down in that portion of the lake where the shores narrow to form sort of a motionless river. Both boats got an uninterrupted day of cruising, and tied up at Whitehall, New York at the southern end of Lake Champlain. Beautiful as Lake Champlain was, we were glad to get out of its troubled waters. The best part of it was that we had before us only the run through the Champlain Canal to the Hudson, and down the Hudson to New York City to complete the run of 5,280 miles across North America. We had been on the cruise so long that it seemed like a dream to think we were actually nearing the end of it. Prior to leaving Los Angeles on the ocean to ocean motor boat cruise I had some correspondence with the superintendent of Public Works at Albany in regard to taking the boat through the New York State Canals.
I had received some descriptive literature, and a letter from the Superintendent stating that the only condition necessary for transiting the canals was the issuance of a permit, which would be granted upon application. It was further stated that the permit would be issued upon application to the office in Albany, or by the canal officer in charge at the point of entry. So, upon our arrival at Whitehall, I called at the canal office to request a permit. "What sort of boat have you got", asked the officer as he withdrew a pad of blanks to enter the routine data.
"It's an eighteen foot gasoline boat," I replied.
"What's your power plant?"
"Two four horse power Evinrude motors.", I replied.
"Are those outboard motors?
"Yes, Sir."
"Then we can't give you a permit. No outboard motors are allowed in the canals."
No here was a facer for fair! After the correspondence regarding getting through the New York State Canals, being told that the canals were state property, and that they were available for my use upon request - I'd traveled some 5,000 miles to get to the Champlain Canal, and was hung up on the gate posts! I endeavored to explain the situation, but the canal officer was obdurate - wooden headed.
"I've got orders to issue no no permits to boats powered by outboard motors. Orders are orders. I can't give you a permit, and you can't travel on the canal without one. That settles it!"
"You may think it settles it," I replied, "but it doesn't. I'm either going through this canal with my boat, or I'm going to smoke out your whole damned canal administration; if I have to start with Governor Smith and work down!"
The canal officer laughed derisively - "How do you think you are going to do that?", he chuckled.
"By the power of the press!", I retorted. "Every newspaper in the United states is interested in my trip. The editors are keeping the wires hot to obtain every word of news about the first boat that ever crossed North America. The people of the State of new York built this canal, and the administration denies me the right to use it for the sole reason that my boat is driven by a type of power that you see fit to discriminate against. If I tell that story to the Associated Press Press, every newspaper in the United States will have it on the front page tomorrow. Somebody in Albany will have a hard time explaining to the people of the State of New York. I've told my story, and if there is anything more to be told I'll tell it to the whole nation in tomorrow's newspapers!"
The canal officer dug his scalp with his fingernails, and gazed at me as if he didn't exactly know what to do or say. I turned on my heel to leave, and was almost out the door when he called - "Hold on, just a minute, Mister. I'm going to call Albany on the phone."
In a few minutes he had Mr. Fuller on the phone, the Superintendent, and the man with whom I had exchanged correspondence. The two talked for several minutes. The, the canal officer handed me the phone, saying, "Mr. Fuller wished to speak with you."
I took the phone, and got a long-winded ear-full explaining outboard motors had been ruled out of the New York State Canals because several accidents had occurred by reason of small boats being squeezed by heavier craft when passing through the locks.
I told the Superintendent that I was perfectly willing to travel the canal at my own risk, but he didn't see how any exception could be made from the ruling in force.Seeing that I could catch no flies with sweetened water, I told the Superintendent precisely what I intended to do if I was denied the use of the canal.
At this he was evidently annoyed, and said: "Very well, if you believe you can threaten me and intimidate me into making an exception in your case, I may as well hang up the phone."
"Hang up if you care to," I replied, "but if you do, you'll regret it tomorrow."
For the next half minute there was dead silence in the telephone receiver, but no sound of the receiver having gone back on the hook at the Albany end of the wire. Then came the voice again - "Let me speak with the Whitehall officer."
I handed the telephone to the canal officer, and there was an almost whispered conversation between Whitehall and Albany for several minutes. Finally the Whitehall officer hung up the phone, took his pad, and began to write.
"Well, what's the verdict?" I asked. "I'm writing your permit." he replied.
After the extraordinary courtesy we had received in the Canadian Canals this introduction to the administration of the the New York State Canals seemed anything but favorable or friendly. I cannot blame the people of the state for illogical reasoning on the part of a handful of bumptious state officials. But I haven't begun my fight on those officials yet. That's coming later. I was almost sorry that the Superintendent had decided to give me the permit. We might have been delayed a few days at Whitehall, but I'd have turned loose a hornet's nest of national public sentiment against public officials who administer state institutions to suit themselves.
The New York State canals, however, represent one of the most constructive pieces of work that has been done in the field of waterway transportation in the United States. The locks and other canal structures are built to last indefinitely. The locks are electrically operated, and the last word in the speedy and efficient handling of water commerce over artificial waterways.
Leaving Lake Champlain at Whitehall, New York, the Champlain Canal continues to attain higher water levels through a series of locks before it begins to drop down to the level of the Hudson River at Fort Edward. Getting an early start out of Whitehall, we cruised on with Mr. Tripp and Mr. Hisgen with their boat on September twenty-ninth.
The numerous locks, and stops for taking photographs delayed us so that we failed to reach the Hudson that night. When nightfall overtook us, both boats tied up to the bank of the canal. Wilton and I went aboard the Tramp II, where I did the cooking, and our cameraman kept our friends laughing with tales of filming the wild animals in Africa and wild parties in Hollywood. Getting under way again on the thirtieth, the two boats paced each other on through the canal and down the Hudson to Albany. After coming down the last lock at Troy, we were in the tidewater of the Atlantic Ocean, and upon our arrival in Albany had only 140 miles left of the seemingly interminable distance from ocean to ocean.
Landing at the Albany Yacht Club, the saluting cannon boomed and a battery of cameras clicked. The Yacht Club was thrown open to us, and as soon as we could pacify the newspaper reporters we were whisked off by motor car to the Fort Orange Club.
We had many pleasant experiences during the few hours we had in Albany. Paramount among these pleasures was our meeting with Mr. and Mrs. Harold Hilton, of Chicago, who landed at the Yacht Club with their cruiser Yvonne just about an hour before we came in. Mr. Hilton, who is an artist, in addition to his wife was accompanied by Lonsdale Green, a Chicago sportsman. They had followed us with their boat up Lake Michigan, through Lake Huron, Georgian Bay, and the Trent waterways.
They were always about a day behind us, as they learned along the route where both boats touched. At Trenton, Ontario, they lost track of us because we had gone down the St. Lawrence and came down through the New York State Barge Canal by way of the Oswego branch. The yacht was on its way to Florida. It is interesting to note that although we had taken the St. Lawrence route just a day ahead of the Yvonne in the Trent Waterways, and had cruised several hundred miles further, we pulled into Albany only an hour behind the other party. It was apparent that the current in the St. Lawrence had offset the greater mileage cruised by Transcontinental.
Mr. Hilton desired to get under way down the Hudson at noon the following day, and it was decided the to boats would cruise together since our cruising speeds were about the same.
The artist-yachtsman assisted us materially by stowing several hundred pounds of our gear aboard Yvonne, enabling us to cruise light. It was a good thing for us that the two boats cruised together because it saved us from disappointing hundreds of people by failure to keep our schedule into New York City.
We had notified New York that we would terminate the ocean to ocean cruise at the Columbia Yacht Club at 3 o'clock Sunday afternoon, October fourth. The club had planned a reception and a banquet for us. The newspaper men, notion picture men, and others who were interested in the cruise, would be at the club to meet us. It was therefore highly important that our schedule be maintained.
Leaving Albany a little ahead of Yvonne, we had cruised only a few miles down the river when Transcontinental developed a leaky gasoline tank. A soldering job and serious delay appeared inevitable until Yvonne came along. Out predicament was explained to Mr. Hilton, who suggested we tie on astern, while I came aboard to make repairs to the leaky fuel tank. In that way the repair was made without any cruising time being lost. As nightfall overtook us, both boats which had pushed against the incoming tide most of the afternoon cruised into the Catskill River, and tied up at Catskill for the night.
While a small boat was the only thing with which we could have crossed North America, there are some advantages to a larger craft in commercially navigable waters. An illustration of this was furnished about noon on October second as Transcontinental and Yvonne cruised down the Hudson about half way between Catskill and Poughkeepsie. Transcontinental had no galley without touching shore, and around mealtime her crew always seemed to be hungry. So, when Mrs. Hilton beckoned to us, and called out: "Come aboard, boys, and get your lunch.", no further invitation was needed.
Prior tho cruising down the Hudson with Transcontinental I had made the trip from Albany to New York several times on the passenger steamers.
It is without doubt one of the most beautiful rivers in America, but has been shamefully - shamelessly polluted. The river is a dumping ground for sewage, industrial plant refuse, and about every other manner of waste product that the densely populated shore's areas desire to get rid of. The water is filthy, and the filth, the tremendous quantities of drift, simply parades upstream and down on the ebb and flow of the tides.
(This part is so depressing I am linking to the story of how 40 years later the folksinger Pete Seeger helped save this beautiful river with the sloop Clearwater.)
It is only the enormous volume of the river that prevents it from becoming a river of horrors such as the Illinois River. I marvel at the skill of the speedboat pilots who have conducted numerous fast runs on the Hudson without coming to grief against the masses of lumber, box wood, and other forms of drift.
We would have enjoyed seeing the 140 miles of the Hudson between Albany and New York City under favorable weather conditions, but in this we were doomed to disappointment. We had cloudy, drizzly weather from Albany to Catskill; showers off and on the following day from Catskill to Poughkeepsie, and scarcely saw the sun again until the day after we arrived in New York. On October third we cruised down the river through intermittent showers all the way from Poughkeepsie to Yonkers. We could easily have gone into New York that day, but stopped at Yonkers as a means of being absolutely sure of our schedule to the Columbia Yacht Club for the afternoon of October fourth. After considering the tide, and the time that it would take us to run the distance, we shoved off from Yonkers with the tide. In spite of the deluge of rain, we kept our schedule almost to the dot - tying up at the Columbia Yacht Club just 8 minutes after 3 o'clock.
Rain had not dampened the enthusiasm of the crowd that had gathered at the yacht club to meet us. The newspapermen landed upon us en masse, and the cameras clicked from under dripping umbrellas. Next day the newspapers were ablaze with headlines, pictures, and praises of the boat, the men, and the dog, who had successfully followed the inland waterways across North America for the first time. Even so conservative a paper as The New York Times devoted a full column to the story - one of the best written and most accurate reports of the journey appearing in any newspaper. (I'll post it when I find it.)
Tired, hungry, wet and bedraggled, short of sleep for months; but hardened physically by labor and outdoor living, we were taken in tow by Oluf Mikkelsen, manager of the Evinrude Motor Company's New York branch, who hurried us off for rest and refreshments. After all we'd been through during 137 days of zig-zagging over the map of America the realization that we were actually in New York City seemed like hazy and unreal dream. We had gained in weight, strength, and health, but I had been our little boat so long that it was many days before I could stand n land without unconsciously getting my heels about a yard apart.
At the Columbia Yacht Club several evenings after our arrival at the end of a long transcontinental water trail, we were guests at a banquet which included many dignitaries of motor boating and yachting circles. After the dinner, speeches were requested. During this performance Spy-Wapato, dog among dogs - the only dog that ever crossed North America in a powerboat sat with bored Scotch dignity upon the speaker's table so the audience could get a good look at him. While his master had the floor telling a few of the highlights of the longest motor boat cruise ever made in fresh water the dog convulsed the whole house by taking a drink from the oratorial water pitcher.
Thus ends the story of the cruise of Transcontinental. But, there are still a few details worth mentioning. The boat, in making the first journey across North America from the Pacific Ocean to the Atlantic traveled 5680 miles, and of this distance 5280 miles was on the water. The journey is thus the longest ever made by any craft traveling in fresh water, and the longest cruise ever made by any boat in constant contact with the land. The same pair of Evinrude motors that drove it up the flooded Columbia from the Pacific drove Transcontinental for more than a thousand hours through sixteen American Sates and two Canadian Provinces. In spite of the fact that the motors had been run day after day, and week after week, on an average of from 8 to 16 hours per day - often without ever being shut down, they were still going strong at the finish.
The trip itself was not designed to be dangerous. We were out with a definite purpose to accomplish, and sought by every possible means to avoid adventures which are alltoo often defeaters of purposes. On a cruise of such length, through every conceivable water condition, and in constant contact with the land for a distance equivalent to one-fifth the way around the earth at the equator, we had a million opportunities for getting into trouble. We could have lost the boat, our entire outfit, and possibly our lives, no less than a thousand times had we not used every possible care and forethought to avoid mishaps. The fact that we got through with only a few minor mishaps that might be termed adventures is the highest tribute that can be paid to the expedition.
To illustrate the foregoing point, I quote my friend and fellow member of the Adventurers' Club of Los Angeles, Dr. Vilhjalmur Stefansson, who says: "Adventures are sign of incompetence. When one is out with a definite purpose to accomplish, they may easily be the defeaters of the purpose. Thus, they show faulty judgment, or that one has not with the proper care and forethought anticipated the conditions they encountered."
And, this was written by John Edwin Hogg, not Hoag as has been printed in the magazine.
(Pronounced Hoag though.)
Don't forget to join AOMCI if you are interested in the early outboards. We have many people who can help you get started exploring this exciting period of outboard technology.
The wind was sweeping up the entire 120 miles of Lake Champlain's length, and in the great canyon between the Green Mountains of Vermont and the Adirondacks of New York, Champlain was a cauldron of heaving and trembling fury. Coming out of the Richelieu above the last Canadian bridge where the draw keeper nearly blew all the steam out of his boiler saluting us with his whistle, we hugged the Vermont side of the lake. Coming up in the lee of the Rutland railroad trestle, which partially broke the force of the waves, we slid under the drawbridge and took the whole force of the lake quartering on our port bow while we ran for Rouses Point. The quiet water back of the breakwater and in front of Marnes' Inn looked mighty good to us, even though Champlain was piling completely over the breakwater. Leaving Wilton with the boat, and Spy hunting rats along the breakwater, I went ashore and reported to the American immigration officers. I then went to the Customs House, declared all goods purchased in Canada, and returned to the boat with the inspector. The officer, a good-natured gentleman by the Teutonic name of Cavanaugh, inspected our boat and cargo by looking at it from the shore.
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| Good grief! I found a period postcard of Marne's Inn at Rouses Point! The internet is a wonderful place... |
On the morning of the twenty-sixth, the hoped-for better weather came in the form of a fair day and moderate wind. The lake was still rough, but after what I'd seen of it I was for getting down Lake Champlain - and out of it, as fast as we could possibly make the 120 mile run. So, we got an early seat, hugged the New York shore down around Cumberland Head, missed Plattsburg by six miles, and headed for Valcour Island. From the south end of Valcour Island we drove diagonally across the lake to Burlington, picked up some mail and telegrams, and cruised down and across the lake to Essex, New York. At Essex we found two hotels boarded up for the winter, but succeeded in finding a woman who operated a sort of boarding house. She took pity on us and provided us with food and beds.
As may well be imagine, in cruising from Oregon to Vermont, a distance of nearly 5,000 miles over the inland waterways; we had successfully voided every peril to which an 18-foot boat could be exposed in making such a journey. Over that entire route one of Wilton's worst fears had been we might have a collision with some other boat when we got into eastern waters where boats are numerous. But, he'd been crossing a bridge that never existed, because when we got into the waters where such a mishap might be dreaded, all the boats had been pulled for the winter. We had the water pretty much to ourselves.
It was thus somewhat of a surprise when we cruised down the Vermont side of Lake Champlain near mid-day on September twenty-seventh, and sighted a motor boat. The boat, a cabin cruiser, appeared through my glasses to be in trouble. It was dangerously near a rocky shore, drifting apparently without power, and on a sea that was far from placid. We cruised on, and when we got near the other craft it was evident that she and her crew were in trouble. Gazing through the glasses I saw two men struggling desperately to get securely anchored. The main anchor was down, but the boat was rapidly swinging around toward the rocks.
Running alongside the cruiser, I called out to a man who was fumbling with a coil of rope: "Throw us a line, and we'll tow you off." The line sang through the air, I caught it, and in less time than it takes to tell it, we had the larger craft in tow and we were heading for open water. The boat would have made about ten of ours', and with the thing tied on astern of us, in a strong headwind and a rough sea, it seemed we were trying to pull down the State of Vermont. For a minute or more Transcontinental thrashed the water and never moved but up and down on the waves. But gradually the bow of the cruiser swung around, and we began to move. After we had overcome inertia, the wind, and the pounding sea, we had about a half knot of speed ahead left which could be converted into a towing service.
Having acquired somewhat of a white elephant, I began studying our charts in an effort to see where our burden could be safely disposed of. The most likely place seemed to be Basin Harbor, Vermont, about three miles south of the pint where we took the boat in tow. Eventually we got to this beautiful land-locked little cove, with a mud bottom and just the right depth for anchoring; dragged the cruiser in, and cast her off. When the men aboard the cruiser got their anchor down we went alongside and boarded the craft.
A man came across the deck, and extending his hand, said: "Tripp is may name. Which of you gentlemen is Mr. Hoag?" The matter of getting acquainted was quickly disposed of. The two men were Leon L. Tripp, and George Hisgen, the President and Treasurer respectively of the Albany Boat Corporation at Watervleit, New York. Getting acquainted with these gentlemen under such circumstances was one of the greatest pleasures of our cruise in eastern waters.
A few minutes after we'd gone aboard their boat, Mr. Tripp stared at me as if in dumfounded amazement. I was actually beginning to feel somewhat annoyed under his gaze when he spoke, saying: "We've been reading about you boys all summer. What stroke of fate or Providence was it that brought you all the way from the Pacific Ocean to take us in tow just at the moment we needed it - and this, when we are probably the only two boats on this enormous lake?" It was a coincidence if there ever was such a thing, but we felt the pleasures of it were ours.
Tramp II in her crippled condition had about the same speed as Transcontinental, so on the following day the two boats cruised on down Lake Champlain together. We were soon down in that portion of the lake where the shores narrow to form sort of a motionless river. Both boats got an uninterrupted day of cruising, and tied up at Whitehall, New York at the southern end of Lake Champlain. Beautiful as Lake Champlain was, we were glad to get out of its troubled waters. The best part of it was that we had before us only the run through the Champlain Canal to the Hudson, and down the Hudson to New York City to complete the run of 5,280 miles across North America. We had been on the cruise so long that it seemed like a dream to think we were actually nearing the end of it. Prior to leaving Los Angeles on the ocean to ocean motor boat cruise I had some correspondence with the superintendent of Public Works at Albany in regard to taking the boat through the New York State Canals.
I had received some descriptive literature, and a letter from the Superintendent stating that the only condition necessary for transiting the canals was the issuance of a permit, which would be granted upon application. It was further stated that the permit would be issued upon application to the office in Albany, or by the canal officer in charge at the point of entry. So, upon our arrival at Whitehall, I called at the canal office to request a permit. "What sort of boat have you got", asked the officer as he withdrew a pad of blanks to enter the routine data.
"It's an eighteen foot gasoline boat," I replied.
"What's your power plant?"
"Two four horse power Evinrude motors.", I replied.
"Are those outboard motors?
"Yes, Sir."
"Then we can't give you a permit. No outboard motors are allowed in the canals."
No here was a facer for fair! After the correspondence regarding getting through the New York State Canals, being told that the canals were state property, and that they were available for my use upon request - I'd traveled some 5,000 miles to get to the Champlain Canal, and was hung up on the gate posts! I endeavored to explain the situation, but the canal officer was obdurate - wooden headed.
"I've got orders to issue no no permits to boats powered by outboard motors. Orders are orders. I can't give you a permit, and you can't travel on the canal without one. That settles it!"
"You may think it settles it," I replied, "but it doesn't. I'm either going through this canal with my boat, or I'm going to smoke out your whole damned canal administration; if I have to start with Governor Smith and work down!"
The canal officer laughed derisively - "How do you think you are going to do that?", he chuckled.
"By the power of the press!", I retorted. "Every newspaper in the United states is interested in my trip. The editors are keeping the wires hot to obtain every word of news about the first boat that ever crossed North America. The people of the State of new York built this canal, and the administration denies me the right to use it for the sole reason that my boat is driven by a type of power that you see fit to discriminate against. If I tell that story to the Associated Press Press, every newspaper in the United States will have it on the front page tomorrow. Somebody in Albany will have a hard time explaining to the people of the State of New York. I've told my story, and if there is anything more to be told I'll tell it to the whole nation in tomorrow's newspapers!"
The canal officer dug his scalp with his fingernails, and gazed at me as if he didn't exactly know what to do or say. I turned on my heel to leave, and was almost out the door when he called - "Hold on, just a minute, Mister. I'm going to call Albany on the phone."
In a few minutes he had Mr. Fuller on the phone, the Superintendent, and the man with whom I had exchanged correspondence. The two talked for several minutes. The, the canal officer handed me the phone, saying, "Mr. Fuller wished to speak with you."
I took the phone, and got a long-winded ear-full explaining outboard motors had been ruled out of the New York State Canals because several accidents had occurred by reason of small boats being squeezed by heavier craft when passing through the locks.
I told the Superintendent that I was perfectly willing to travel the canal at my own risk, but he didn't see how any exception could be made from the ruling in force.Seeing that I could catch no flies with sweetened water, I told the Superintendent precisely what I intended to do if I was denied the use of the canal.
At this he was evidently annoyed, and said: "Very well, if you believe you can threaten me and intimidate me into making an exception in your case, I may as well hang up the phone."
"Hang up if you care to," I replied, "but if you do, you'll regret it tomorrow."
For the next half minute there was dead silence in the telephone receiver, but no sound of the receiver having gone back on the hook at the Albany end of the wire. Then came the voice again - "Let me speak with the Whitehall officer."
I handed the telephone to the canal officer, and there was an almost whispered conversation between Whitehall and Albany for several minutes. Finally the Whitehall officer hung up the phone, took his pad, and began to write.
"Well, what's the verdict?" I asked. "I'm writing your permit." he replied.
After the extraordinary courtesy we had received in the Canadian Canals this introduction to the administration of the the New York State Canals seemed anything but favorable or friendly. I cannot blame the people of the state for illogical reasoning on the part of a handful of bumptious state officials. But I haven't begun my fight on those officials yet. That's coming later. I was almost sorry that the Superintendent had decided to give me the permit. We might have been delayed a few days at Whitehall, but I'd have turned loose a hornet's nest of national public sentiment against public officials who administer state institutions to suit themselves.
The New York State canals, however, represent one of the most constructive pieces of work that has been done in the field of waterway transportation in the United States. The locks and other canal structures are built to last indefinitely. The locks are electrically operated, and the last word in the speedy and efficient handling of water commerce over artificial waterways.
Leaving Lake Champlain at Whitehall, New York, the Champlain Canal continues to attain higher water levels through a series of locks before it begins to drop down to the level of the Hudson River at Fort Edward. Getting an early start out of Whitehall, we cruised on with Mr. Tripp and Mr. Hisgen with their boat on September twenty-ninth.
The numerous locks, and stops for taking photographs delayed us so that we failed to reach the Hudson that night. When nightfall overtook us, both boats tied up to the bank of the canal. Wilton and I went aboard the Tramp II, where I did the cooking, and our cameraman kept our friends laughing with tales of filming the wild animals in Africa and wild parties in Hollywood. Getting under way again on the thirtieth, the two boats paced each other on through the canal and down the Hudson to Albany. After coming down the last lock at Troy, we were in the tidewater of the Atlantic Ocean, and upon our arrival in Albany had only 140 miles left of the seemingly interminable distance from ocean to ocean.
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They were always about a day behind us, as they learned along the route where both boats touched. At Trenton, Ontario, they lost track of us because we had gone down the St. Lawrence and came down through the New York State Barge Canal by way of the Oswego branch. The yacht was on its way to Florida. It is interesting to note that although we had taken the St. Lawrence route just a day ahead of the Yvonne in the Trent Waterways, and had cruised several hundred miles further, we pulled into Albany only an hour behind the other party. It was apparent that the current in the St. Lawrence had offset the greater mileage cruised by Transcontinental.
Mr. Hilton desired to get under way down the Hudson at noon the following day, and it was decided the to boats would cruise together since our cruising speeds were about the same.
The artist-yachtsman assisted us materially by stowing several hundred pounds of our gear aboard Yvonne, enabling us to cruise light. It was a good thing for us that the two boats cruised together because it saved us from disappointing hundreds of people by failure to keep our schedule into New York City.
We had notified New York that we would terminate the ocean to ocean cruise at the Columbia Yacht Club at 3 o'clock Sunday afternoon, October fourth. The club had planned a reception and a banquet for us. The newspaper men, notion picture men, and others who were interested in the cruise, would be at the club to meet us. It was therefore highly important that our schedule be maintained.
Leaving Albany a little ahead of Yvonne, we had cruised only a few miles down the river when Transcontinental developed a leaky gasoline tank. A soldering job and serious delay appeared inevitable until Yvonne came along. Out predicament was explained to Mr. Hilton, who suggested we tie on astern, while I came aboard to make repairs to the leaky fuel tank. In that way the repair was made without any cruising time being lost. As nightfall overtook us, both boats which had pushed against the incoming tide most of the afternoon cruised into the Catskill River, and tied up at Catskill for the night.
While a small boat was the only thing with which we could have crossed North America, there are some advantages to a larger craft in commercially navigable waters. An illustration of this was furnished about noon on October second as Transcontinental and Yvonne cruised down the Hudson about half way between Catskill and Poughkeepsie. Transcontinental had no galley without touching shore, and around mealtime her crew always seemed to be hungry. So, when Mrs. Hilton beckoned to us, and called out: "Come aboard, boys, and get your lunch.", no further invitation was needed.
Prior tho cruising down the Hudson with Transcontinental I had made the trip from Albany to New York several times on the passenger steamers.
(This ad is from 1924.)
It is without doubt one of the most beautiful rivers in America, but has been shamefully - shamelessly polluted. The river is a dumping ground for sewage, industrial plant refuse, and about every other manner of waste product that the densely populated shore's areas desire to get rid of. The water is filthy, and the filth, the tremendous quantities of drift, simply parades upstream and down on the ebb and flow of the tides.(This part is so depressing I am linking to the story of how 40 years later the folksinger Pete Seeger helped save this beautiful river with the sloop Clearwater.)
It is only the enormous volume of the river that prevents it from becoming a river of horrors such as the Illinois River. I marvel at the skill of the speedboat pilots who have conducted numerous fast runs on the Hudson without coming to grief against the masses of lumber, box wood, and other forms of drift.
We would have enjoyed seeing the 140 miles of the Hudson between Albany and New York City under favorable weather conditions, but in this we were doomed to disappointment. We had cloudy, drizzly weather from Albany to Catskill; showers off and on the following day from Catskill to Poughkeepsie, and scarcely saw the sun again until the day after we arrived in New York. On October third we cruised down the river through intermittent showers all the way from Poughkeepsie to Yonkers. We could easily have gone into New York that day, but stopped at Yonkers as a means of being absolutely sure of our schedule to the Columbia Yacht Club for the afternoon of October fourth. After considering the tide, and the time that it would take us to run the distance, we shoved off from Yonkers with the tide. In spite of the deluge of rain, we kept our schedule almost to the dot - tying up at the Columbia Yacht Club just 8 minutes after 3 o'clock.
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| Want to know who Steve Brodie is? I did...GO HERE. |
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| "we all shivered terribly" |
Tired, hungry, wet and bedraggled, short of sleep for months; but hardened physically by labor and outdoor living, we were taken in tow by Oluf Mikkelsen, manager of the Evinrude Motor Company's New York branch, who hurried us off for rest and refreshments. After all we'd been through during 137 days of zig-zagging over the map of America the realization that we were actually in New York City seemed like hazy and unreal dream. We had gained in weight, strength, and health, but I had been our little boat so long that it was many days before I could stand n land without unconsciously getting my heels about a yard apart.
At the Columbia Yacht Club several evenings after our arrival at the end of a long transcontinental water trail, we were guests at a banquet which included many dignitaries of motor boating and yachting circles. After the dinner, speeches were requested. During this performance Spy-Wapato, dog among dogs - the only dog that ever crossed North America in a powerboat sat with bored Scotch dignity upon the speaker's table so the audience could get a good look at him. While his master had the floor telling a few of the highlights of the longest motor boat cruise ever made in fresh water the dog convulsed the whole house by taking a drink from the oratorial water pitcher.
Thus ends the story of the cruise of Transcontinental. But, there are still a few details worth mentioning. The boat, in making the first journey across North America from the Pacific Ocean to the Atlantic traveled 5680 miles, and of this distance 5280 miles was on the water. The journey is thus the longest ever made by any craft traveling in fresh water, and the longest cruise ever made by any boat in constant contact with the land. The same pair of Evinrude motors that drove it up the flooded Columbia from the Pacific drove Transcontinental for more than a thousand hours through sixteen American Sates and two Canadian Provinces. In spite of the fact that the motors had been run day after day, and week after week, on an average of from 8 to 16 hours per day - often without ever being shut down, they were still going strong at the finish.
The trip itself was not designed to be dangerous. We were out with a definite purpose to accomplish, and sought by every possible means to avoid adventures which are alltoo often defeaters of purposes. On a cruise of such length, through every conceivable water condition, and in constant contact with the land for a distance equivalent to one-fifth the way around the earth at the equator, we had a million opportunities for getting into trouble. We could have lost the boat, our entire outfit, and possibly our lives, no less than a thousand times had we not used every possible care and forethought to avoid mishaps. The fact that we got through with only a few minor mishaps that might be termed adventures is the highest tribute that can be paid to the expedition.
To illustrate the foregoing point, I quote my friend and fellow member of the Adventurers' Club of Los Angeles, Dr. Vilhjalmur Stefansson, who says: "Adventures are sign of incompetence. When one is out with a definite purpose to accomplish, they may easily be the defeaters of the purpose. Thus, they show faulty judgment, or that one has not with the proper care and forethought anticipated the conditions they encountered."
The end
Well, that was a weak ending! Maybe he was tired.
LINKS:
- However, Dr. Stefansson is a VERY interesting guy. Take a look here to see what I am talking about.
- Care to see what a 1925 machine shop was like? Here is great video series by David Richards.
(Pronounced Hoag though.)
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