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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 Contributing Scholar Carl Mayer. This article was originally published December 19, 1976. Capt. William O. Benson recalls the rough autumn run of 1926 Many years ago, before the Hudson River channel to Albany was deepened for ocean vessels and kept open all winter by the Coast Guard, rivermen marked time by the last tow of the season. For boatmen, the last December run was more or less the end of the year, and it was often fraught with problems. Like the last tow out of Albany in 1926: That autumn of fifty years ago had weather to match this year's. November temperatures had been below normal and banks of fog, sometimes pea soup thick, rolled in every morning. Cold nights brought skim ice along the shores and froze over the coves along the upper Hudson. In early December a date was announced for the last Cornell tow to leave Albany. In those days almost all the towing on the Hudson River was done by the Cornell Steamboat Company. As usual, some scows and barges in the Albany area were not completely unloaded by the deadline, and others at the brickyards at Coeymans were still being loaded with brick for the New York market. The owners put up a howl because they didn't want their barges to miss the last tow. When that happened, the barges froze in for the winter and lots of money was lost. So the owners kept yelling until the tow steamed out of Albany – a day later than announced. About 30 boats were in the tow – a diverse fleet of late canal barges, scrap iron scows, lighters, and dredges that had been working on the upper Hudson. The lead boat in charge was the big tug "Pocahontas", with the "George W. Pratt", "G.C. Adams", Empire" and "Geo. N. Southwick", assisting as helpers. All five had wooden hulls. Just before the flotilla started down river, the snow began. Before long it was a blizzard, which went on all day and through the night, accompanied by a biting cold north wind. As the tow approached Van Wies Point, the pilots could barely see either bank. Slush, or 'snow ice' was forming from shore to shore. And, as it did in those days, the slush that passed under the wooden scows and barges clung to their flat bottoms and kept building until it actually dragged on the bottom of the river in the shallow parts. The next morning the tow was off Castleton, only about eight miles from where it had started, and barely moving. Captain Gus Gulligan of the "Pocahontas" sent Captain Ed Van Woert of the "Adams" into Castleton to telephone Cornell's New York office for help. When Captain Van Woert came back to the tow, he said the big tugs "Geo. W. Washburn" and "Edwin H.. Mead", together with the helper tubs "W.N. Bavier" and "Edwin Terry", were on their way up river to assist the tow to New York. All four of these tugs had steel or iron hulls. The loaded scows from the brickyards at Coeymans were added to the tow. With the benefit of an ebb tide and the helper tugs to break a track in the snow ice ahead, the flotilla was able to move slowly downstream. But off New Baltimore, it came to a dead stop. The slush under the barges had hit bottom. The second morning set in clear and cold with the river beginning to freeze solid. All the crews kept looking down river, trying o be the first to spot the heavy smoke over the hills in back of Kinderhook that would signal the approach of the "Washburn" or "Mead". Towards noon the "Washburn" was spotted coming around Bronck's Island with a bone in her teeth, pushing the ice and the river ahead of her. When she took hold of the tow it began to move again and in a short while the "Mead" showed up. The smaller "Bavier" and "Terry" had to stop then at Rondout for coal and grub. The tow was off Coxsackie when who walks out on the ice but Mr. Robert Oliver, Cornell's superintendent of operations. It didn't faze him a bit that there were cracks in the ice. Captain Frank McCabe of the "Empire" put his tug's bow against one of the cracks, and Mr. Oliver climbed up over her bow and was put aboard the "Washburn". As the tow was nearing Hudson the four helpers that started out with the group in Albany were running out of coal. One by one they went into Hudson, where coal trucks came down to the dock to load them up. Because of the deep drafts of the "Washburn" and "Mead", the tow had to progress from there down the deeper Hudson channel instead of the Athens channel. By this time, the "Bavier' and the "Terry" were in tow, bringing the number of Cornell boats in the group to nine – more than the company floated during their final years of operation in the late 1950s. After the tow cleared the Hudson channel, Mr. Oliver ordered the captains of all the wooden-hulled tugs to go to the end of the tow and start in the broken track. He was afraid they might break a hull plank in the ice and sink. Off Percy's Reach, the steamer "Catskill" of the Catskill Evening Line, was seen lying fast in heavy ice. Mr. Oliver sent the "Bavier" and "Terry" ahead to break her out, which It didn't take them long to do. The "Catskill" headed right into Catskill Point to tie up for the winter. By now, both the "Washburn" and the "Mead" were pulling on the tow while the "Bavier" and "Terry" broke the ice ahead. The flotilla was perking along at about four miles an hour. Down off Smith's Landing, the tug "Joan Flannery" was waiting for the Cornell tow to come down. She had three lighters loaded with cement for New York, and her captain knew he could never make it alone. As the Cornell Tow went by, Captain Jim Malia of the "Flannery" pulled in about 50 feet behind, following right in their track in the ice. "Whoever is on the "Joan Flannery" must have worked in Cornell's at one time," Mr. Oliver told the "Washburn" Captain Jim Dee. And Dee replied: "Yeh, that's Jim Malia who used to be captain of the "Townsend" and the "Cornell." After all the scows from the brickyards between Malden and Kingston were added to the tow, the flotilla had grown to 55 boats. But off Kingston Point, five of them said goodbye. The wooden hullers in the group made a bee line for the Cornell shops on Rondout Creek to lay up for the winter. Once past Kingston, the only obstacle was floating ice. The passenger and freight steamers "Newburgh" and "Poughkeepsie" of the Central Hudson Line operated daily between Kingston and New York in those days and kept the ice pretty well broken up. The tugboat men of fifty years ago sure had their trials and tribulations. Captains and pilots were always worried about what the ice might do to their boats – and to the other scows and barges in the tow. But in that year, as in most, good judgement and a certain amount of luck prevailed. The boats brought the tow safely down the old Hudson, and, with it, the close of the season of 1926 on the upper river. AuthorCaptain William Odell Benson was a life-long resident of Sleightsburgh, N.Y., where he was born on March 17, 1911, the son of the late Albert and Ida Olson Benson. He served as captain of Callanan Company tugs including Peter Callanan, and Callanan No. 1 and was an early member of the Hudson River Maritime Museum. He retained, and shared, lifelong memories of incidents and anecdotes along the Hudson River. If you enjoyed this post and would like to support more history blog content, please make a donation to the Hudson River Maritime Museum or become a member today!
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Editor's Note: This article was by Raymond A. Ruge and originally published in the February 10, 1945 issue of "The Saturday Evening Post". The language, spelling and grammar of the article reflects the time period when it was written. For information about current ice boating on the Hudson River go to White Wings and Black Ice here. Once a rich man's game, iceboating today is a sport for anyone who has seventy-five dollars, a craving for speed—and plenty of ice. ICE on the Shrewsbury! After half a dozen mild winters, the freeze-up of 1940 had clamped a ten- inch layer of glassy ice over the shallow, brackish river. As if by magic, iceboats appeared from barns, garages, cellars and woodsheds, for this is real ice-boating country, where the sport's traditions run back nearly 100 years. And now the Eastern Ice Yachting Association had voted to hold its annual championship regatta on the famous New Jersey course. Two week ends of hard racing had all but completed the program. The pick of the fleets of twelve member clubs had fought for five class championships—an iceboat's class is based on sail area alone—from the tiny Class E Skeeters, with their pocket-handkerchief sails of only seventy-five square feet, to the big, powerful Class A racers, prides of the Shrewsbury, spreading 350 feet of creamy canvas. Between these came the champions of Class D, Class C and Class B, at 125, 175 and 200 square feet. There was just one race to go, the Open Championship, in which all these class champions fight it out without handicap to pick the year's undisputed king of the Eastern ice ways. Since early morning, the northwest gale had roared, driving the furred and helmeted skippers to shelter round the clubhouse stove. At the rear of the long room steamed a huge chowder bowl, brimful of tangy, salty brew, concocted from good home-grown Jersey clams by the master hand of the old salt who now pridefully dispensed it. For chowder's "on the house" at Red Bank when the ice is right. Around the crackling stove, half a dozen younger skippers were tangled in argument with the veterans. "Why, I can remember the Rocket—eight hunderd an' fifty foot of sail, she had! And you call those little things iceboats!" "Okay, okay! Just wait till this race gets started—if it ever does!" Down the long side of the room was a workbench, where a pair of grimy characters filed away at long v-edged runners held in special blocks at just the proper angle. After filing the blades, they dressed them with light emery cloth and oil until they shone like polished silver. "There. That ought to hold 'em," grunted one of the workers, as he straightened up and tossed aside his black oily gloves. "Only dirty job in this sport, but you can't get far without doing it, and you sure can't hire anybody to do it for you. How's for some chowder?" "I'm your man," said his companion. "By the way, who's got a five-sixteenths drill?" "Look in my box—that green one under the bench," volunteered one of the men around the stove. 'Clearly, here was a gang who knew and respected one another. They swapped ideas, tools and equipment like sailors swapping telephone numbers after a six months' cruise—apparently with perfect confidence that all favors would be returned in kind whenever possible. The iceboaters are like that. Most of them build their own boats. They have a mutual love for a fast, hard sport—one which automatically weeds out all but the regular guys by the sheer discomfort and disappointments that are part of the game. Outside, halyards slapped a tattoo against shivering spars, taut rigging whistled and moaned, and canvas covers whipped viciously, as the fleet stood by, five champions waiting eagerly for the first lull that would permit starting of the Open. Finally, it came. "Start at 3:15!" flashed the committee. Chowder was forgotten, the stove abandoned, as flying suits were pulled on and helmets buckled down. Shouldering runners, which are always removed at nightfall to prevent rusting, and toting sail bags, the crews lunged out into the gale. Canvas covers were stripped from gleaming mahogany and spruce. Lead weights were strapped to runner planks, runners and rigging given a last check-over before sails were hoisted for the jolting, grinding punishment to come. "Course shortened to ten miles! Leave all marks to starboard! Skippers and crews ready! Spectators keep back!" And there were plenty of spectators, for this was the race that Red Bank had been waiting for. The Class A yachts of time-honored stern-steering design had been undisputed speed kings of the ice for a quarter of a century. Then in the early 1930's, in Wisconsin, where iceboating flourishes under the sponsorship of the Northwestern Ice Yachting Association, a few daring pioneers tried a boat that reversed the usual arrangement, and steered from a single runner up front, something like Sister Susie's tricycle. They gave it a boxlike fuselage for a hull, so the pilot could sit upright and see where he was going—surely desirable at seventy miles an hour. He also was seated down inside the hull, so he could stay aboard without having to be an acrobat as well as a sailor. The traditional jib-and-mainsail rig gave way to the simpler cat, with its single sail. And, surprisingly, the new reverse-English jobs began trimming the pants off the older-style boats. By 1940, several had been brought East, and here they were at Red Bank, daring to tackle the old-style boats of nearly five times their sail area. Even the boldest of the young folks had to admit that the little eighteen-foot Western-built Skeeter, with its one-man crew, looked like a toy out there beside the thirty-five-foot Class A entry boast-ing both a skipper and a sheet tender. The roar of the cannon sent them away. As the boats leaped away down-river, the big A left the others far behind. Turning the lower mark, she started across the lower river on the outer leg of the triangular course and was nearly a quarter mile ahead. The old-timers chuckled. "See what we told you? Those little mahogany cracker boxes can't stay with a real ice-boat. Look where they are already!" Up the river now, they crisscrossed as they tacked their way into the teeth of the gale toward the home stake. Three of the five starters were already far behind, but the little boat was moving up! This was going to be a race, after all. As the mighty Goliath of the river roared up and around the mark to start the second lap, right on her heels, not 100 yards behind, was that pesky little cracker box, the smallest boat in the race. Down the river again, lost in the flying snow. Across the outer leg and back up that wicked zigzag leg to windward. This time the Skeeter was even closer—a hornet chasing an eagle. At the end of the third lap, they were even. One to go, and it was anybody's race. Downstream they went, down and across the outer leg, the eagle still ahead, but the hornet right on her tail. The last leg would tell the story. Up they came tacking, turning, fighting for every inch. Then the tiny Skeeter slipped past the big boat not a quarter mile from the finish, and went on to win by fifteen seconds. The victory emphasized the fact that iceboating had switched from a rich man's game, with an outlay of $2500 or more for a top-flight racer, to a sport for the average man. The Skeeter that won the 1940 Open cost $350, complete—about as much as a single set of runners for the big yacht she had so neatly trimmed. Annual maintenance on a Skeeter runs in the neighborhood of a ten-dollar bill. By building their own boats, many fans cut the initial cost be-low the $200 mark. For transportation, a car-top carrier or a small two-wheeled trailer does the trick. Iceboating had found a level where al-most anyone who wanted to could enjoy it. New clubs sprang up wherever there was ice enough to sail the boats. Be-tween 1931 and 1941, the number of ice-boats in active use was just about quadrupled. Allowing the usual quota of one owner—the skipper—and at least two or three enthusiastic pals per boat, the number of iceboaters was multiplied by twelve to sixteen. More accurate figures are impossible to get. Although organized iceboating was discontinued for the duration, after the regattas of 1942, informal sailing is today going on as usual. Whenever the conversation gets around to iceboating, there are certain questions that always turn up. The first one, of course, goes: "Well, all kidding aside, how fast do they really go?" And right off the bat we run into the mystery of "faster than the wind." Actually, ice-boats do sail faster than the wind—a whole lot faster, in fact—but only when they're sailing across the wind, not running along with it. An iceboat moves so easily on her polished metal runners that a half-ton boat, once under way, can be pushed along by any ten-year-old, and there's practically no increase in ice friction as the speed increases. At the same time, the sharp V edges of the runners completely eliminate sideslip, so that every ounce of power developed by the sail goes into forward motion. As a result, when the boat is sailed directly across the wind stream, so the wind tries to push her sideways, her runners say "Nothing doing," and she has to slip ahead out of this squeeze play like a watermelon seed popping out from between your fingers. Furthermore, the forward movement of the boat immediately brings into action a second air flow, equal to the speed of the boat, and coming from dead ahead. Her sails don't feel it, but they don't feel the same breeze as a person standing still, either. What they get and what actually drives the boat is a combination of the true wind and the air current caused by the boat's motion. This combined breeze is known as the "apparent wind," and because iceboats move so easily, they soon build up their apparent wind to a velocity far higher than that of the real wind. They can keep on working the squeeze play and the wind build-up until they get up to about four times the original wind speed. Then the apparent wind is coming from so nearly dead ahead that they can't build it up any more. But four times the speed of the wind is enough for anybody. Now you can begin to understand how Long Branch's famous Commodore Price broke every speed record on the books by sailing the Clarel 140 miles an hour one winter day in 1908. He didn't have a hurricane—just a typical winter westerly, with puffs hitting forty or forty-five, and he got the old girl going at just the right angle. Debutante III, of Oshkosh, claims 119 in a race on Gull Lake, Michigan. Flying Dutchman, of the same club, is credited with 124. Both these records are to the credit of the famous skipper, John Buckstaff, of Oshkosh. Iceboats, however, don't always go tearing around four times as fast as the wind. Most of the time their speed is closer to twice the wind speed, and because they have to tack to get to wind-ward, they cover a greater distance than the measured course in every race. The real test of a boat's ability is what she can do around a course from a standing start. A comparison of old records with new will show what streamlining and modern rigs have done for speed. In 1892, the famous Jack Frost-720 square feet—set a record by sailing a twenty-mile race on the Hudson River at an average speed of 38.3 miles per hour. Actual distance: 31.4 miles; time: 49 minutes, 30 seconds. Almost a half century later, Charette II, carrying 125 square feet of sail, covered a ten-mile course in 11 minutes, 33 seconds at an average speed of 51.9 miles an hour to win the Eastern Open Championship for 1941. Having been convinced that iceboats really do make time, our questioner in-variably follows up with this one: "At speeds like that, how do you ever stop the darned things?" Stopping is actually a cinch, provided the skipper hasn't made that basic error known to the trade as "running out of ice." Iceboats will stop in a surprisingly short distance, if they are headed straight into the wind. "Isn't it dangerous?" In the hands of a fool or a show-off, yes. But properly handled—and it's easy—iceboats are a lot safer than automobiles. For one thing, there's no lurking ditch, nor is there a line of fence posts and a stream of opposing traffic. There's plenty of room; collisions are practically unheard of. Furthermore, with her sharp runners, an iceboat can be steered within a fraction of an inch of where her skipper wants to send her, with one exception. The older type of boat, with stern rudder, some-times will take matters into her own hands, kick up her heels and do a whirling dervish, spinning around two or three times as if trying to shake off both skipper and crew. And sometimes she succeeds. In 1931, Starke Meyer, of Milwaukee, did some experimenting with models he hoped would lick the spin problem. He decided to reverse the traditional design and give the bow steerer a try. In the next few seasons he built several, all named Paula. The bow steerer turned out to be tremendously fast. Even more encouraging, she proved to be spin-proof. Paula's offspring can be numbered in the thousands. Most numerous are the ubiquitous Skeeters. In fairness, however, it should be pointed out that, while the bow steerer won't spin and toss you off, she's a dangerous lady in a capsize. She lifts her crew high in the air as she rears, and if she goes over, they may be tossed out from a height of eight or ten feet or, even worse, have the whole works fall with them, in case the mast breaks. A few bad spills of this type occurred when bow steerers were younger and not so well understood. In recent years, skippers have learned always to carry the main sheet—the rope that controls the sail—so that it can be slipped a bit if the boat tries to hike more than a few inches. They have found that the boat makes better speed if she is kept down on the ice than when one runner is reaching for the sky, the way you see them in the newsreels. Since there is no profit and there is real danger in carrying a hike too far, capsizes these days are rare indeed. When they do occur, you may be sure that they are the result of just plain bad driving. We can just about ignore the old question, "Isn't it terribly cold?" 'Sure it's cold. But everybody gets outdoors in the winter nowadays, and all you have to do is dress for it. For coldest days, ice-boaters smear their faces with camphor ice, petroleum jelly or cold cream, and their lips with pomade—don't laugh, brother; a split lip is no joke—as do skiers, fliers, mountain climbers and lots of other outdoor sportsmen. And so we get to the key questions: "Isn't it expensive?" and "How do I get started?" The Skeeter, professionally built at $350, home-built for $75 to $200, has pretty well settled the financial matter, for a good Skeeter is just as fast as anything else, and a lot less trouble. In the old days, when speed was more or less proportional to size, enormous yachts were built, at costs running into the thousands. Largest of all was the Icicle, owned by President Roosevelt's uncle, Commodore John E. Roosevelt, of the Hudson River Ice Yacht Club at Hyde Park. Originally built in 1869, she was enlarged and remodeled until she reached the amazing length of sixty-nine feet and lugged a thousand-square-foot spread of canvas. She has been carefully preserved, and now rests in the Roosevelt museum at Hyde Park. By 1890, she was being consistently beaten by much smaller but more efficient craft, and the big boats gradually dropped into the discard. The largest yacht still sailing is the Debutante III, owned by Douglas and Camp van Dyke, of Oshkosh, Wisconsin. Carrying 618 square feet of sail in a towering rig that completely dwarfs every other boat in sight, she has seen both the Hearst and the Stuart cups, iceboating's premier trophies, lifted from her by smaller boats. The Hearst Cup now rests at Madison, jealously guarded by the 350-square-footer Fritz, owned by Fritz Jungbluth and sailed by Carl Bernard. The Stuart Cup is in Detroit, won and held by Rex Jacobs' fine 350-square-footer Ferdinand, under the able handling of George Hendrie. And even these super-racers have now and again been beaten by little bow steerers carrying 175 square feet or less, which means that a $350 Skeeter will put you right up there with the best of them. Of real importance is the ease with which these little boats can be transported. In the East, for example, the Skeeter crowd has actually stretched the season from a former average of two months to the present one of nearer four. Opening the season on the earliest ice, up in the hills around Kent, Connecticut, they move down into Southern New York to Orange and Greenwood lakes, or into Northern Jersey to Lakes Hopatcong and Musconetcong. If it's a really hard winter, like that of 1940, the lakes will be snowed under. But there's bound to be ice on the Shrewsbury. So south-ward they go, for a Skeeter can be knocked down ready for the road in half an hour. As the winter wears along, the trek is reversed, until the last days of March find them back in Connecticut, winding up the season in glorious spring sunshine. In Massachusetts, New Hampshire and Maine, most of the large lakes sport a few boats, and there are several clubs of considerable size. If you're a Midwesterner, Lake St. Clair, at Detroit, Gull Lake, near Kalamazoo, Fox Lake, northwest of Chicago, Lakes Geneva, Mendota, Pewaukee and Winnebago in Wisconsin, or White Bear and Minnetonka in Minnesota, are the hot spots. There are lots of others, and it's a safe bet you live within an hour's drive of iceboating if you're in those latitudes. And don't think it's all racing. Not by a long shot. Many an enthusiastic ice-boater never races. He probably likes to use tools, and he likes to get outdoors in the wintertime with a group of con-genial spirits. He gets a tremendous kick out of iceboating, even though race day finds him serving on the committee instead of clipping buoys. The best way to get started is to go where the boats are and get talking to the people who sail them. You'll find them more than friendly, glad to give you a ride, and ready to welcome you heartily if you really get the bug and decide to acquire a boat. Even if you are a fine craftsman and are pretty sure you know just what you want to build, it is far wiser to buy your first iceboat, preferably secondhand. You'll learn a lot about what makes a good one good after you've sailed, rigged and played with one for a couple of seasons. Then is the time to build that superboat for yourself. And many's the fellow who's done it. Fritz, the boat we met a few lines back, winner in 1934 of the Hearst Cup, Stuart Cup, Northwestern Class A and Free-for-All Championships; Elizabeth R., owned and sailed by Rube White, of Red Bank, holder of the North American Class A Pennant; Scout, last winner-1922—of the Ice Yacht Challenge Pennant of America, sailed by Capt. Frank Drake, of New Hamburg, who still sails every winter, though shading seventy; my own, Charette II, four times Eastern Class C Champion and twice winner of the Eastern Open—all are home-built boats. Iceboating flourished in Northeastern Europe for many years. Stockholm, Riga and Berlin boasted many clubs and active fleets of yachts. Just before the war, the nations around the Baltic Sea banded together into the Europiiischen Eissegel Union, and sailed annual inter-national championships in several sail-area classes. It may well be that the next winter Olympics will see the inauguration of truly international ice yachting. Steps toward this end were under way when war broke out. Once it's over, you can look for more and faster iceboating wherever Jack Frost hangs his hat. If you enjoyed this post and would like to support more history blog content, please make a donation to the Hudson River Maritime Museum or become a member today!
Editor's note: The following text was originally published on January 11, 1836 from the New York Herald. Thanks to volunteer researcher George A. Thompson for finding, cataloging and transcribing this article. The language, spelling and grammar of the article reflects the time period when it was written. TREMENDOUS SNOW STORM. New York has just been visited by one of the most splendid snow storms that ever perhaps has taken place since the old colonial times, when sleighing continued on Manhattan Island for three or four months a year without intermission. The quantity of snow now lying in our streets is beyond any thing that ever appeared in our time. About four or five years ago, we had a tolerable snow storm, which afforded fine sleighing for six weeks in succession. But the quantity then was only half what it is at present. On Thursday night last, the wind at east by north, thermometer 32°, it began to rain with violence, blowing a heavy gale at the same time. The rain and gale continued all day Friday, the wind shifting, [and] gradually changed to sleet, then small hail, and latterly large light flakes of snow. On Saturday morning, wind N. E., thermometer 32°, the early risers found the whole city and surrounding country covered with six inches of light flaky snow, which the wind in its hasty journey would seize in its terrible hand, and scatter about in wreaths with perfect ease. The shipping in the harbor became weather bound -- the packets and steam boats did not dare go to sea. During the whole of Saturday, the snow storm continued. At mid day, the weather was somewhat soft, but still the wind blew high and occasionally fierce -- The merry sleigh bells began to jingle through the streets. In spite of the weather, Wall street was as crowded as ever, and the gallant brokers kept up their little groups all the morning on the side walk, in the midst of the unruly elements. The walking was wet and disagreeable. The Ruins, during the snow, presented a most remarkable and novel appearance. It looked like the burning craters of so many miniature volcanoes on the snowy tops of the Andes or Himalaya mountains. -- Here and there the snow would lay piled up in heaps on the broken fragments of columns, walls, bricks, and other mutilated materials. Other places were perfectly bare -- a steam, curling up like smoke, as if from half a dozen of steam boilers, was blowing off under the bricks. On these spots the snow melted as soon as it fell, and was converted by the burning merchandize to little beautiful clouds of vapor. "The Ruins" -- There had been a disastrous fire in the city a few weeks earlier. On Saturday night, the weather grew colder and colder -- the snow thicker and thicker. Several snow balling rows broke out among the boys and the hackmen in Broadway. A squad of young clerks met by arrangement in Broadway, at 9 o'clock, and made a dead set at the rascally hackmen. At this period the snow was in an admirable condition for snow balling. It was soft, spungy, abundant and not extremely cold. From the opposite points the assailants made a severe fusillade upon the hackmen lying very quietly in their hacks near the Park. They durst not leave the hacks for fear of their horses running away, and the young fellows pelted them without any mercy. Every body relished the sport -- the very hack horses laughed outright -- shaking their very manes, and switching their tails in joy, as much as to say -- "don't spare the drivers, boys -- they don't spare the whip upon our backs." Towards eleven o'clock at night, the intensity of the storm increased. The thermometer gradually sank -- the barometer gradually rose. Towards morning, however, the thermometer rose again to 32°, wind still violent, and blowing from the N. E. The soft spungy flakes changed into hard, dry, round, clear, pearly white snow. Still there was a softness about it which gave it the power of cohesion. The trees now presented a splendid appearance. Every branch was thoroughly enveloped with a garment whiter than fine linen -- to such an extent that many gave way and broke entirely. In the Park and College Green many trees were then stripped of their pendant branches by the weight of the superincumbent snow. Round the Bowling Green, on the Battery, and in Wall street, the trees presented the same dismantled appearance. Throughout yesterday morning the wind blew violently apparently from the north-west and across the North River slantingly. The waves ran furiously against the western side of Castle Garden. The whole country around looked white -- nothing dark but the surly, agitated, gloomy, disturbed waters. Bedlow's Island, Governor's Island, Staten Island, looked like so many pearly icebergs rising out of the stormy billows. The London and Liverpool packets, the Ontario and the Roscoe, sailed yesterday, and by this time they must be far on their journey, with a smacking breeze behind, and a boundless ocean ahead. On the Battery, the snow was on a level nearly three feet deep. On taking a turn there, we found the top of the wooden benches the only [indication of the] foot path. The Rail Road cars which left Philadelphia on Saturday morning, at 7 o'clock, did not reach this city til yesterday at day light. We learn that they struggled an hour in passing the Delaware at Camden. The cars could not proceed faster than three or four miles a hour, so deep was the snow. There was an unusual number of passengers, male and female, besides many small children. Embarking on board the boat at South Amboy, they made a start for New York, but did not reach further than Perth Amboy, where, by the violence of the gale, the steam boat ran ashore. Here the passengers remained all night, without food or fuel, or place to lay their heads. The poor females were in terrible distress. About three o'clock in the morning, the boat started again, and reached the city about half past five. It was snowing violently all the time. We learn the line will not resume their operations for some time. We are therefore cut off from all communication with Philadelphia, except by the ordinary line over land. In the city all the streets running east and west are almost, if not quite impassible, from the snow having been driven into them by the violence of the gale. The shipping in the docks and at anchor in the stream, present an appearance truly beautiful, and it was well worth the walk to see them. From the truck to the deck, each mast yard and shroud was covered with a coat of pure white pearly snow. The dusky sails were covered with a "cloth of brilliant white." The tarry shrouds were enveloped in a covering as unusual as it was beautiful, and the tout ensemble was strikingly splendid. In the midst of this dreadful storm, should not a thought be given to the hapless seaman braving its terrors. May not a tear of pity be dropped for the luckless vessels thrown upon our coast, where all the elements are combined to destroy them. Many wrecks are strewn along the shore, whose crews, half famished and perishing with cold, are vainly striving to reach the land, in the hope of finding a shelter from the ruthless storm -- death stares them in the face which ever way they move -- if they proceed, how unlikely are they to find a house upon our desolate coast, and if they remain, the snow drift will be their burial place, the saint-like snow their shroud. And how truly is it said, that "one half of this world know not how the other half lives." How many hundreds of families are there in this city perishing for want of food and warmth. Let the haughty rich, who are seated by their cheerful fires, think of the sufferings of those devoted wretches -- let them by contributing a few dollars from their heavy purses, alleviate the suffering of thousands, whose grateful prayer of thanks will afford a truer satisfaction and a purer pleasure that the lavish expenditure of thousands upon things, which, if they afford pleasure at all, it is as unreal and fleeting as the summer cloud. Throughout the whole of yesterday it rained -- or snowed -- or sleeted -- or drifted. Up to a late hour at night, the same weather continued. In some of the streets the snow is seven feet high. Last night it had not become extremely cold, but to-day it is expected to be clear, cold and severe -- just such a day as will afford an opportunity for the finest sleighing that we have had in forty years. For nearly four days and four nights has the weather endured as we have represented it. To-day, if it should be clear, the whole city will be out sleighing -- sleighs will rise in value, and every thing in the shape of a sleigh will be put in requisition. New York Herald, January 11, 1836, p. 2, cols. 1-2 If you enjoyed this post and would like to support more history blog content, please make a donation to the Hudson River Maritime Museum or become a member today!
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 volunteer Carl Mayer. This article was originally published February 18, 1973. One day back in February of ‘36 I took a drive to Bear Mountain where the steamboats “Onteora” and “Clermont” were layed up for the winter. I planned to pay a visit to my friend John Tewbeck, who was the mate on the “Clermont” and acting as shipkeeper for the two steamboats. He had been second Mate with my brother, Algot, when Algot had been first Mate of the “Onteora” back in 1921. It was an overcast day and looked as if a snow storm might be in the making. Sure enough, after I arrived aboard the “Clermont” about 2 p.m., it started to snow. John had to go on an errand to Highland Falls and suggested I wait until he returned. After he left, I took a walk around the two steamboats, all dark and still in their winter hibernation. As I stood in the silent, cold pilot house of the “Onteora” I couldn’t help but think how it must have been there in the day when the “Onty” was new, back at the turn of the century, and running for the old Catskill Evening Line to Catskill, Hudson, Coxsackie and other up river landings. I could almost see the ghosts of Captain Ben Hoff and the Pilots and quartermaster during the early morning hours discussing the political events of the day, as pilot house crews are wont to do. Perhaps talking about Teddy Roosevelt’s campaigns against Judge Alton B. Parker in 1904 and in 1912 against Wilson and Taft. Boyhood Memories Then my thoughts wandered to the early 1920’s when the “Onteora” had been converted to an excursion steamer and was running between New York and Bear Mountain. How as a little boy I would visit my brother and be sitting enthralled in that same pilot house. On one such visit, I remembered looking out the port windows and seeing the steamer “Poughkeepsie” of the Central Hudson Line running up river at about the same speed as the “Onteora,” getting a little too close. And Captain Hoff saying “Come on, Amos (meaning Captain Amos Cooper of the “Poughkeepsie”), get over there.” Now, however, all was still and quiet in the pilot house and the only sound was a train on the New York Central going up the east side of the river at the foot of Anthony’s Nose. How the steam would “siss” across the cold, icy river. I then leisurely walked back on the “Clermont” and went through her cold, silent engine room. The bright work and moving parts of her engine were all covered with black grease as protection against the onslaught of winter’s rust. Up in her pilot house, it sure was cold with the snow falling outside. The brass was all tarnished and dark. By that time, dusk was falling and the now was coming down heavier. I couldn’t even make out the Bear Mountain bridge or the aero beacon on top of the Nose. John Tewbeck came back and said, “Well, Bill I guess you will have to stay here tonight as the roads are very slippery.” So I stayed aboard the “Clermont” all night. On the second deck, in one of her former staterooms on the port side, John had two cots and a small stove. Rattling Windows During the night, how the wind rattled her windows and how the “Clermont” creaked and groaned as she tugged on her mooring lines. It was very snug and comfortable that winter’s night in the “Clermont’s” cabin with the reassuring dull red glow from the coal fire in the small stove. How nice and warm it was to lay in bed and dimly see the lights up in Bear Mountain Park and the snow plows going along the highways very slow with their red lights blinking their warning signals. About 3 a.m. I woke up and dressed. John, somewhat taken aback, said, “Where are you going at this hour?” I answered, “I’m going to take a walk around the boat to see how it is this hour of the morning in a snowstorm.” After giving me his flashlight, which I took, John said, “I guess there is only one Benson like you in this world.” I replied. “Well, I will never again have this opportunity to stay all night and walk around a passenger boat tied up at Bear Mountain, so I thought I’d take advantage of it.” John retorted, “Well, Bill, enjoy yourself, while I sleep in this warm bed.” Cold on Deck I went out on deck. It was bitter cold, but the snow had lightened up considerable. I could now clearly see the Bear Mountain highway bridge and the aero light atop the Nose. How different the river looked all full of ice and snow. I went up to the dark, still pilot house of the “Clermont.” There was something about it that drew me there. Although it was very cold, I couldn’t help but think of how it must have been in that pilot house in seasons past when the steamboat was alive. Things were all hustle and bustle with passengers out on the decks, and perhaps the “Clermont” might be going into Stockport on a warm summer's morning with all the pilot house windows and doors open to catch the warm breezes. Finally, the cold brought my thoughts back to the present and that warm bed and coal stove on the second deck. John was fast asleep and in a few moments so was I. About 7 a.m. I awoke to the aroma of freshly brewing coffee and frying ham and eggs. It was indeed pleasant to eat breakfast by the warm fire and look out on the snow covered park with the sun shining brightly. Recalling That Night About 10 a.m. I left for home. After that I went to visit John a number of times, but never again did I stay overnight. In 1946 he died of a heart attack and the “Clermont” herself was broken up in 1949. A number of times in years later when going by Bear Mountain on cold and stormy nights, I would think about that night in February 1936 and recall my pleasant winter visit to the layed up steamboats. I remember an editorial that once appeared in the old New York Herald Tribune when the Day Liner “Washington Irving” was finally sold for scrapping. The writer observed that of all inanimate objects, ships and steamboats seemed to be endowed with a life of their own and have friends. I know the truth of the writer’s words, for this was my feeling for the “Clermont” and “Onteora.” AuthorCaptain William Odell Benson was a life-long resident of Sleightsburgh, N.Y., where he was born on March 17, 1911, the son of the late Albert and Ida Olson Benson. He served as captain of Callanan Company tugs including Peter Callanan, and Callanan No. 1 and was an early member of the Hudson River Maritime Museum. He retained, and shared, lifelong memories of incidents and anecdotes along the Hudson River. If you enjoyed this post and would like to support more history blog content, please make a donation to the Hudson River Maritime Museum or become a member today!
Editor's note: The following text was originally published in New-York Mercury, February 4, 1765. Thanks to volunteer researcher George A. Thompson for finding, cataloging and transcribing this article. The language, spelling and grammar of the article reflects the time period when it was written. On Friday 25th Jan. last, about 3 o’Clock Mr. Brookman of this town, one Thomas Slack, and a Negro of Mr. Remden’s, went off in a boat in order to shoot some water fowl, which during this hard weather have come in great numbers into the open places in the harbour, and having wounded some, pursued them till they got entangled in the ice, so that they were not able to get to land. Their distress being seen from the shore here, a boat with several hands put off to their assistance, but night coming on lost sight of them, and returned. – Mean while the people in the ice drove with the tide as far as Red-Hook, and fired several guns as signals of distress. The guns were heard on shore, but no assistance could be given them. And as the weather was extreamly cold, it was thought they would all have perished, -- which they themselves also expected. In this extremity they had recourse to every expedient in their power: There happened to be an iron pot and an ax on board – they cut off a piece of the boat roap and pick’d it to oakum, and putting it in the pan of a gun with some powder, catched it on fire, which with some thin pieces cut from the mast, they kindled in the pot, and then cut up their mast, seats, &c. for fewel, and making a tent of their sail, wrapt themselves as well as they could; when they found themselves nearly overcome with the cold, notwithstanding their fire, they exercised themselves with wresting, which proved a very happy expedient, restored their natural warmth, and no doubt greatly contributed to their preservation. In this manner they passed the whole night, in which they suffered much cold, but happily escaped with life, and without being frost bitten: Next morning, by firing guns, they were discovered in the ice by Mr. Seabring on Long Island, who, by laying planks on the ice for near a quarter of a mile, which otherwise was not strong enough to bear a man’s weight, they all got safe on shore, without the least hurt, and returned the same day to York. If you enjoyed this post and would like to support more history blog content, please make a donation to the Hudson River Maritime Museum or become a member today!
Since the Hudson River was first navigated by steamboats in 1807, there have been hazards- natural and man-made- that have plagued the captains and pilots of these vessels. Fog, low water level, treacherous currents and ice have all taken their toll over the years, as have the occasional cases of inattention to duty, confusing or misunderstood whistle signals between steamers- not to mention fires, boiler explosions or mechanical failure of engine or steering gear. Some of these accidents are well known, such as the loss of the steamer Thomas Cornell when she ran up Danskammer Point, north of Newburgh, in the fog on 27 March 1882 as she was making her regular trip from Rondout to New York. Many years later, the Hudson River Day Line’s flagship Washington Irving was lost as a result of a collision just after she left her pier in New York on 1 June 1926. She was struck on the port side by an oil barge in tow of the tug Thomas E. Moran and sank after she was hurriedly run across the river to shallower water on the New Jersey side. Most of the accidents or incidents have never had the dramatic impact of losses such as that of the Thomas Cornell or Washington Irving. Many of them didn’t result in the loss of the vessel. The Cornell tug G.W. Decker was an example. This small tug was for many years employed as a “helper” tug on Cornell’s tows- picking up or dropping off individual barges at intermediate points on the journey to or from New York. Many years ago, the many brickyards at Haverstraw sent their production to New York on barges, with the helper tug shuttling between the brickyard wharves and the tow. The depth of the river at Haverstraw Bay is not particularly deep, and the fact that the Decker’s bottom plates were eventually found to be very thin was ascribed- in part at least- to the cumulative action of Haverstraw Bay sand on her bottom. We shall never know for sure, but it is a reasonable theory. The river’s depth is very shallow on the wide reaches of Haverstraw Bay outside of the main channel, and on the upper river where dredging had to be accomplished to allow ships to reach the port of Albany. In March 1910, long before the upper river was dredged, the very large and powerful steel-hulled Cornell tug named Cornell- accompanied by her helper Rob- was sent to Albany to break up an enormous ice jam in order that the river might be opened for traffic. It was found that her draft was so great that she grounded from time to time on the northbound trip, but she eventually accomplished her task with no small measure of hazard to Cornell and her crew. It was never attempted again. Over most of the river’s course from New York to the start of the dredged channel north of Hudson the channel is of moderate depth, but in the Highlands- from Peekskill north to Cornwall- there is a lot of water, sometimes extending almost to the shoreline because of the mountainous nature of the area. At Anthony’s Nose, the depth reaches about 90 feet, and under the Bear Mountain Bridge we may find nearly 130 feet of depth. In the region around West Point is where we may find the deepest point on the entire river. Between West Point and Constitution Island, in that part of the river called World’s End, a depth of 202 feet was recorded during one survey many years ago- and that is at mean low water during the lowest river stages. A small steamboat- or “steam yacht” in river parlance- named Carrie A. Ward, built in New Baltimore in 1878, maintained a local service between Newburgh and Peekskill during the 1880s. In late July of 1882, she sank near Cold Spring and was raised. On Saturday, 29 July, she sank for a second time for reasons thus far unknown, again in the vicinity of Cold Spring. By Tuesday, 1 August, she had not been located. The Newburgh Daily Journal reported on that day under the headline “Is She Gone For Good?”: “It is said that the river bed consists of rocks in the locality where she went down, and that the water is of varying depth. It may be fifty [feet] deep in one spot, and nearly twice that a few yards off. Some boatmen have doubts if the Carrie will ever be found. They say she may have settled into a hollow between some of the rocks and her presence may never be discovered.” The situation was not quite as dire as the boatmen predicted. By the next day, she had been located in 60 feet of water. The Journal remarked, “Arrangements are under way to have the yacht raised again.” The Baxter Wrecking Company brought in their divers and equipment on 5 August, and in a short time, the Carrie A. Ward had been raised, repaired and back in service. The Hudson hasn’t always been that kind to its vessels. There have been scores of sail and steamboats, barges and other craft that have sunk in the river never to be raised. We shall unfortunately never know the tales told by their crews. AuthorThis article was originally written by William duBarry Thomas and published in the 2007 Pilot Log. Thank you to Hudson River Maritime Museum volunteer Adam Kaplan for transcribing the article. If you enjoyed this post and would like to support more history blog content, please make a donation to the Hudson River Maritime Museum or become a member today!
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 volunteer Carl Mayer. See more of Captain Benson’s articles here. This article was originally published March 25, 1973. As the 19th century gave way to the 20th century, the Cornell Steamboat Company of Rondout was the largest and most progressive marine towing organization in the country. In 1902 they had built what was to be their largest and most powerful tugboat. When completed, it appropriately bore the name “Cornell.” By whatever standard of measurement, the “Cornell” was a most impressive tugboat. At a few inches less than 150 feet in length, she was 25 feet longer than any of Cornell’s other big tugboats. Her 1,400 h.p. engine exceeded by over 500 the horsepower of other units of the fleet. Boatmen used to refer to her as the "Big Cornell" and her two big boilers had a ravenous appetite for coal to make enough steam for her powerful engine. As a result, she had the reputation of being a very hard boat to fire. Many boatmen from Hudson River towns one would talk to in the early 1920’s would almost always say how at one time or another they had fired on the “Big Cornell.” Some would stay only a few hours, some a few days and rarely would she end the season with a fireman who had started out on her in the spring. On Lower River Because of her size and deep draft, she was used almost exclusively on the lower river. During her service on the Hudson, the channel north of Athens had not been dredged for deep draft vessels like it is today. During her career, the “Cornell” made only one trip to Albany and this trip was her most notable exploit while carrying the colors of the Cornell Steamboat Company. It took place in early March, 1910. The winter of 1910 had been an old fashioned winter with plenty of ice in the river. During late February and early March the weather turned unseasonably warm, causing high water at Albany as the result of the melting of the winter’s snow and ice in the Mohawk River. A huge ice jam formed in the river below Albany which caused the water to back up and flood the waterfront areas of Albany and Rensselaer. Fears were also expressed that the ice crowding the Albany railroad bridges might move them off their abutments. In order to relieve the ice and flood crisis at Albany, the federal government was asked to take action. The government's plan was to use dynamite on the ice jam to break it up and to charter the most powerful vessel they could find to go up river to break up the river ice so the broken ice could move down river. The “Big Cornell” was chosen for the job. The “Cornell" left Rondout Creek on March 3, 1910 with the tug “Rob" to follow and assist in any way possible. I have been told the whole operation was in charge of Captain Ulster Davis, Cornell’s agent at Rensselaer, and the regular crew of the “Cornell” whose captain was Tim Donovan and pilot Irving Hayes. Although the upper Hudson was at flood stage, the “Cornell” carried minimum amounts of coal and water in order to keep her draft at a minimum so she would have clearance over the shallow spots north of Athens. Very Heavy Ice The “Cornell” encountered very heavy ice from Kingston to Athens, sometimes as much as two feet in thickness. The ice was so heavy, the “Cornell’s” steel hull plating was scalloped inward between her frames at the water line forward caused by her smash into the rock-like ice. At Athens, the "Cornell” went up the wider Athens channel rather than the deeper Hudson channel along the east shore, since men going ahead on foot had determined the ice in the west channel wasn’t quite as thick. She passed Athens through 15 inches of ice on March 5. All along the river, men and boys would come out on the ice to watch the “Cornell” go by. The “Cornell” arrived at Rensselaer on March 6, the river opened and the ice jam broken. Once the ice jam was broken, I have been told one could literally see the water begin to drop at Albany. Although the crisis to Albany was over, a new problem arose for the “Cornell.” The Company was afraid the water might drop so fast, they would not be able to get their big tug back down river in time to clear the up river sand bars and ledges. An Early Start The “Cornell” took on coal, fresh water and grub at Rensselaer as fast as she could. Due to the strong current in the river, when they started to turn the "Cornell” around for her return trip, the tug “Rob” had to push wide open against her stern in order to get the “Cornell” headed down stream. At first, they were going to wait for daylight all the way, but because of the falling water decided to start down as soon as possible. When they started back for Rondout, I have been told it was a clear, cold March night. The water in the river was running down stream so fast, they ran the “Cornell's” engine dead slow — just enough to keep steerage way. They were reluctant to run her any faster as they did not want to scrape or hit bottom and possibly smash her rudder shoe or break her propeller. They had had such good luck so far, they didn't want to tempt fate any more than necessary. Everything went fine until the two tugs came to Dover Platte Island off Coxsackie. Captain Donovan of the ‘'Cornell’’ knew there had always been a sand bar there and figured the freshet in all probability might have built up the bar higher than usual. When they reached that point, they stopped the “Cornell's” engine and just let her drift. Sure enough she fetched up on the bar, stopped and rolled over very slightly to port. To be sure there was only sand, they sounded all around with pike poles. Over the Bar Once they were certain there were no rocks on the bottom, they decided to have the “Rob” go up ahead and put a hawser on the “Cornell's” bow — and then to open up both tugs full throttle and to try and “bull” the ‘‘Cornell’’ over the bar. When all was in readiness, the “Cornell” gave the signal for full speed ahead and for the “Rob” to start pulling. I can readily imagine on that cold March night the load “chow chow” of the “Rob's” high pressure engine. They tell me when the “Cornell’’ hooked up, she lay down on her port side, her propeller part out of the water for a few moments. Some of her crew thought her towering smoke stacks would topple over, the starboard guy lines being incredibly taut and the port ones having about two feet of slack. However, in but a few minutes the ‘‘Cornell’’ had inched her way over the bar. Once she cleared the sand bar, though, the ‘‘Cornell’’ leaped ahead so fast before they could stop her engine she almost ran over the “Rob’’ pulling on her bow. Quick action by a deckhand on the “Rob” saved the day. By wielding a fast, sharp axe he cut the connecting hawser. From that point back to Rondout Creek they encountered no more difficulties. From Athens south, the river ice still held, but by following the channel they had previously made going northward the going was relatively easy. Renamed Her The difficulty in keeping firemen on the “Cornell” continued to plague her and led to the end of her career on the Hudson River. Shortly before World War I she was sold to the Standard Oil Company of Louisiana. Her new owners renamed her “Istrouma,” converted her to an oil burner, and operated her on the Mississippi River out of Baton Rouge where she remained in service until the late 1940's. I have been told the Cornell Steamboat Company always maintained it was not feasible to convert the “Cornell” to an oil burner, since it wouldn't be possible to install sufficient oil storage capacity aboard her. It is my understanding before purchasing her, the Standard Oil people, unknown to Cornell, sent some men to Cornell who hired out on her as firemen. The masquerading firemen thoroughly examined the “Cornell” and apparently concluded she could successfully be converted to oil firing. In any event, she was — and remained in service for another 30 years. Many years later, during World War II, my friend Roger Mabie was the commanding officer of a submarine chaser in the U.S. Navy. One day his ship was in a shipyard at Algiers, Louisiana, across the river from New Orleans. There, in an adjacent dry dock was the “Istrouma,” the old “Cornell.” He went aboard. Her shell plating forward was still scalloped between frames from her bout with Hudson River ice in 1910. Her brass capstan caps were still inscribed “Cornell.” In her engine room, her steam and vacuum gauge faces still were etched ‘‘Cornell,” Cornell Steamboat Company, Rondout, N.Y. A few days later, Roger told me his ship was leaving New Orleans to go back to sea. Out in the river, the old ‘‘Cornell” was going upstream. He blew her a whistle salute, which the former “Cornell” answered with her old deep steam whistle. I thought it was a nice gesture, both a greeting to an old work horse from the Hudson River and a sort of salute to the maritime greatness that was once Rondout’s. AuthorCaptain William Odell Benson was a life-long resident of Sleightsburgh, N.Y., where he was born on March 17, 1911, the son of the late Albert and Ida Olson Benson. He served as captain of Callanan Company tugs including Peter Callanan, and Callanan No. 1 and was an early member of the Hudson River Maritime Museum. He retained, and shared, lifelong memories of incidents and anecdotes along the Hudson River. The tug/fireboat "Istrouma" was scrapped in 1949. If you've seen a large red tugboat named "Cornell" on the Hudson River or New York Harbor, it's not the same as this "Cornell," but nearly as big! She was built the same year the "Istrouma" was scrapped. Learn more.
If you enjoyed this post and would like to support more history blog content, please make a donation to the Hudson River Maritime Museum or become a member today! Editor's Note: The following is a verbatim transcription of a chapter from Spalding's Winter Sports by James A. Cruikshank, published in 1917 and part of the Ray Ruge Collection at the Hudson River Maritime Museum. Many thanks to volunteer Adam Kaplan for transcribing this booklet. This is our final installment - thank you for reading along! Perhaps in no outing of the year will the confidence and assurance of the beginner bring such unfortunate punishment as in the winter cruises over the snow and in the cold. Neglect of the simple precautions which the expert has learned to regard as absolutely necessary may bring trouble, not merely to the individual, but to the entire party. It is no small trial to find that, because some over-confident amateur has rushed off on the trip with insufficient preparation or equipment, the entire plans of the party must be changed, or perchance the individual will become the ward of the group. A severe frost-bite, a shoe too tight, an ill fitting binding of snowshoe or ski, a broken snow implement- these are generally things which can be avoided with a little anticipation and forethought. It is no joke to attempt to guide or carry home some husky amateur who has paid the penalty of foolhardiness by starting out ill-equipped; nor is it pleasant to be left alone by a sputtering fire in the heart of the snow laden woods while somebody strains to get help. One such experience will cure anybody, and it will also break up a pleasant outing and some of its friendships. The best plan on all winter outings which take the party any considerable distance from headquarters is to select and appoint a captain known to be familiar with the work in hand. His opinion should be final. He should even have the authority to refuse a place in the party to those who are not properly equipped. This is the custom among many of the oldest and strongest winter organizations of the country, whose winter outings increase in popularity and interest every year. It is important to keep tally of the number of persons in the party and to “count noses” occasionally, especially where the going is bad and when teams are taken for the return trip or for distant points. In laying out trails, care should be taken to leave marks indicating any possible deviation in the route, either by arrows drawn in the snow, paper stuck in a split stick and stood up in the trail, snow mounds, or broken branches laid across the trail not to be followed. In snowshoe work the leader should adapt his stride to the shortest member of the party. In hill climbing he should make short steps, and the following members of the party should place their snowshoes accurately in the first track so that the steps do not become ragged and useless. Among the valuable items of the equipment, for either individuals or parties, are maps of the country, a compass, drinking cups, matches, knife, extra length of rawhide for possible repairs, safety pins, length of strong rope wound around some member as a belt. A folding candle lantern will often be very useful. It is not always agreeable to make an extended stop for lunch, and many of the most enthusiastic winter cruisers carry only such lunch as can be conveniently eaten while en route. Shelled nuts, raisins, sweet chocolate, triscuit, malted milk tablets, and crackers, are some of the best quick rations. Snow should not be eaten. If thirsty, a few raisins, lime tablets or even a bit of lemon eaten with a little snow may be used. Frost bite is the special thing to guard against in most amateur winter outings. It occurs with so little warning that the best plan is for each member of the party to watch the faces and ears of others in the party and give warning. The presence of a white spot should immediately be called attention to, and remedies applied. The first aid in this case is brisk rubbing with a woolen mitten, or glove, on which fresh snow is placed. In the case of frozen parts keep in the cold air and apply only cold treatment such as snow and very cold water until color and sensation return, when warm applications may be gradually used. Vaseline or any other greases should be applied after the frozen part has been brought to normal appearance. The continued use of snowshoes when the snow is very deep and heavy may bring on Mal de Raquette, most dreaded of all the winter troubles of the far north. It is caused by unusual and severe strain upon the muscles of the lower leg. The veins become clotted by overheating and the blood is kept in the lower extremities. Sometimes the limbs swell to two or three times the normal size and turn black. The premonitory symptoms of this very serious trouble are numbness of the limbs, lassitude and exhaustion. The remedy is to bare the legs to the skin, jump in the snow and stay there until the pain is unbearable, then rub the legs upward, toward the heart, until the flow of blood sets in. When symptoms are slight, the men of the north content themselves with elevating their feet and legs above the level of their heads as they lie and smoke, in which position the blood flows back into the body. Snow-blindness is frequent among the habitual outdoor folks of the north and should be guarded against by amateurs. There is no glare in all the year so severe as the glare of the sun from ice and snow. In Switzerland, in midsummer, the glacier travelers apply burnt cork to their faces, not merely to avoid sunburn but also to save the eyes. Automobile goggles are an excellent addition to the winter equipment, or smoked glasses, which should be fastened with a cord to the person. In case neither of these things are at hand, and the glare of the sun seems likely to cause trouble to any member of the party, a very simple prevention consists of a bit of flat wood, roughly whittled into the shape of goggles, and in the middle of which a narrow slit is cut. These are the Indians’ snow-goggles. No winter outing is complete without a photographic record of its interesting episodes. From the snowshoe tumble, which is so excruciatingly funny- to the other folks- to the tracks of wild creatures in the snow, there ranges every form of pictorial possibility. The equipment, however, should be light, simple and carried in waterproof and snow proof case. A box Kodak of set focus is always ready, and has many advantages. The postal size folding camera crowds it close in winter value and has scenic uses the cheap instrument lacks. One should remember that at no time of the year is there so much white light as in a mid-winter noon, and that the early day and the late day have deceivingly small amount of white light. AuthorJames A. Cruikshank was an expert on outdoors sports during the first half of the 20th century. Born in Scotland but spending most of his life in New York, he was the editor of The American Angler magazine, Field and Stream, and wrote numerous articles for a wide variety of other magazines and newspapers throughout his career, including the Brooklyn Daily Eagle. He also published at least three books: Spalding’s Winter Sports (1913, 1917), Canoeing and Camping (1915), and Figure Skating for Women (1921, 1922). He also contributed a chapter on artificial lures to The Basses: Freshwater and Marine (1905). In addition to his writing, Cruikshank was involved in public speaking, doing talks on outdoor sports sometimes illustrated by motion pictures. An avid photographer, Cruikshank’s photos often featured in his illustrated lectures, his articles, and his books, as he encouraged readers to take their own cameras out-of-doors. He had a home in the Catskills as well as a home and offices in New York City, and in the 1930s he helped found the Hudson River Yachting Association. At one point, he managed the Rockefeller Center ice skating rink, and another in Rye, NY. His wife Alice was also an avid camper and hiker, and they often traveled together. In 1909, Alice went “viral” in newspapers around the country by being the first person to blaze a trail between Mount Field and Mount Wiley in the White Mountains of New Hampshire (James brought up the rear). James and Alice eventually moved to Drexel, PA and were vacationing in Lake Placid in July of 1957 when James died unexpectedly at the age of 88. James Cruikshank went on to publish another book, Figure Skating for Women, in 1921, and remained a steadfast supporter of women in sports and outdoor photography.
If you enjoyed this post and would like to support more history blog content, please make a donation to the Hudson River Maritime Museum or become a member today! Editor's Note: Editor's Note: The following is a verbatim transcription of a chapter from Spalding's Winter Sports by James A. Cruikshank, published in 1917 and part of the Ray Ruge Collection at the Hudson River Maritime Museum. Many thanks to volunteer Adam Kaplan for transcribing this booklet. There is no reason why the average country club of the northern part of the United States or Canada should close up shop and hibernate during the winter. Some few pioneering clubs have already demonstrated that there is as much interest in sports of the winter as in those of the summer, and they are keeping open house all the year round. Some of the methods which are employed to interest the membership and provide what that membership desires in the way winter pastimes may be of value to other organizations. A toboggan slide will interest a very large proportion of the membership and can generally be managed on such a basis as to pay for itself, or at least for its maintenance. This has been the experience of the famous Ardsley Country Club, Ardsley, N.Y., which even went to the extreme of bringing to its club a recognized tobogganing expert of Canada, who directed the construction of its slide, and manages the rental of the toboggans and the maintenance of the slide. Almost any hilly country is adapted to the erection of a toboggan slide, and with a slight artificial stand with which to create initial impetus, a fine slide can be arranged. In small towns and sparsely settled communities it is often possible to arrange with the authorities for the use of one of the roads for certain hours or certain days, and with the placing of watchers at cross roads some of the magnificent sport which Switzerland enjoys in the way of coasting ought to be possible. The Lake Placid Club in the Adirondacks starts its toboggan slide from the roof of the golf house, which offers a suggestion other clubs may care to follow. Wooden troughs can be erected to carry the slide across brooks or gulleys, then the natural resources of the ground and the snow utilized again. The famous Swiss runs are first banked with snow and then water, which is piped all along the run, is sprayed upon the snow banks. There is tremendous side thrust to a heavily loaded toboggan or bob-sled going at great speed around a curve, and the construction of the slide should be strong and safe. The construction of an ice rink is easy where there is either a small brook nearby or water piped to the vicinity. Tennis courts are often used as the foundation of ice rinks, and serve admirably, but the water must be drawn off at the first approach of spring or the field will remain soft for an uncomfortably long time. The better plan is to have a special field for the ice rink, lay clay foundation and make side walls of 8 or 10 inches in height. When the first cold weather comes spray the field with a fine rose spray flung high in the air so that it freezes immediately upon touching the ground. Do not flood any skating field unless you want shell ice, at least not in the vicinity of New York or any place of similar average temperature. Of course, where there is a running brook, the building of a low dam, often merely 2 or 3 feet in height, will serve to back the water up over lowlands and provide a very satisfactory skating field during steady cold weather. A flood-gate should be put in the dam, however, so as to raise the level at any time, and thus create a new skating surface and get rid of the snow. It is most important that when snow has fallen on a skating field it must not be walked over, since the hardened footprints will remain and form annoying lumps, even after the balance of the snow has melted. It is much better to remove all snow as it falls, however, unless the size of the field is too large. Skating on ice which has been formed by spraying onto clay bottom may begin when 1 inch of ice has been formed. Where ice forms over water, the following thicknesses are necessary for various weights; 2 inches will sustain a man or properly spaced infantry; 4 inches will sustain a horse; 6 inches will sustain crowds in motion; 8 inches will sustain men, carriages, and horses; 15 inches will sustain passenger trains. Ice which is disintegrated by the action of salt water loses nearly 50 per cent. of its sustaining strength. It is now generally calculated that the large free skating coming into popularity in this country, and known as the International style, requires a rink of about 25 by 50 feet for a dozen persons. AuthorJames A. Cruikshank was an expert on outdoors sports during the first half of the 20th century. Born in Scotland but spending most of his life in New York, he was the editor of The American Angler magazine, Field and Stream, and wrote numerous articles for a wide variety of other magazines and newspapers throughout his career, including the Brooklyn Daily Eagle. He also published at least three books: Spalding’s Winter Sports (1913, 1917), Canoeing and Camping (1915), and Figure Skating for Women (1921, 1922). He also contributed a chapter on artificial lures to The Basses: Freshwater and Marine (1905). In addition to his writing, Cruikshank was involved in public speaking, doing talks on outdoor sports sometimes illustrated by motion pictures. An avid photographer, Cruikshank’s photos often featured in his illustrated lectures, his articles, and his books, as he encouraged readers to take their own cameras out-of-doors. He had a home in the Catskills as well as a home and offices in New York City, and in the 1930s he helped found the Hudson River Yachting Association. At one point, he managed the Rockefeller Center ice skating rink, and another in Rye, NY. His wife Alice was also an avid camper and hiker, and they often traveled together. In 1909, Alice went “viral” in newspapers around the country by being the first person to blaze a trail between Mount Field and Mount Wiley in the White Mountains of New Hampshire (James brought up the rear). James and Alice eventually moved to Drexel, PA and were vacationing in Lake Placid in July of 1957 when James died unexpectedly at the age of 88. Tune in next week for the final chapter!
If you enjoyed this post and would like to support more history blog content, please make a donation to the Hudson River Maritime Museum or become a member today! Editor's Note: The following is a verbatim transcription of a chapter from Spalding's Winter Sports by James A. Cruikshank, published in 1917 and part of the Ray Ruge Collection at the Hudson River Maritime Museum. Many thanks to volunteer Adam Kaplan for transcribing this booklet. Where winter is at all reliable, and snow and ice can be confidently counted upon in advance, no outdoor festival of the whole year will furnish such invariable delight as the winter carnival. There seems to be some unique quality about winter which stimulates to merriment and enthusiasm. It is something more than the scientific fact that one-seventh more oxygen is found in the cold air of winter than in the warm air of summer. The same group of young people will reveal in winter depths of fun and prankish tendencies unsuspected by any actions of the summer time. Staid matrons have been known to try the turkey trot on snowshoes who never tried it anywhere else; and contributing thereby entertainment which neither they nor their friends ever before suspected them capable of. Nobody stands about in wallflower pose when the winter carnival is on. Canada started the world on the winter carnival. And then, because some of the thoughtless folks whom she desired as settlers and immigrants got the mistaken idea that Canada was a land of snow and ice, she suddenly dropped the thing. Now, with a better knowledge of her magnificent climate spread abroad all over the world, she has sensibly gone back to the enjoyment of those delightful and exhilarating winter pastimes which no other people on earth know so well how to arrange and participate in, and she again welcomes the seeker after winter joys. There is inspiration and information for every lover of winter joys in even the briefest visit to the Dominion during the couple of cold months of the year. Perhaps the presence there of so much of the French gayety and vivacity reveals the secret of her wonderful success in the carnivals of winter. But Canada is no longer the exclusive authority upon the enjoyment of winter. Switzerland, Norway, and some parts of the United States are but little behind in fostering the winter carnival. it is an unquestioned truth that nowhere in the world is there larger interest in winter pastimes than in the United States. Country clubs, outdoor organizations of all kinds, even groups of serious folks interested primarily in the betterment of the locality or the town in which they live, and in some few cases town governments themselves, are now aware of the delightful vacations which may be enjoyed by merely taking advantage of the local presence of cold weather and snow. On Long Island, New York State, in recent years there has been an illustration of this spirit to the extent of closing the schools when the big bob-sled races with the neighboring town take place, just as in sunny California the schools are often closed when snow falls in order to let the youngsters revel in its unusual beauty. All a big winter carnival needs, given the right sort of winter, is a moving spirit. Let somebody start the thing and the expression of interest will be immediate, and support will be generous. The very novelty of the affair will attract attention and draw people. And once it has been successfully carried out there will be large demands for its repetition. The famous ice palaces of Montreal, with their accompanying picturesque carnivals, did not die for lack of interest or patronage; they were killed intentionally, because they carried a wrong impression to the balance of the world. In time they will be revived. An ice palace sounds elaborate and difficult, but it need be neither. Blocks of ice or a foundation of a wooden structure upon which streams of water are played may be employed to create a structure big enough for the sport of attack and defense by armies on snowshoes and skiis, carrying torches and burning red fire. Exceedingly interesting effects can be obtained at very slight expense, providing of course that the local weather man can be relied upon to furnish his part in the program. There may be moonlight snowshoe tramps over the hills, snowshoe races where start and finish are in front of a grand-stand, or in the center of a rink, where folks can keep moving, ski races and ski coasting, skating exhibitions, costume skating with prizes for the best costume representative of winter; skating races, couple skating in fancy movements or speed contests, fancy dancing on skates, individual and couple; parade of decorated sleighs, floats, sleds, or toboggans; parades of snowshoers, ski runners, and skaters in costume. Any number of most interesting events can be run off on an ice field, such as hoop races, wheelbarrow races, potato races, snow shovel races, where the men drag the girls one-half the distance and the girls drag the men the other half; night-shirt races, where the girls aid the men to get into a night-shirt, the men skate a short distance and then the girls aid them to get out of the night-shirt; necktie and cigarette races in similar fashion; ski races, where the men or women are drawn by horses; snowshoe obstacle races, getting through a barrel, over a fence, climbing a rope ladder; toboggan races, in which two persons sit on the toboggan and propel it by hands or feet over the ice; and lanterns of all kinds everywhere, electric illumination. If it can be arranged, colored fire, torches, toboggans rigged with tiny batteries and carrying individual insignia and emblems, costumes similarly lighted, topped off by the moonlight. AuthorJames A. Cruikshank was an expert on outdoors sports during the first half of the 20th century. Born in Scotland but spending most of his life in New York, he was the editor of The American Angler magazine, Field and Stream, and wrote numerous articles for a wide variety of other magazines and newspapers throughout his career, including the Brooklyn Daily Eagle. He also published at least three books: Spalding’s Winter Sports (1913, 1917), Canoeing and Camping (1915), and Figure Skating for Women (1921, 1922). He also contributed a chapter on artificial lures to The Basses: Freshwater and Marine (1905). In addition to his writing, Cruikshank was involved in public speaking, doing talks on outdoor sports sometimes illustrated by motion pictures. An avid photographer, Cruikshank’s photos often featured in his illustrated lectures, his articles, and his books, as he encouraged readers to take their own cameras out-of-doors. He had a home in the Catskills as well as a home and offices in New York City, and in the 1930s he helped found the Hudson River Yachting Association. At one point, he managed the Rockefeller Center ice skating rink, and another in Rye, NY. His wife Alice was also an avid camper and hiker, and they often traveled together. In 1909, Alice went “viral” in newspapers around the country by being the first person to blaze a trail between Mount Field and Mount Wiley in the White Mountains of New Hampshire (James brought up the rear). James and Alice eventually moved to Drexel, PA and were vacationing in Lake Placid in July of 1957 when James died unexpectedly at the age of 88. If you enjoyed this post and would like to support more history blog content, please make a donation to the Hudson River Maritime Museum or become a member today!
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