Editor’s Note: The following text is a verbatim transcription of an article featuring stories by Captain William O. Benson (1911-1986). Beginning in 1971, Benson, a retired tugboat captain, reminisced about his 40 years on the Hudson River in a regular column for the Kingston (NY) Freeman’s Sunday Tempo magazine. Captain Benson's articles were compiled and transcribed by HRMM volunteers Carl and Joan Mayer. See more of Captain Benson’s articles here. This article was originally published February 18, 1973.

In days gone by, steamboat excursions were commonplace. Almost without exception, they were offered during the summer and occasionally in the late spring or early autumn. One highly unusual excursion - probably the only one of its type - took place in the dead of winter on Sunday, Jan. 29, 1913.

On that winter’s Sunday, the steamboat “Rensselaer” of the Hudson Navigation Company was chartered for an excursion by the Troy Benevolent and Protective Order of Elks, No. 141. From Troy down the river to Hudson and return. The story of that long ago excursion was related to me by the late Francis “Dick” Chapman of New Baltimore, one of the pilots of the “Rensselaer” the day of that wintry sail on the river.

Dick said the sky was overcast, and it was a day when the cold “would penetrate right to your bones.” About 10 a.m. it started to snow and the river was full of floating cakes of ice. They were scheduled to leave Troy at 12:30 p.m.

On the way down river, they were held up briefly at the first railroad drawbridge by a crossing freight train. When the bridge opened and the “Rensselaer” got in the draw, she lay there until the Maiden Lane Bridge, downstream, opened. She eventually passed the Night Line dock at Albany at 1:45 p.m.

Down at Van Wies Point, below Albany, the river was covered with ice from shore to shore and the “Rensselaer” had to make a new channel. As she was going through the ice her paddle wheels would throw the ice up against the steel lining of her wheel batteries.

It sounded like crashing thunder. One could hear the noise all through the streamer.

Although they were originally scheduled to go down river as far as Hudson, Dick told me the visibility was so poor and the ice so heavy, they decided to go only as far as Castleton. There, they turned around and went back up river to Troy. They steamed slowly on the return so as to give the Elks their full time afloat. Since the visibility left much to be desired, it was somewhat questionable if the excursionists would have been able to see any more of the river if they had gone all the way on to Hudson.

A few years later, the Night Line decided to try and operate year round service. The “Rensselaer” and her sister steamer “Trojan” were chosen for the operation. On one of the “Rensselaer’s” trips down river, she was passing a Cornell tow fast in the ice off Germantown. When the “Rensselaer” tried to pull out of the tracker and break into the solid ice to pass the tow, she sheared off right into the tow. The Cornell helper tug “George W. Pratt” - laying alongside the tow - couldn’t get out of the way and the guard of the “Rensselaer,” before they could get her stopped, went over the rail of the “Pratt” and shifted and damaged her deck house.

With damages like that to the “Pratt,” and - after every trip - having to make repairs to the paddle wheel buckets and required to put new bushings in the arms of the feathering paddle wheels, the Night Line soon found the project to be too costly. Side wheel steamboats were just impractical for operation in the ice.

During that short period when the “Rensselaer” and “Trojan” attempted to operate during the winter, old boatmen told me on a clear, cold night they could hear the “Rensselaer” or “Trojan” at Port Ewen when the steamers were up around Barrytown or on the up trip, as far away as Esopus Island. They would hear their paddle wheel pounding and breaking the ice and crashing the broken ice cakes against the steel paddle wheel housings.

The captains and pilots of the night steamers on the river deserved a tremendous amount of credit for their skill in operating those old side wheelers in all kinds of weather. Unlike the captains and pilots of the day steamers that usually operated during the daylight in the best months of the year, the night boats would run from early spring to late fall and encounter lots of fog, snow or whatever came their way.

The upper end of the Hudson in particular is very narrow, and the night boat men always had tows, yachts, and floating derricks and dredges to content with. Regardless of the weather, almost always they would bring their big steamboats into Albany on time. Those captains and pilots were, as they say, “right on the button.”

​The “Rensselaer” and the “Trojan” were cases in point. From the time they entered service in 1909 until the end of their service in the latter 1930’s, they rarely had a mishap. Probably the most serious mishap to the “Rensselaer” occurred on Sept. 27, 1833 when she was in a collision with an ocean freighter off Poughkeepsie. This incident will be the subject of a later article. 

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​For a number of years prior to World War I, the Hudson River Day Line always layed up the “Mary Powell” and the “Albany’’ for the winter at the Sunflower Dock at Sleightsburgh on Rondout Creek.  At that time, Mr. Eben E. Olcott was president of the Day Line.
 
During the winter of 1917, both the ‘Powell’’ and the ‘Albany’ were, as usual, layed up at the Sunflower Dock.  Across the creek on the Rondout side, both Donovan and Feeney had boat yards. 
​
Both shipyards had built canal barges and launched them in the ice.  Also, they were loading the new barges with ice to ship to New York when navigation opened again in the spring.  And, where they had taken in the ice, there were various channels cut in a multiplicity of different ways.  Anybody not knowing this and trying to walk over the ice at night would be necessarily taking his life in his own hands.

Snow and Sleet
On the night I am writing about, it started to snow and sleet about 6 p.m.  And, at that time, Phil Maines of Rondout was the ship keeper on the ‘‘Mary Powell.”
 
About 11 p.m. Phil thought he would take a walk around to see if everything was all right before taking a nap.  As he started up the companionway, he thought he heard someone walking on the deck above and trying to open the doors.  He knew he had left one door unlocked, so he went up on deck and stood in the dark behind the unlocked door, waiting for whoever it was to come in.
 
After a while the door slid back and a man walked in.  Phil, standing in the dark, said, “Stick up your hands! Who’s there?”
 
The reply came back swiftly, “It’s Mr. Olcott, Phil, only me.  I thought I’d drop around and see if everything was all right.”
 
He was Lonesome
So, together, they went down to the winter kitchen, which was on the main deck for the keeper’s use in winter, and had a cup of coffee.  Mr. Olcott said he was staying over night in Kingston, had gotten a little lonesome and so thought he would come over and see Phil for awhile.  After he had stayed for about 15 minutes, he said he was tired and thought he’d go back to his hotel and get some rest before morning.  Phil took him back across the creek, this time with a lantern.
 
How Mr. Olcott ever got over to the “Powell” without falling through the ice in the many ice channels was not only a streak of good luck for the president of the Hudson River Day Line, but something of a miracle in itself.

​Fog, snow and ice were always tremendous hazards to the steamboatmen who plied the Hudson shortly after the turn of the century. Before the days of radar and other electronic aids to navigation, boatmen had little to rely on but their own acquired knowledge of the river – and the tricks played by wind and tide.
 
With the always heavy river traffic and narrow channels, accidents were bound to occur, especially in fogs and snow storms. One of the more spectacular groundings took place in 1903, when the big tugboat Osceola of the Cornell Steamboat Company ran up on the old dock at Piermont.

In the winter of 1903, the Cornell tugboats Osceola and John H. Cordts were both bound up river with separate tows, both of them very large. The Cordts was about a mile ahead of the Osceola. Off Yonkers, a heavy snow storm set in with a raging northeast gale.
 
Was It Irvington?
When the Osceola was off what the crew believed to be Irvington, the captain said to the pilot, “I think we had better round up and head into the tide.”
 
The pilot suggested, “Let’s go on, the Cordts did.” But the captain still thought differently and rounded up. However, by going around to the west, they lost the echo of the whistle on the east shore and could not pick it up again.
 
Feeling their way along, they felt a slight jolt and a slight list to port.
 
But it was snowing so hard they couldn’t see anything, or could they pick up any echoes at all of the whistle. And, attempt after attempt to back off from whatever they had hit proved fruitless.
 
By Morning’s Light
When morning came, they understood why. The Osceola was perched right on top of the old dock at Piermont!
 
The Piermont dock had originally been built by the Erie Railroad back in the 19th century when the State of New Jersey refused the Erie permission to run trains in that state. As an alternative, the railroad proceeded to build a long pier out into the river at the southern most point in New York State on the west shore. The trains would be run out on the pier and passengers were taken from there to New York City by steamboat.
 
By 1903 the pier was no longer used and the end of the dock had fallen into ruin. At the time of the grounding, the tide was much higher than usual because of the winter storm, and the Osceola went right up on top of the old dock.
 
And there she remained, with her bow all the way out of the water, for some two weeks before workmen were successful in getting her off. Still, she came through her misadventure surprisingly well and continued towing on the Hudson River until October 1929.
 
A Zipped Lip
At the time of her "climb the round up and head into the dock caper," it was rumored that the chief engineer and the captain were not speaking to each other. The chief is supposed to have said later that he saw the spiles that were known to be about 500 feet north of the dock through the engine room door as the boat passed them. But he said nothing. Let the captain see them, he thought. That’s his job.
 
The captain, of course, did not see them and, consequently, the Osceola rode up on the dock in an inevitable accident.
 
And when the news about the unreported sighting of the spiles eventually worked its way into the Cornell office, that was the end of the chief engineer’s tenure of employment with the Cornell Steamboat Company.

On a tugboat, the one member of the crew that seems to have more than its share of "characters" is the cook.  Cooks come in all shapes, sizes and degrees of ability.  When they are good, they’re worth their weight in gold.  When they are not, about the only thing you can say is they cook food. 

One time when I was pilot of the tugboat Lion of the Cornell Steamboat Company, we had a cook who was what is known among boatmen as a “sea lawyer.’’ He was the world’s greatest expert on any subject.  He was forever holding forth on one topic or another and always in an exceptionally loud voice. 

My room on the Lion at that time was just ahead of the galley with a very thin partition between.  If anyone spoke in a loud voice in the galley it would seem it was right in the same room with you. 

One morning the cook was arguing with someone about something and, as usual, at the top of his voice.  It was about 8 a.m. and I had been in my bunk for less than an hour, as I had been up from midnight until 6 a.m. steering my watch.  I told him to pipe down.  But the next morning it was the same thing.  This time I didn’t say anything, but thought there must be some way to muffle this man’s voice. 

A morning or two later we had a tow on the upper river and about 2 a.m. I blew to the deckhand to come up in the pilot house to steer while I had a cup of coffee.  After I had the coffee, I went to the cook’s room and, disguising my voice, called him.  The cook in a sleepy voice said, “O.K. O.K.” Apparently, as I thought would be the case, he never bothered to look at the clock. 

I went back up to the pilot house and kept the deckhand engaged in conversation there.  About 45 minutes later, the deckhand said, "I smell bacon frying." I said, “So do I." When the deckhand went into the galley, there was the cook making oatmeal, french toast, coffee and frying bacon. 

The deckhand said, ‘‘What in the devil are you doing up? Its only 3 a.m."  The cook replied, “You called me didn’t you?”  Then, for the first time looking at the clock, he said, "I know, that so and so Benson did that because I woke him up the past couple of mornings.” 

After that, if anyone talked loud in the galley, the cook would practically whisper, “Talk low.  Benson will blame me for waking him up and then he’ll get me up about 2 or 3 a.m. again.”
​ 
At least, for several weeks afterward, I was able to get my sleep undisturbed.  In all honesty, I have to also admit that the pleasant aroma of frying bacon and brewing coffee wafting up through the open windows of the pilot house in the stillness of the early morning wasn’t bad either.

​Back in the 1920's, the Cornell Steamboat Company owned a tugboat that went by the flowery name of Primrose. For two long months at the time of which I write, the crew had been working and working hard without a day off.
 
Tired of the continuous running, the men were beginning to complain among themselves. Some tugs that seemed to have "pull" with the dispatcher were getting a Sunday lay up, but not the Primrose. So the crew lodged a formal complaint with the office.
 
 The dispatcher seemed sympathetic. "Well," he said, "Sunday night I think the work will be caught up and you'll probably lay in to Monday night."
 
Couldn't Be Spared
But when Sunday came, he said they couldn't spare the tug and she'd have to work. The orders at that time were coming from Cornell's New York office at the old 53rd Street pier on the Hudson River.
 
The crew didn't argue; just took the orders and picked up a loaded coal barge at the D. L. and W. R. R. coal trestle and took it to Staten Island. Once arrived, the captain had an idea.
 
"Let's go to Newark," he said. "I know the channel and we can take a couple of days off. Let them find the tug themselves."
 
So away they sailed to Newark, N.J. — taking Sunday night off. Business was so busy that weekend at Cornell, the office didn't even notice that the Primrose hadn't called in for orders yet — and here it was Monday afternoon.
 
Police Scoured Harbor
When the office finally awoke to the fact it had a missing tugboat, it had everybody at Cornell looking for her. Police boats scoured the harbor, and Cornell's own people looked high and low for the missing Primrose - but nobody could find her.
 
Along about Tuesday afternoon, someone from Newark called the New York custom house. "There's a nice looking tugboat that's been tied up at our dock since Sunday night," he said, "and nobody s on her. She's all painted up, nice and clean, red with yellow panels, black stack, yellow umbrella, and white trim. Her name's Primrose and she's out of Rondout. Everything seems to be in order, but no steam on her and nobody aboard."
 
The custom house put in a call to the Cornell office to ask if their tug Primrose was over at Newark. Cornell admitted she was the subject of a search; surmised as how the crew must have stolen her since the office had given no orders to go to Newark.
 
Cornell's superintendent of operations, Robert Oliver, along with Terry Minor and Mr. Broad from the company's office, eventually arrived in Newark to find the tug all tied up shipshape, fires pulled, kitchen tidied up, but no crew.
 
Home to Kingston
Thundered Oliver: "I'll fire the whole clew from top to bottom!" Observed Broad: "How are you going to fire the crew when they ain't even here? That gang quit Sunday night and they're probably up in Kingston right now."
 
And that's where they were, all right. After their night off on Sunday, they figured they might just as well go on home the following morning, since they hadn't been home for two months.
 
They also figured Cornell would give them all another job anyway. They figured right but not completely. Eventually, Cornell hired all of them back again -- but never again was that same crew to be together on the same boat. The men were always kept separated on different tugboats.

Editor’s Note: The following text is a verbatim transcription of an article featuring stories by Captain William O. Benson (1911-1986). Beginning in 1971, Benson, a retired tugboat captain, reminisced about his 40 years on the Hudson River in a regular column for the Kingston (NY) Freeman’s Sunday Tempo magazine. Captain Benson's articles were compiled and transcribed by HRMM volunteers Carl and Joan Mayer. See more of Captain Benson’s articles here. This article was originally published November 4, 1973.

Now that the early morning fogs of autumn and the duck hunting season are both with us, I recall an incident in my youth when I went duck hunting and got lost in the fog.
 
One time in my late teens in October 1927, I went down to the flats at Sleightsburgh to hunt ducks. When I got down on the shore to get my duck boat it was about 3:30 a.m., still very dark and with a heavy autumn fog. I could hear ducks quacking out around the old Rondout lighthouse, which still stood along the south dike of Rondout Creek quite a ways in from the present Creek entrance.
 
I started out over the flats planning to follow the shore and then follow the dryed up purple loose leaf weeds to the area near the old lighthouse station. However, on my way out somehow or other I got a little too smart for my own good and lost sight of the shore line. It seemed that no matter in which direction I thought I rowed, I couldn’t find the shore. Even the ducks stopped quacking.
 
I kept on rowing, figuring I had to end up some place. In the distance, I could hear some steamboat blowing its whistle periodically with one long blast. I would stop and listen, thinking I would hear something on shoe. There wasn’t a sound through the murk except that steamboat whistle which kept getting closer and closer. Obviously, I had rowed out into the middle of the river and was either in or near the channel.
 
Shortly, I began to hear the thump, thump, thump – thump, thump, thump of the steamboat’s paddle wheels. I realized it was one of the Albany night boats. I wasn’t sure as to just what I should do for I certainly didn’t relish the thought of getting run down by the Albany night liner in the middle of the fog enshrouded Hudson. So I fired my shotgun into the air so I would have an empty shell to blow like a whistle. When I fired my gun, I could hear the thumping of the paddle wheels slow right down.
 
I suppose the pilots of the steamboat knew they were close to something, but didn’t know what. I kept blowing on my empty shell, and by the sound of the steamer’s whistle. I knew they were going by me. In a few moments I could feel the steamer’s waves going by me, so I knew the danger of getting run down was past. The fog was so thick I didn’t even see the vessel’s lights.
 
I still didn’t know which way to go, so I just sat still and drifted with the tide. After a while I could hear another steamboat blowing her fog signal. By the sound of her whistle, I recognized her as the freight steamer Storm King of the Catskill Evening Line. Her whistle, however, was quite a ways off so I knew there was no danger. About five minutes later, her little swells passed by me and I could hear both boats getting further away as they went on up river.
 
After daylight broke I was still drifting with the ebb tide. Finally I drifted into shore alongside the remains of the old towboat Norwich, which was being broken up at lower Port Ewen. That incident taught me a lesson – never try to go out in a fog without a compass. It can be a very lonely and unnerving experience.
 
Some years later in October of the middle 1930’s, I was pilot on the tugboat Lion of the Cornell Steamboat Company and coming down the upper Hudson with a good sized tow. It set in foggy at New Baltimore and the fog continued heavy all the way to Athens.
 
When opposite Coxsackie at about 8 a.m. the fog was particularly dense. All of a sudden I could hear people talking and a bell ringing out in the middle of the river. So I took the megaphone and asked what it was. The reply came back it was the Queen Mary.
 
Now, lest you think the former giant Cunarder of that name had sailed right by New York and somehow got to the upper Hudson, there was also a small diesel ferryboat – not much bigger than the old Skillypot – that carried the rather improbable name of Queen Mary. At that time, she was running back and forth between Coxsackie and Newton Hook.
 
After the ferryboat identified herself, the voice in the fog said they were anchored on the middle ground off Coxsackie. The voice further said. “Be careful. You are going up inside Coxsackie Island.”
 
Now, if I were to be going up inside Coxsackie Island I would have to be going in the opposite direction I was headed. I certainly knew my compass course was south and my whistle echoes were all in good order. It wasn’t me who was mixed up, it was the ferryboat. Obviously, anchored in the thick fog they had swung around with the tide and didn’t realize in what direction they were heading. I continued on and eventually ran out of the fog off Athens.
 
I often wondered who it could have been on that ferryboat who was so balled up in his directions he was 180 degrees off in the direction he thought he was headed. But, that’s the way one can easily find himself in heavy foggy weather. Intuition is no substitute for a good compass.

Human nature being what It is, we all have an odd quirk or two. Boatmen were no exception. 

The foibles of two boatmen that come to mind were those of Staats Winnie and Ira Cooper, two of the better old time boatmen on the Hudson. Staats Winnie's whim was that he wore red flannel underwear the year round — Ira Cooper’s was a dislike for uniforms. 

Staats Winnie was an old time pilot for the Hudson River Day line and at the turn of the century was second pilot of the “Albany.” When the “Hendrick Hudson” came out in 1906 he was to become her first pilot and served as her head helmsman during that steamboat’s early years on the Hudson. Like many old time boatmen, he had previously been a pilot on towboats and tugboats of the Cornell Steamboat Company. 

With an impressive mustache and a stern gaze, Staats Winnie was a formidable looking man.  As my good friend Donald C. Ringwald observed in his book “Hudson River Day Line,” Pilot Winnie looked as if he could steer anything afloat. 

Like a number of old boatmen in his era, Staats Winnie wore red flannel underwear.  Only he wore his year round, summer and winter. During the hot days in July and August, Pilot Winnie would frequently doff his uniform jacket and roll up his shirt sleeves, exposing a pair of bright red shod forearms.

Steamboatmen were always known as great arm wavers. Whenever two steamers passed each other, it was rare indeed if several crew members were not observed vigorously waving in the direction of the passing steamboat. One would have thought the crew members of the two steamers hadn’t seen each other in months. 

As a matter of fact, in some instances this situation would have been true — as when a line had two steamers running between New York and Albany in daily service.  The two steamboats would leave New York and Albany on alternate days and the only time crew members would see each other for months on end would be on their daily passing in the middle part of the river. Many crew members of a particular steamboat line came from the same community and were neighbors. During the season they would get but a fleeting glance of each other as their steamboats passed in mid-Hudson and this, perhaps, was the probable reason for the vigorous arm waving. 

Staats Winnie was well known as one of the arm wavers.  During July and August in his years of piloting the Day Liners, boatmen on passing steamers became accustomed to seeing a red shod arm waving a greeting from his pilot house window.  It was said that passengers, however were frequently startled by the sight. 
Ira Cooper was captain of the steamer “Onteora” of the Catskill Evening Line.  During the early years of steamboating, officers of the steamers wore their usual civilian clothes in carrying out their jobs afloat.  During the 1880’s and 1890’s, the larger steamboat companies began to introduce the use of uniforms for their steamer's personnel, particularly the officers. 

The practice of wearing uniforms soon spread to all steamboat lines.  First, it was just a uniform cap.  Then it became a full fledged uniform with brass buttons and gold braid.  On some lines, the uniforms were provided by the companies outright, others granted a uniform allowance and the officers purchased their own uniforms, while on others a partial reimbursement for uniforms was given to officer personnel. 

Captain Cooper was an individualist of the old school.  He would have no truck [sic] with the new fangled idea of uniforms. For him, what was good enough to wear ashore was good enough to wear afloat. To the very end, he steadfastly refused to don either a uniform or even the traditional steamboatman's cap. He undoubtedly was the last captain of one of the larger Hudson River passenger steamboats to command his steamer dressed in civilian garb. 

It was said Captain Cooper's ideas as to dress did not particularly please the owners and operators of the Catskill Evening Line. It is my understanding, as a matter of fact, that a clash of wills ensued — and, since the owners held the trump cards, Captain Cooper left the “Onteora.”  He was later captain for many years of the big tugboat “J. C. Hartt” of the Cornell Steamboat Company — where he had no trouble dressing as he pleased.  The Catskill Evening Line’s loss, however, was the Cornell Steamboat Company's gain — for Captain Cooper was one of the best boatmen on the river.  

Captain William O. Benson recalls the plight of a sleepy steamboat passenger who got off at the wrong stop.
 
In the long ago days of Hudson River steam-boating, almost every city and larger village along the river had their own steamboat line to New York. Each line would have at least two boats to maintain daily service— one boat going down, one back the next day.
 
The steamers of the lines north of Newburgh were known as night boats because they usually departed in the late afternoon or early evening and arrived at their destination in the early morning. All would carry freight on their main decks, with the deck above reserved for staterooms that offered sleeping accommodations for passengers.
 
Generally, travelling on the night boats was an extremely pleasant way to make a journey for or from New York. The river was always attractive in the evening and travellers could count on a good night's sleep— except when the steamer ran into fog and the pilots would have to blow their boat's whistle or if a passenger had a stateroom right next to the paddle wheels.
 
Saugerties was one of those towns that had its own steamboat service. The name of the company was the Saugerties and New York Steamboat Company, and it was operated mostly by home town men. During its last twenty years or so of service it was promoted and known to the travelling public as The Saugerties Evening Line.' At the time of this particular incident, shortly after World War I, they had two small, smart sidewheelers named "Ulster" and "Ida".
 
The incident took place on the "Ulster," and on this particular trip she left Pier 43, North River, in New York at her regular time. She had freight for all her landings, which in those days were Hyde Park, Rhinecliff, Barrytown, Ulster Landing and Tivoli, before ending her journey at Saugerties.
 
"Ulster" made very good time until she reached Crum Elbow, just south of Hyde Park. Then the fog set in. At the time, she was overtaking the Catskill Line freighter "Storm King". Of course, the fog signals had to be sounded from both steamers.
 
A Cornell tow was also on its way down the river, blowing one long and two short whistle signals indicating they had a tow underway. And as a matter of courtesy, the helper tug back on the tow, was also blowing its whistle because it was a good 500 feet back from the towing tug.
 
A racket of steam whistles reverberated across Hyde Park. If Franklin D. Roosevelt was at home— or the Vanderbilts or the great naturalist John Burroughs, they certainly woke up. For on top of all the other whistles, the big night boats out of Albany and Troy came along, sounding their way through the fog.
 
Some of the passengers on the "Ulster" were up complaining about all the noise. Others just stayed in their staterooms and put up with it. Then, a short while after things got reasonably quiet again, came the landing at Rhinecliff with the organized confusion of unloading freight. The hand freight trucks clattered on and off the gang plank, and the mate shouted at the freight handlers to get the freight off so they could get out on time.
 
After leaving Rhinecliff all was serene for a few moments, except for the periodic blowing of the fog signal. But off Astor's tunnel, they met a canal tow which was siting crossways in the channel and this caused more whistle blowing. Once clear of the tow, the "Ulster " landed at Barrytown. The freight trucks started up again, and an argument between two freight handlers, halted by the authoritarian voice of the mate, added to the din. (More on page 17)
 
The ”Ulster” then headed across the river to Ulster Landing. It was the custom on night boats for a hallman to knock on the door of the stateroom of a passengers getting off at a patircular landing about ten minutes before docking and announce the arrival. Sometimes, a passenger would have to listen pretty closely, for some hallmen were like some of the conductors on the old West Shore Railroad – they had an odd way of pronouncing the names of some of the stations or landings.
 
In any event, a hallman knocked on the door of the stateroom of one Ulster Landing passenger and called out “Ulster Landing, Ulster Landing”. A lady passenger bound for Saugerties and in a stateroom or two away also heard the knocking and the announcement “Ulster Landing”. After all the whistle blowing at Hyde Park, Rhinecliff, and Barrytown, she in all probability had been sleeping fitfully and in her half awake state may have thought “Ulster Landing” meant that the “Ulster” was docking and that it was time to get off. In any case, she got up, got dressed and when the steamer ghosted through the fog into the dock at Ulster Landing, she was at the gangway. As soon as the gang plank was put out, she walked ashore.
 
There was very little freight for Ulster Landing, so the gang plank was taken in and in a few minutes, the “Ulster” was on her way to Tivoli. The lady found herself virtually alone on a river dock before dawn. And it sure wasn’t Saugerties.
 
The only light on the lonely dock was a kerosene lantern, and the only other person around was the dockmaster who was an elderly man who was very hard of hearing. The sight of this well dressed lady alone in the freight shed made him so nervous that she had a hard time getting him to understand her plight. But the message finally got through, and the dockmaster got her a chair to sit in until daylight, then found a friend with a horse and wagon to take her on to Saugerties.
 
I often wondered if she ever made the steamboat trip to Saugerties again.
 
I, too, once made an overnight trip on the “Ulster” – by then renamed the “Robert A. Snyder”. It was in August of 1928, and I was a deckhand on the steamer “Albany” of the Hudson River Day Line.
 
I’d been home for a day and thought I’d go back to New York on the “Snyder” with my friends Richard Heffernan, who was her captain, and Harry Grough, her pilot. I got aboard her at Rhinecliff at 8 p.m. It must have been late in the month, for I remember it was already dark when we pulled away from the dock. Quite a few passengers were aboard.
 
I got the key to my stateroom and then went up to the pilot house to visit with my friends, Dick and Harry.
 
We talked for a while as the “Snyder” paddled her way down the Hudson, then, as we passed Poughkeepsie, I went down to my stateroom, which turned out to be on the port side just forward of the paddle wheel. All night long I could hear the old wheels pounding in the water below me. Once I got used to it, it was a very rhythmic and soothing sound. Every once in a while, though, the buckets on the wheels would pick up some sort of debris floating in the river, which would clatter and spin around in the wheel batteries.
 
Down around Clinton Point, I could hear the whistle of the “Snyder” blow one long and two short. On looking out the stateroom window, I could see the steamer “Ida” on her way up the river to Saugerties. Then again off Roseton I heard a whistle, which I recognized right away. It was the “Benjamin B. Odell” of the old Central Hudson Line headed north for Rondout. She sure looked great with all her electric lights shining in the dark and reflecting on the water.
 
After the passing “Odell”, I went to sleep and didn’t wake up until we landed at Pier 43, North River. The I said goodbye to Captain Heffernan and Pilot Grough, and took the old Ninth Avenue El Line up to 42nd Street and back to work again on the “Albany” at the Day Line pier at the foot of the street.

Editor’s Note: The following text is a verbatim transcription of an article featuring stories by Captain William O. Benson (1911-1986). Beginning in 1971, Benson, a retired tugboat captain, reminisced about his 40 years on the Hudson River in a regular column for the Kingston (NY) Freeman’s Sunday Tempo magazine. Captain Benson's articles were compiled and transcribed by HRMM volunteers Carl and Joan Mayer. See more of Captain Benson’s articles here. This article was originally published December 16, 1973.

​In today’s jet age of airplane travel, and human nature being what it is, some people seem to take a perverse delight in recounting incidents where their flight — because of adverse weather conditions — was diverted to an airport other than that of their original destination, or now of delays encountered because of the energy crisis.  In the simpler age of steamboat travel, there were also on occasion unforeseen delays.
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In that long ago era before the advent of the automobile and the airplane, virtually every trip of more than a few miles was made either by railroad or, if the destination was adjacent to navigable water, by steamboat.  Travel by steamboat was generally leisurely and delightful.  However, you always didn’t get to where you were going when you expected to. 

One such incident was related to me years ago by Captain Ed Van Woert of the Cornell tugboat “G. C. Adams.” In December 1913, Captain Van Woert had to go to New York to testify in a lawsuit being held there pertaining to damage to a schooner that occurred while being landed at Hudson some months before.  He thought he would take his wife along for the trip.

On this particular day, Captain Ed left the ‘‘Adams” at Athens and went home to get ready.  That evening, he and his wife boarded the steamer “Onteora” of the Catskill Evening Line at Athens, expecting to be in New York the following morning. 

After going aboard the “Onteora” and getting their stateroom, they had a leisurely supper in the steamer’s dining room. 

After eating, Captain Ed said to his wife, “I guess I'll go up in the pilot house awhile and talk to my friend the pilot.”’ At this point, the “Onty” was approaching the landing at Cheviot and a snow storm had set in. 

On leaving Cheviot, the "Onteora" headed for County Island to get over in the main channel.  The snow storm had increased in intensity and visibility had decreased almost to zero.  The pilot held her on the west course a little bit too long and she went hard aground just north of County Island, with her bow in about five feet of water and her stern in deep water.  They backed and backed, but she wouldn’t come off.

The tide was falling and at daybreak the next morning the "Onteora" was still hard aground.  Captain Van Woert and his wife got off in a small boat and after being rowed to shore, walked through two feet of snow to the nearest railroad station to catch a train for New York.  The “Onteora” got herself off on the next high tide and was back on her run — although nearly 12 hours late — none the worse for her mishap.

Another incident that took place about the same period, although this time during the summer, was related to me by my old friend George W. Murdock, an old time Hudson River steamboat engineer who died at his home in Ponckhockie in 1940, well into his eighties. 

On a Saturday summer’s afternoon, Mr. Murdock boarded the “William F. Romer” at her New York pier for the run to Kingston.  At that time, the “Romer" of the New York to Rondout night line regularly would leave New York on Saturday in the early afternoon and arrive at Rondout in the early evening.  Mr. Murdock’s brother-in-law, Joel Rightmyer of Ponckhockie, was the “Romer's" pilot.  On this particular trip, the “Romer” was bucking a strong ebb tide from the time she left her New York pier.

The wind, like it so often does during the summer, was blowing straight up river out of the south.  Worse yet, what breeze there was was blowing at about the same velocity as the “Romer’s" speed through the water, so that while underway the “Romer’s” flags hung limp on their poles.  Underway, it was hot, humid, virtually airless and, because of the strong ebb tide, the steamer was running later and later with each passing hour. 

Past the Palisades and up through Tappan Zee and Haverstraw Bay, the “Romer” plodded her way up river.  It wasn’t much of a day for steamboating.  Finally, the "Romer" reached the Hudson Highlands and as she approached the landing at West Point, Mr. Murdock noticed a West Shore passenger train chuffing away from Highland Falls.  He decided to leave the steamer and catch the train for the rest of his trip to Rondout,

As he was leaving the steamboat, Mr. Murdock said to his brother-in-law, “Joel, I don’t think you'll get to Kingston by nightfall." Replied Pilot Rightmyer, “Well, George, if we don’t get there today, we’ll get there tomorrow.”

Mr. Murdock boarded the train at West Point, thinking he’d get home well ahead of the steamer.  However, as luck would have it, there was a freight train stuck on the West Park hill where the tracks make their incline from the river and head inland.  His train, on the same track as the freight, stood on the tracks for what seemed like an eternity in the hot summer air. 

Finally another locomotive was sent down from Kingston and got the freight train ahead moving.  Eventually, Mr. Murdock got to Kingston and took the trolley car for Rondout.  As he was walking up Abruyn Street to his home in Ponckhockie, he glanced over his shoulder — just in time to see the top deck of the “William F. Romer” gliding past on her way in Rondout Creek to her berth on Ferry Street!
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During the 1950’s the Cunard Line had a great slogan — “Getting there is half the fun.”  Generally it was.  Sometimes, though, as it is in all forms of travel, the fraction was wrong.

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Editor’s Note: The following text is a verbatim transcription of an article featuring stories by Captain William O. Benson (1911-1986). Beginning in 1971, Benson, a retired tugboat captain, reminisced about his 40 years on the Hudson River in a regular column for the Kingston (NY) Freeman’s Sunday Tempo magazine. Captain Benson's articles were compiled and transcribed by HRMM volunteers Carl and Joan Mayer. See more of Captain Benson’s articles here. This article originally published July 4, 1976.

When I was pilot and captain of the tugboat “Callanan No. 1” from 1946 until 1954, we had a steward by the name of Ed Carpenter from Port Ewen.  In addition to being the best cook on the river, he was also an excellent story teller.  On more than one occasion, he would recall the summer months of 1910 when Halley’s Comet was streaking through the heavens.  He would also recall the days of another generation when the natural ice business was a big employer of men along the Hudson.  

At the time when Halley’s Comet was at its most spectacular, Ed Carpenter was cook on a repair barge of the Knickerbocker Ice Company by the name of “Beverwick.” During the summer of 1910, the “Beverwick” was tied up at the old ice house dock on Rattlesnake Island, just north of Coxsackie.  

Ed would relate how, night after night, he and other members of the ice house gang would sit on deck and watch with awe as Halley’s Comet would go through the skies.  Apparently, the comet had a fiery tail that never failed to amaze the comet watchers.  

A more earthly sight that also enthralled the comet fans was the passage of the big Albany night boats — the “Adirondack” and the “C.W. Morse,” the largest steamboats on the river.  Along the upper reaches of the Hudson, where the river is so narrow, they, too, were a particularly impressive sight.

In the narrow channel the huge steamers would dwarf everything else.  As they glided past with their hundreds of electric lights, their names spelled out in large electric signs on their hurricane decks, and their search lights probing the darkness of the night, they would appear to be one of mankind's most wondrous achievements.  

After the Albany night boat would pass from sight, Ed would turn in for a night’s rest, for it was up at 3:30 a.m. to start the hearty breakfast for the men working at the ice house, loading the ice barges for the New York market.  
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In those days, before the invention of the home electric refrigerator, almost everyone used ice.  And most of the ice for the New York City area would come from the Hudson River north of Poughkeepsie.  A traveller on the upper Hudson would never be out of sight of an ice house — those huge wooden structures with double walls filled with sawdust that housed the winter’s harvest.  

The ice harvest would follow a fixed and then familiar pattern.  In the fall of the year, after pulling ice wagons through the streets of New York all summer, the ice company’s horses would be herded to the New York piers where they would board a steamboat to the upper Hudson ice houses.  

There they would be stationed until needed on the ice.  

Once the river froze over, generally in January, the ice harvest would begin.  Large numbers of men, usually boatmen layed off for the winter months, would be hired.  The horses would then be put to work and used to pull plows to scrape off the snow covering the ice, pull the markers to lay out the ice field, and to help pull the cut ice through the ice channels to the ice house elevators.  During a good winter, the same ice field might be harvested several times in order to fill the ice house.  

In the spring of the year, the horses would go back to New York by steamboat to resume their summer job of pulling the ice wagons through the city streets.  The ice itself would all be transported to New York by ice barges and a gang of men would be employed at the ice houses to load the barges.  

An ice barge was somewhat like a floating box.  The ice would be loaded on the inside of the box — the barge's hold — so that as much of the barge as possible, when loaded, would be set low in the water to use the lower river temperatures to keep the ice melting to a minimum.  

A river watcher could always spot an ice barge for it would invariably have a wind mill atop the barge.  The wind mill served the practical purpose of operating the barge’s pumps to pump overboard the water from the melting ice as the barge was towed down river.  There would be tows on the river during the summer that would consist solely of dozens of nested ice barges.  
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The electric refrigerator and artificial ice making brought the natural ice industry to an abrupt end.  The ice barges soon disappeared from the scene.  The huge ice houses gradually passed from the river's banks.  Some were torn down, others burned to the ground in rather impressive conflagrations, and a very few survived until the 1940’s for the growing of mushrooms.  Like Halley’s Comet, the natural ice industry was a great show while it lasted.