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# 2025-05-02 - Little Lady Vagabond by Hal Kane Clements
I found this series of 5 articles in Outdoor American written by
Hal Kane Clements describing her wandering through Canada. Hal was
her pen name. Her given name was Hazel. These articles are a time
capsule giving a glimpse into Canada 100 years ago. I enjoyed the
author's adventurous and upbeat style.
Below are some photos of the author.
IMG Hazel sitting on a boat
IMG Hazel at a trapper's grave
IMG Hazel with Dutch journalists
IMG Hazel in aviator clothes
IMG Hazel with her daughter Enid
Below are the letters themselves, with links to the magazine issues.
# July, 1925
HTML Outdoor America, July, 1925
Dear Stay-At-Homes:
It all began when I was born, I guess. Perhaps the moon was a little
off color--or the stars a bit mixed--but whatever the reason I seem
to have arrived among those present all fixed up with a bad case of
heel itch, which for many years I covered up the best I could.
Somehow I managed to reach what really should be the age of
discretion (if one is ever to have such a disadvantage wished on
one), without getting into serious difficulty--and then one lovely
day in June--the worst happened!
On the picture cover of the highly respected and conservative
Saturday Evening Post I looked upon a tragic sight. A tired out,
stoop-shouldered, old bookkeeper, probably the watchword-of the
office for his punctuality and steadiness--sits dreaming of his Ship
of Adventure, which somehow never came true. In his faded,
half-blind blue eyes there is a look of hopeless wistfulness--he
realizes he is too old to sail the high seas of Adventure even if the
chance should come--and he has had his dream for many, many years!
"My grandfather's ghost!" says I to myself. "Just suppose that
should happen to Me. My joints don't exactly creak yet--but Time has
a mean way of sneaking past--and that pathetic old dreamer probably
has been planning on getting away next year, for the last forty of
'em. And that dream I've had for most of my life of a long,
meandering ramble through the North country seems a bit mossy. Right
now is when I'd better do something about it or quit thinking of it."
Making dreams come true is easier than forgetting them, you'll find,
if you try it. So I turned my thinker upside-down in a desperate
effort to find the ways and means to get my little old Ship of
Adventure out of port, and me with it--and then, lo and be-hold--out
of a cubby hole, forgotten and dusty, I dragged forth an Aladdin's
lamp idea that only needed a little rubbing--and I found that all I
had to do was to unwind a little more sail--and then--away!
Between this log cabin, where I am writing you this letter (four
miles from even the meager civilization of Metagama, a station and
three log cabins plus one water tank, and the nearest human being
except my comrade), and Chicago, there stretches a thousand miles of
endless interest and beauty.
Driving on splendid roads most of the way, through the dunes and
fragrant clover fields of Indiana, great fields of buckwheat, the
prosperous quaintness of Ohio, made most tempting by the tantalizing
smell of early apples, drifing along the road--the breath-taking
swoops down the steep hills of Pennsylvania, past picturesque old
white-washed farm houses set among twisted apple trees in
southwestern New York--and woven throughout the whole flying picture,
great glowing flower color--gorgeous hollyhocks along a stone
wall--lovely gardens everywhere of sweet william, larkspur, bachelor
buttons--and rambler roses clamoring for admiration from doorway and
gate!
A never-to-be-forgotten sight was Niagara Falls during a terrific
electrical storm at night. It was pitchy dark over the falls, except
during the flashes of lightning, and then that whole miracle of
magnificence would shine from way up the river as though
phosphorescent. Thrilling? It was just the scariest glory I've ever
seen!
At last Toronto, and then the sea-going chariot was given a chance to
get rested, and a train brought me the rest of the way to Metagama,
Ontario, through wild, bleak country, some of it that makes you think
of the end of the world, and then the next mile brings you a stretch
of breath-taking scenery.
One of the charming allurements of Canada is that you never quite
know just what it intends to do next--first there are great hills of
warmly pink rock a few miles out of Sudbury--long stretches of burned
out timberland--lovely little lakes set like jewels in a pine-fringed
valley--lonely little stations--lumber camps built up of log cabins
and a saw-mill--and then, Metagama, after all those miles!
Dinner, and a good one, too, in the box car dining room, of a section
gang--a visit with some old Airedale friends and their owner, Mike
Bates, a rare person and our host--and eventually, with pack sacks
and duffle bags, following our good friend Charlie, we start on the
four-mile trail to camp.
The trail is composed largely of fallen trees, over which we must
climb, and rocks over which we stumble. (About this time I'm
breathless and feel a good round one hundred and fifty years old.)
When the four miles seems to have stretched into at least forty, and
we're sure we just can't go another step--the trail turns and 'there
before us is the most peacefully beautiful spot I've ever seen, and
nestled down overlooking the whole of it, a log cabin which is to be
ours for a week.
Trout Lake, as you come upon it, seems to be a perfect rectangle,
with the cabin looking south straight away, down the center of it.
On both sides, with perfect balance of outline, two long tapering
ridges of pine timberland, like arms, reach out as if holding the
little lake close to its bosom, gradually rising to a towering
background which meets behind the cabin, with here and there a giant
pine silhouetted against a sky of vivid blue, and great shining white
clouds. Just now it is sunset--and across the world is flung, by a
gigantic and audacious hand, all the paint pots of the
universe--mauve and gold daringly splashed with vivid red and
orange--and against the far distance a shading of purple, green, and
gray that would drive an artist mad trying to reproduce.
The silence and peacefulness of it reaches down into one's soul--and
all the cares and worries of the world slip away. There is no
man-made sound--no intrusion into this solitude. Trout Lake is a
little kingdom, where the occupants of the log cabin have absolute
reign.
Far off the weird call of a loon shatters the silence--safely hidden
in the dusk of the timber along the lake a moose plunges for a
refreshing drink. The moon has started on her majestic march across
the sky, and here and there a golden star shines back again from the
quiet surface of the water.
Night is here, and the fresh pine-sweetness of the air makes our hay
filled bunks a welcome prospect. A fire of pine wood is burning in
the chuck stove--gratefully we toast our shins against its warmth for
a few moments--then in less time than it takes to tell it we are
under the blankets and forty fathoms deep in slumber.
# August, 1925
HTML Outdoor America, August, 1925
Dear Stay-At-Homes:
After a lovely, lotus-eating week at Trout Lake, then again the four
mile pack-sacking trail back to Metagama, a freight train ride to
Bisco, thirty miles west--we missed the only passenger train that
day--a visit with old friends, some maddening moonight over the
beautiful Bisco waters that merge lake after lake endlessly, and
dotted with the most intriguing islands of every size and style.
A kiss goodbye to my dear comrade whose path leads east While mine
wanders much, much west. Then five hundred Miles of lonely "bush,"
some of it so desolate you want to weep as you look, some of it, when
we finally reach the crags and huge boulders that rear themselves
against the sky line at Lake Superior, magnificently rugged. This
certainly seems to be a hard, rocky old world about here and it makes
me feel all sort of pulverized and nothing at all, at all!
And then, at midnight after nearly eighteen hours of express speed,
Nipigon River Camp, the long train grumbling to an unwilling stop, a
sleepy porter dumping me and my luggage out into the empty darkness.
A bumpy drive, with horse and wagon, over what seems to be unbroken
forest for several miles, finally a cup of tea and at last, just as I
am about to leave the world forever, I am so weary, a grand and
glorious place to sleep! Miss Green, my genial hostess, brings me
back to life in the morning by waving a breakfast tray laden with
bacon and coffee before my nose, grandest smell in the wide world;
and I awaken to find a far and wide lake over which I look from high
up on a hill. Great hills of black rock surround the lake. Against
a hollow in one of them nestles a quaint little white church, looking
a bit timid and frightened at all the rocks around it. Nipigon is
Fisherman's Paradise, but it is Sunday and there is much to see and
do, so I desist.
An unforgettable trip in a motor boat down the rapids on French
River, the stars come out and the Northern Lights scamper across the
sky and then once again I am on my way, regretfully leaving behind me
a very splendid hospitality and a wonderful day.
Winnipeg! Busy, breezy people who are so cordial and courteous.
First of all, a great big room in the hotel where the Prince of Wales
sometimes stops when he wanders through here, the Royal Alexandria.
It's ultra modern, yet was built TWENTY YEARS AGO and has the largest
lobby, or rotunda, as they call it here, of any hotel in the North
American continent. How's that for progressiveness?
Right near the hotel is the Immigration Office, and the station as I
passed through had been filled with immigrants just leaving a
colonists' train. "Poor souls," thought I, "it must be terrible to
come here with hardly any money, unable to speak the language. What
will they do?"
I found out that it might be well to save my sympathy for someone who
needs it more than they do. This is what happens. John and Mary,
with little John and Mary, from Central Europe or England, or
Germany, all treated exactly the same, decide to come to Canada as
farm help. Special rates are given to them on boat and train, a
place to cook their meals is provided, and they finally arrive, tired
and dirty, at Winnipeg. They are registered at the Immigration
Office, given a hot meal, if they have no food with them which they
wish to cook in the kitchen which is provided . Last year over 61,000
beds and 160,000 meals were provided to the immigrants just at
Winnipeg. They are taken to their rooms, where they find beds with
good mattresses on them, clean sheets, pillow cases, and nearby is a
well-equipped bath-room with all the HOT WATER they want (probably
the first they've ever seen). Down-stairs is a good laundry with
stationary tubs and hot water where the family wardrobe can, within
the next day or two, be made fresh and clean.
In the meantime, on the desk of Mr. M. E. Thornton, Superintendent of
Colonization and Immigration, there is a carefully indexed folio of
requests from the farmers throughout these provinces asking for
helpers on the land, giving minute descriptions of just what
nationality, religion, age, experience, and sex they want, as well as
thorough information regarding the farmer himself, his family, his
religion, and what accommodations and wages he can offer the newcomer.
So John and Mary are sent, when they are rested and ready, to Mr.
Farmer up in Manitoba, who has been waiting for just them, and
everyone is happy. In case, for any good reason, John and Mary do
not like the place to which they have been sent, they return to
Winnipeg, the Immigration Office takes care of them until they do
find what they want. Or if they are ill and cannot go on, they are
nursed and cared for as though they were at home, probably much
better. Miss Cook, a sweet-faced splendid woman who speaks six
languages fluently, matron of the building which harbors the peasants
from middle Europe, while taking me through the women's wards told me
that by hook or by crook she manages to get the girls new hats to
replace the usual head shawls before they leave for their new homes,
and somehow, I think that bit of womanly understanding must be more
treasured than food, don't you? There doesn't seem to be any
institutionalism about it at all. It's just their home for awhile.
Mr. Thornton told me an interesting and unusual story of the
eagerness of these pathetic children of the Old World to become a
part of this new one which is to bring to them the peace and
opportunity for which they search.
It seems that during the frightful struggle of the Bolsheviki to kill
off the rest of the world who might disagree with them, they drove
down into Manchuria the remnant of an Anti-Bolsheviki army and their
families. Eventually, not daring to return to Russia, without money,
but having among them several well-known intellectual leaders,
arrangements were made to have the entire colony brought to Canada.
With their priest they came here, were sent on to where their land
was waiting for them. At the station they were met by the Rotary or
Kiwanis Club, (I've forgotten which, perhaps it was both) with
automobiles, given a good dinner, and taken out to their land where
the Canadian Colonization Department had tents, beds, and necessary
supplies for their use until their cabins were built. Within three
weeks the land was being plowed, their community building plans well
under way, logs cut for their homes, and every day as their priest
prayed with them, a pledge of loyalty to their new home and
government was given. They are perfectly happy and no work is too
hard, nor hours too long for them now.
And so, these people who so badly needed a new country found a warm
welcome in the country that so badly needs people, and let's hope
they live happily ever after!
It was hard to leave Winnipeg. There's something about the place
with its thousands of trees (in a prairie country too) and flowers
everywhere one turns, indoors or out, its warm-hearted friendly and
so interesting people, that makes even the most vagabondish person
want to linger just a little longer! Nice unexpected little
adventures were always popping out from some corner, too, like being
taken bag and baggage out to a farm thirty miles from Winnipeg to
help take a hand with the harvesting, by a lovely lady of whom I had
never heard until the day before. I tried hard to earn my bed and
board, and kept my ear open to find out how this farming thing was
done so successfully. (Will tell that part of it in another letter.)
Then, meeting Mrs. Rogers, the only woman member of Parliament in
Manitoba, a witty, clever woman, and awfully good scout was a bit
larky. We had tea together and then she took me over to have a look
at the $10,000,000 Parliament Building. (Wrigley's advertising
ideas, has Winnipeg) and her office, and her children's pictures, and
the Deputy Minister of Agriculture, Mr. James Evans, a sturdy
Welshman, who rolled his rrrr's most delightfully, and has a way with
the ladies, bless his heart! With charming courtesy and remorseless
energy he took up the burden of my education where Mrs. Rogers left
off. I was taught how to tell good wheat from bad (I'm going to
hound my baker to death when I get home), and was told of how Dr.
Charles Gardner had produced Marquis wheat which because of its early
ripening enlarged by fifty miles across Canada the wheat growing
area. I was invited to attend the dinner at the Agricultural College
in honor of the British Association for the Advancement of Science.
"Rather interesting," said my nice Deputy Minister of Agriculture.
My dears, at breakfast that morning I had read over a half page of
Sir This and Sir That amongst those present, and had wished ever so
devoutly that I could hear them cast their pearls, and not only did I
see 'em and hear 'em but I called them by their first names! It was
truly thrilling to hear the speeches by the great scientists but the
one I liked best of all was given by Premier Bracken of Manitoba, and
whom I had met before dinner, an enthusiastic, sincere, much-liked
person, who spoke in gratitude of the help the United States had
given Canada through her experimental farms. Then, too, there was a
Doctor of Science from Calcutta, India, all bound round with a white
turban and an English accent, who sat next to me, and Professor Barr,
of the University of Glasgow, inventor of the Barr and Stroud naval
range finder and other very scientific instruments. His very
charming little wife whispered across to me that Canada seemed so big
and endless that she didn't quite know how ever she would be able to
squeeze herself back into Scotland again.
Furs? I saw, as they were being unpacked, thousands of prospective
coats just as they were received from the trappers in the faraway
northland.
At last, however, I could no longer endure the way my time-tables
turned on me, so dutifully I "went into conference with them all"
(sounds like Chicago advertising men), with the result that I
awakened one fine morning in Dauphin, the horn of plenty in the great
mid-west. One speaks in respectful whispers of their wonderful grain
and mixed crops produced in this territory, so thought I, I'll see
for myself. At the Saturday morning market I find busy, alert, and
smartly dressed farmers' wives, briskly trading their wares, baked
goods, and such vegetables and flowers that I wished I could send
baskets of them to you. It seems odd that the favorite hobby of
these people up here in this real prairie country is flower growing.
And I wish you could see the result of their work and this wonderful
soil. Among the farmers at the market, as I chat here and there, I
find a man from Illinois, born and bred near Plainsfield, Mr. Walter
Lockwood... I never saw nor heard of him before, but we were awfully
glad to see each other anyway, and he and his wife took me out to see
how Illinois farming ideas have worked out in northern Manitoba. As
we drove into the farmyard, I thought I was back home again, corn
fields and prize winning Holsteins, just like Illinois. Mrs.
Lockwood and I shelled peas for supper as she told me about the
country.
Next morning a hurried scramble aboard a cattle train so that I could
connect with the Canadian National Continental Express at Portage la
Prairie a hundred and twenty-five miles away. The trainmen were ever
so nice to me and let me help them cook dinner in the caboose. You
get hungry anywhere up here, even on cattle trains, and you needn't
turn your nose up either, for it was a VERY good dinner. After we
washed the dishes a friendly game of rummy passed the time away until
at last we reached Portage la Prairie, light of heart and smelling to
high heaven. A trifling wait of seven hours, a hot windless day, and
I wondered if I hadn't better bury my clothes. Cattle trains are not
flower gardens.
A young school teacher on her way up to Nelson House in the Hudson
Bay Country, eight days' travel, four of it by canoe, tells me of her
work among the Indian children at the mission, the sun sets at ten
o'clock at night, the dog-team taxis, the wonderful gardens of
flowers and vegetables phenomenal in size, flavoring and coloring
(somehow I always had a hazy idea the diet up there was nice fresh
snow-balls every day).
She was a avery conscientious little person and was greatly perturbed
because of having danced an innocent fox-trot or two with one of the
traders, and feared she had been a bad example to the Indians who
were there to see the goings on. I tried to reassure her that her
value to the munity at large had probably been much increased by said
fox-trot. We solemnly ate a chocolate soda and wished each other
God-speed.
Awaiting my train at midnight, alone in the deserted, darkened
station at Portage la Prairie, wondering if I'll be able to get a
reservation when the station agent has gleefully informed me there
isn't a chance, I remembered this bit of verse I picked up Heaven
only knows where.
"Yonder the long horizon lies and there by night and day
The old ships draw to home again, the young ships sail away.
And come, I may, but go, I must, and if men ask you why--
You may put the blame on the stars and the sun, and the white road
and the sky,"
Au revoir until I get to Edmonton, Alberta
# October, 1925
HTML Outdoor America, October, 1925
Dear Stay-At-Homes:
Peace River, from the first moment I discovered it (on a time-table
map) made an instant appeal as being a hard-to-get-to place...
somehow it seems so detached from all the world... and it is, too,
nearly 400 miles north of Edmonton. Then the name sounds so restful
... I was quite sure whoever named it had had an eventfully hectic
time to find it.
There are only two trains up and down from Edmonton each week--and I
had just missed one, so I waited for three days for the next one, and
while I waited, again and again I was told of what a hard trip it
was, and I got all the thrill and scarey feeling one might have
starting out upon an uncharted sea for some point four thousand miles
away instead of a few hundred miles of new country. It seems that
once upon a time the railway up there was nicknamed "Ever dangerous
and badly constructed" (Edmonton, Dunbegan, and British Columbia) and
until about four years ago, or less, five days were sometimes
necessary to make the trip on account of so many derailments! All
very reassuring new items, especially as the trip has some pretty
stiff gradings for a large part of the way. However, all this had
been before the road was taken over by the Canadian Pacific, and I
felt reasonably sure in assuming that things certainly had been
patched up a bit, anyway. In the meantime, I sightsee Edmonton, a
thoroughly modern city set high on the bluffs overlooking the
Saskatchewan River, once full of placer gold. The MacDonald Hotel,
built beautifully of shining white marble, with every last word of
up-to-date service, offers all the comforts of home to the weary
wayfarer... automatic phones have been used in Edmonton for ten
years.
When I go to see the Parliament Building, I ask a direction of two
gentlemen who turn out to be Mr. D. W. Warner, born and brought up in
Keokuk County, Iowa, and Mr. L. F. Jelliff, born near Galesburg,
Illinois, and whose brother edits a newspaper there now. Both are
now members of Federal Parliament, and both successful farmers in
Alberta. We chatter of Illinois and Chicago and I am invited out to
see Mr. Warner's farm. Whee--what a lovely place it is. Beautifully
landscaped around the house, with all the native shrubs and trees and
every kind and color of garden flower. His farm provides even coal
and wood for his home. I wish you could see the wonderful wheat
fields--much of it averaging fifty bushels to the acre. Mrs. Warner
is American born also--a simple, motherly woman who moved into this
new country twenty-five years ago, with three little children--a log
cabin their home for many years. Now they are independently
wealthy--her husband a great statesman--yet she still loves best to
be where she can look over the waving wheat fields--and tend her
garden.
At last train day finally did arrive, I climbed aboard, short on
baggage, ready for a walk, if necessary, but long on determination to
find out the reason people like to live so far away.
Now, being a vagabond is really a delightful business. It gets
better better as one learns how to lean on the wind a little and not
to arrange things too much. I had sent the porter over to get a
reservation to wherever along the trip might be a good place to stop
off to visit around a bit. And I did't look to see where I was
supposed to get off.
Now, it happened that the manager of the railway, a delightfully
interesting Scotchman, name of MacGregor, was making an inspection
trip. When I noticed the private car at the end of the train, I
wanted to know the who's, the why, and wherefores of such elegance on
the way to Peace River. I was told about Mr. MacGregor and that he
knew all about Peace River long before the Lord made it, so I decided
to have a bit of a chat with the kind gentleman. Which I did.
It seems on the very day that Mr. MacGregor had taken over the
management of the railway, four years ago, there had been twenty-two
derailments that morning. And, as the train weaved its leisurely way
through the very sparsely settled country--the only signs of human
life being a log cabin at long, long intervals--he told of how most
of the track--or large portions of it--had to be dug out of the mud
and swamp and $2,000,000's worth of kinks taken out of it. There
were plenty left, he assured me. I was feeling quite sea-sick and
couldn't argue with him agout it, and, anyway, he was so charming and
courteous, a few kinks meant nothing at all to me. He asked me to
stay to dinner (there isn't any diner on this twenty-six hour trip
and less forunate travelers had to run like mad to a restaurant,
while the train waited twenty minutes for them; and then if one
lingered too long--one had to wait three days to continue his
travels. Now, none of my folks have private railway cars and it was
an important moment as I sat dining with Mr. MacGregor, his assistant
Mr. Latter, and Mr. Beatty, his secretary.
At nine o'clock I went back to my reservation, after a very pleasant
and entertaining evening, and listened with a quaking heart to
several school teachers tell of their trips in, during past few
years. I never did like the idea of being squashed--they assure me
no one ever gets that way in spite of all the exciting scenic
effects--so I crawl into my berth with the car pitching like a top
heavy boat wallowing through a bad, bad night at sea. I slept--not
so much!
Morning comes. I'm still un-squashed. The world around me is just
like the movies of the great West--I begin to like the swaying motion
of the train--Mr. Beatty comes to escort to Mr. MacGregor's car for
breakfast--all is well!
All day long the train passes through homesteaders' country. Log
cabins are now the only buildings we see--many, many of them
forsaken. Many, many of them are homes--bravely flaunting even lace
curtains--nearly all of them with a patch of lovely flowers
somewhere. Many homesteaders have secured their patent and have gone
back to civilization to wait development of the country. Canada is
no place for the weakling--but for those who have courage to face the
hardship and loneliness of the settler's life--there is great
opportunity, for the soil is generous--and the cost of it is very
low. Of course, the handicap of distance from market must be
reckoned with--but all indications point to a practical solution to
that difficulty.
In the meantime, I have decided to go to Grande Prairie first and
then go by road or trail to Peace River, from there, a distance of
about a hundred and fifty miles.
In the late afternoon we come into Grande Prairie country--rich,
black soil, as smooth as the surface of a ball--stretching endless
beyond the horizon. Grain fields stand ripening--some of it,
heavy-headed, in stocks. They tell me that in this district last
year the crops were so great that the farmers could not measure it as
it was handled.
Grande Prairie is most picturesquely western frontier. The streets,
after a three-day rain, are a sea of clay mud that sticks like glue
and is as slippery as grease. Wild roses are in bloom along the same
roadway, from which spring luscious mushrooms, as large as saucers.
I pick both--the wild roses for the good of my soul--and the
mushrooms--fresh mushrooms are good for anything you may have!
Next morning I go out into the large farming country and hear of how
these settlers, just ten or fifteen years ago, ame down over the
Edenn Trail by oxen team (two hundred and fifty miles from the "end
of steel" in those days) to build their little world in this valley
of great promise. Twice a year trips had to be made "out" to get
supplies--and it took three months. When I looked around me--and saw
for miles and miles cultivated lands and great herds of fine cattle,
much of it pure bred--homes, even though built of logs, of a very
brave and courageous people, I humbly bowed before the spirit of
empire building that had made it possible in this new, untried
country.
I shall take you with me to Peace River in my next letter.
Faithfully yours,
The Little Lady
# November, 1925
HTML Outdoor America, November, 1925
Dear Stay-At-Homes:
There had been three days of rain in the Grande Prairie district, and
when we came to the Saddle Mountains on our way to Peace River, Henry
Ford's masterpiece stuck in the mud, and all hands got out and
pushed. We reached Spirit River late that evening, after a really
wonderful drive over roads that were surprisingly good, considering
the recent heavy rains and the fact that, mostly, they were just ruts
worn through the fields.
On the way Sergt. Murray told me of the adventures of a provincial
police in the north country (they were taking the place, to some
extent, of the "mounties") and I could feel my hair standing on end
as he told of having to cut off a dead man's head and carrying it
forty or fifty miles through bush, in summer, to find out what had
been responsible for his death, so that the dead man's partner could
be cleared of any suspicion. And a lot of other cheerful news items
of the same order.
At Spirit River there is just one hotel--and that run by a Chinaman!
One sleeps there, or counts stars. Gosh! There were a lot of 'em on
hand that night. So, with a prayer to the Heaven that takes care of
vagabonds, after being reassured by the kind and very courteous
police that I really need not worry a bit, I put a chair against the
door, the water pitcher on the chair, and slept the sleep of the just.
The snorting of Henry down in front of the hotel the next morning at
nine o'clock was the next sound I heard from the world... and I could
see the handsome officers ready to continue the journey, so I
scrambled into my clothes... a cup of coffee ... and then over the
hills and far away.
At Dunvegan Hill we looked up the next valley for sixty miles and
could see Peace River country ... the mountains, in tones of red,
orange, yellow, and green, subtly overshaded by the purple of
distance. These mountains are not rocky, built up entirely of soil,
and the outline of them is pleasing soft and colorfully marked, like
a tremendous tapestry wove for miles and miles.
The road down Dunvegan is very, very steep, and the brakes screeched
in protest all the way, and when we reached the bottom, were very
weak.
As we ran down the last incline onto the ferry that takes the
occasional car or horse across the Peace River at Dunvegan, I got the
thrill of my life and almost a drowning when the bounded against the
steel wire that stretched across the open end of the ferry. As I saw
the bolts on both sides bulging er the wooden top rail with the
strain ... I hoped my hair wouldn't be stringy when I was fished out
and that I'd look natural! The river here is very deep and swift ...
and while I had burned with zeal to see the place, I wasnt keen about
drinking too much of it.
Miles and miles of the most glorious wheat fields I have ever seen
... fulfilling a long time wish of mine, too, to see it standing
ripened as far as I could see; dust that choked and blinded ...
dinner with Ma and Pa Dodge, two of the greatest comedians in the
whole wide world, who sent us on our way chuckling and laughing for
twenty miles as we reviewed the jokes and funny stories they had told
us. ... More dust ... less wheat ... a few people on horseback ... a
carful of Sunday visitors ... and then at last we twisted down the
last dangerous curves on the cliffy mountains and came upon Peace
River, the town.
It is like going into a new planet ... all shut away from the world.
The town sits high above the Peace River ... some homes built right
up to the mountain top. The mountains close it in on every side ...
glowing in the sunset. It was just supper time when we arrived, and
afterward, the officers, their duty done, left me to my own devices,
the first of which was watching the day fade from this wild and
beautiful spot.
It was very quiet along the bank of the river. One could picture the
noiseless glide of Indians in canoes loaded with furs, as they made
their way, from the great, uncharted wastes far, far north of where I
sat dreaming. A band of coyotes snarled and yelped in battle among
themselves from high up the mountainside ... a lone wolf howled in
query to the uproar. A church bell rang. A choir lifted earnest
voices in praise ot the Lord. The evening star shown out against the
still glowing sky. It was night ... in Peace River.
Next morning a nice little school teacher and I took horses and rode
to the top of the mountains ... and there we saw, shining like silver
ribbons in the bright sunlight, the joining of three great rivers,
the Peace, the Smoky, and the Hart. The three valleys, merging into
one, made a wonderful, unforgettable picture. Here, high,
overlooking the whole panorama, is the grave of an oldtime trapper
and trader, Davis by name, born in Vermont. His body was brought
back here by his partner, who had promised to carry out Twelve-Foot
Davis' wish to await Gabriel's call at this magnificent spot.
Labor Day there was a celebration at which I saw some Indians race,
swallowed lots of dust, and--Oh, glorious!--heard some Highland
bagpipes; that night I was invited to the dance, and went ... dirty
and grimy, in an old tricotine that had been my only apparel, except
my heavy shirt and breeches, since I left Edmonton. Everyone else
was beautifully dressed ... and the women do know how to dress up
there, but my style was not cramped a bit. I was made quite at home,
and a grand time was had by all, I assure you. The bagpipes, by my
special request, gave me the treat of my life as I danced to their
music. Just like dancing on air ... and my toes still tingle when I
think of it.
I was invited out to lunch and had an interesting time talking to
some of the earliest settlers there, one of whom, Mrs. Anderson, had
a daughter named Peace, who was first white girl born in that
country. Social welfare work is being done, especially for
homesteaders, who have classes and instruction in millinery, cooking,
and every kind of domestic science. Visiting nurses are stationed in
various communities away from the town. And I fpound out that rents
were ten dollars a month! Did you ever hear of such a thing? Neither
had I.
To overcome the handicap of distance between Fort Vermillion and the
nearest markets, which are reached only by the infrequent boat trips
in summer, or by dog team, which takes two weeks, in winter, the big
farmer of that section has built his own flour mill, lumber mill, a
hospital, a store, and his own at which he aarere, and his own
school, at which his fifteen children--all remarkably healthy
children too--are the main pupils gauldren. His produce he trades
with the Indians for furs, and last year, I am told, he brought out
$21,000 worth of fur to sell. Not bad, I'd say, six hundred miles
north of Edmonton, besides taking care of a family of fifteen
children. The garden truck in Fort Vermillion is just a miracle.
Melons, twice as large as the ones we have down in the states;
squash, tomatoes; everything, because of the intensive sunshine and
the the long day hours, in six weeks are full size and of wonderful
flavor.
On the train coming down from Peace River are two of the girls from
Fort Vermillion, who have never seen a train before! Both of them are
grown up, one just recently married. I never talked with two more
interesting and well bred girls; and I truly hope that all the world
outside will keep them as sweet and clean as Fort Vermillion has
given them.
I also met Bishop Robbins and his wife, who have spent many years in
this country. The Bishop's diocese covers 200,000 miles of the far
north, with all of which he manages to keep in touch. Services are
held in almost every section at least once in two weeks.
Some day I am going back to Peace River. In the meantime are many
thousands of miles I still must ramble. After a whole afternoon of
scribbling and writing I got ready to leave Edmonton again, and then
another happy adventure in another letter.
Faithfully yours,
The Little Lady Vagabond
# December, 1925
HTML Outdoor America, December, 1925
Dear Stay-At-Homes:
And, now, comes the great moment when I tell you all about the Dutch
journalists, their guardian angel, and our adventures together, and
my only regret is that you were not with me to meet them. They are
quite unforgetable, I assure you.
It was like this. The night was at Edmonton, dark and late. I had
managed by the kindly help of a very nice man, to reach the station,
with only an unimportant few of my belongings strayed and it was
nearly time for the Calgary train to start. Just then a man came
hurrying down the platform, almost passes us, when the nice man calls
out to him, and into the picure steps Mr. A. B. Calder, the Canadian
Pacific guardian angel, a rare delight and a joy forever, and at the
moment guiding the footsteps, or rather the carwheels of the Dutch
Journalists who are touring Canada.
Mr. Calder represented the president of the Canadian Pacific Railway
as host when the Prince of Wales was up here a few years ago, and
quite by accident the other day I picked up a book written by W.
Douglas Newton, "Westward With the Prince of Wales," dedicated to Mr.
Calder, which describes him thusly: "A. B. (Calder) was not merely
our good angel, but our friend, He is a bundle of strange qualities,
all good. He is Puck with the brain of an administrator, the king of
story tellers with an unfaltering instinct for organization. A poet,
a mimic and a born comedian, and a man of big heart, great humanness,
and big ability, whom we all loved and valued from the first meeting."
This is only part of what Mr. Newton said, and I'm thinking of
writing a book about him myself!
Well, after a rehearsal outside Mr. Calder's private car on how to
pronounce the names of the Dutch journalists, during which I
swallowed my Adam's apple in a most alarming fashion, awful names to
even think, I was impressively led to a big chair and seated therein
... and one after another the five Hollanders were presented.
There was Mr. Van Reimsdyk, vice consul for the Netherlands, Baron
Can Lamsweerde, Mr. Brusse and his son, Henke, and Mr. Cnossen; all
in the quaintest mixture of Dutch and English, expressing great
delight that I was among them. We all loved each other at sight, and
the party was a complete success when Mr. Calder's man brought in a
big plate of fruit cake.
The next day at Calgary, the Hollanders looked me up at the hotel and
invited me to go with them to see a big fox farm near. I was
delighted to go and had a very interesting day of it. Fox farming
seems to be a rapidly growing industry here in Canada. This farm is
managed by Mr. A. Rankin (who stands 6 feet and 6 inches high) and
the day we were there, 960 black and silver foxes were on parade.
Mr. Calder took his Hollanders to Banff that night and I was left
alone in Calgary. As the train was leaving, they called out for the
ninety-seventh time, "Pleease, pleease, come up to Banff tomorrow."
So, like the weak woman that I am, I recklessly cancelled several
engagements, bought a new dress, the first one I tried on, sat up
half the night to pack, and at noon next day, descended in glory on
Banff Springs, eighty miles from Calgary, and had my first real look
at the Canadian Rockies! Like every other human sufferer of the
world's woes, I've often wondered why I was born. That Sunday
morning I discovered that to see the Rocky Mountains was reason
enough for anyone.
As the train leaves Calgary behind it and settles down to its long,
and speedy climb up into the mountains, the Bow River, of the most
wonderful green color, weaves in and out between the ever higher foot
hills.
There is some wonderful swimming at Banff Springs. Hot sulphur water
piped from Sulphur Mountain, in graduated pools, protected on three
sides by huge plate glass windows, through which one gazes in
meditation at the mountains as one languidly swims in the warm water.
The motor roads through these Canadian Rockies are truly amazing.
Threading their way in hair-raising curves (accidents are very, very
rare, I am told), they climb higher and higher into the clouds, so
that one can sit luxuriously in a motor car and yet satisfy the
hunger for height that many of us have. A long and very happy drive
with the Hollanders and Mr. Calder on the afternoon of my arrival
among the different mountain peaks and through the valley of the Bow
River left me without an adjective to work with. All my old standbys
were in tatters.
The Banff Springs Hotel, very luxurious and modern, owned and
operated by the Canadian Pacific, is really beautifully located high
on a bluff overlooking the Bow, and that evening after dinner, to
which I am invited by the Hollanders we all promenade in the terrace
and I learn much of the ways of women in Holland. The dinner is
really one of life's great moments for me. There I sit, all done up
in my best bib and tucker, with six charming men around me, much to
the wonder and envy, I am sure, of the feminine audience in the
dining room. Hollanders may be serious-minded, but I never in my
life listened to a neater "line" of gallantry. The Baron kept to the
head of the class all along, though.
The following day I started very early. At 7 o'clock I was called
and invited to make a trip to Lake O'Hara with a charming man by the
name of McDonald. (Woods up here are just full of nice men.) Train
leaving at 7:30. In exactly fifteen minutes I was downstairs with my
ears pinned back. We breakfasted on the train with the rest of the
party, reached Hector about 9:30, found our ponies waiting, and
within five minutes were in our saddles and on the ten-mile trail.
Up, up, higher and higher climbed the slippery and rocky path.
Through miles of timberland, through noisy little glacier streams, on
every side surrounded by majestic God-made temples, peaks
snow-covered, lost to view in the clouds. Somehow, after the first
few miles one becomes subdued by the quiet dignity of it all.
Lake Louise is so perfectly beautiful that it almost hurts one to
look at it. I reached there the night of my O'Hara day, not half so
weary as I expected after my twenty mile horseback ride, and found
that the Dutch journalists and their guardian angel had left a light
shining bright in the window for me. There they all were (with a
Scotch couple added to the party), the quaint darlings, and I was
given the prodigal's welcome.
As we all sat before the log-filled fireplace, I told of my wonderful
day and they of theirs. The warmth of the fire, to say nothing of a
hot toddy in a quiet corner, made me so sleepy I forgot my manners
and fell asleep right in the middle of one of Mr. Calder's really
clever jokes. (He will never forgive me for it.)
My room looked right over Lake Louise and it was moonlight. I cas
but one sleepy eye out over all this rare beauty--scenery is always
nicer in the morning anyway--and gone frmo my bones are the
fifty-seven kinds of kinks that have come on during the last hour.
Sleep!
Faithfully yours,
The Little Lady Vagabond
# September, 1927
HTML Outdoor America, September, 1927
Fire Patrol by Aeroplane by Hale Kane Clements
Being the story of a flip, a flop, and a forest fire.
Neither Colonel Lindbergh nor Columbus in their wildest moments knew
a greater thrill than that which swept over me that day last July
when I first saw the wonderful flying boat that was to carry me on a
flight up to James Bay, the far northern boundary of Ontario,
hundreds of miles from the last sign of civilization... a region
which less than a dozen white men have visited, to say nothing of a
woman flying there.
Through the courtesy of Capt. W. R. Maxwell, Director of the
Provincial Air Service in Ontario, I was to be included on a special
flight being made, so that I might study at first hand the remarkable
way in which Canada is developing her resources, by aviation in
inaccessible territory.
Two years before this, while camping at Metagama, Ontario, the
unexpectedness of hearing and seeing an aeroplane in that vast
stretch of wilderness had so intrigued me that I knew that somehow
sometime I would have to see for myself the hazardous pioneering work
that is being done in cutting such great distances into so few hours
by air.
Dreams came true and at last I was at Sudbury, Ontario, one of the
flying stations of the Provincial Air Service, ready to soar away,
from one end of Canada to the other, taking part in the various
activities being carried out by the Royal Canadian and the Provincial
Air Forces.
This included forest patrol for fire and blight, map-making and
surveys by aviation, transportation into the gold mining districts,
aerial photography, fisheries patrol and the special trip to James
Bay where I hoped to find some unusual species of orchids while the
rest of the party were making their survey. It was a great privilege
and I fairly ached with happiness over the glorious adventure it was
to be.
Capt. Maxwell, who was personally going to pilot the party, had been
delayed on another flight because of bad weather, and while waiting
his return the air engineer attended to every last detail toward
hastening our start-off. Changing the oil was yet to be done, and I
was practising around with him one day in the plane. Then, one of
those unexplainable, freak accidents that might happen only once in a
lifetime of flying. The temporary pilot for this operation,
unfamiliar with the air yacht, Capt. Maxwell's pet machine, not
realizing the terrific power and speed of this, the fastest aircraft
in Canada, started taxiing across the water entirely too fast. In
far less time than it takes me to tell you, there was a terrifying,
unexpected swoop into the air at a rate of 150 miles an hour. Then,
when we were more than 300 feet high, a more terrifying swoop
downward, as the pilot tried to bring the plane back to the surface
of the lake.
We sideslipped, helplessly rushing, roaring, diving straight toward
what seemed unavoidable death on a rocky island toward which we were
headed--a miraculous swerve carried us by the smallest possible
fraction of a second beyond the island--and I found myself turning
head over heels, down, down, down through the water as though I had
been shot out of a cannon. As a matter of fact, I *had* shot right
through the light but strongly built side of the fuselage.
When, at last, I opened my eyes I was much surprise to find myself
still in the same old world. No one yet has found out why we were
not all instantly killed, but there we were, rather a bit mussed up,
perhaps, but hanging, with vim and vigor to whatever wreckage of the
hydroplane that promised to be good to us and keep us from a watery
grave.
Eventually we were fished out, taken to the hospital and neatly sewed
together again. Within three weeks we ready for a fresh start, and
according to my schedule reported at the Royal Canadian Air Force
headquarters in Winnipeg.
And so, four weeks to the very hour of the crash at Sudbury, I at
last got started, this time on a fire patrol with Flight Lieutenant
George Mercer of the Royal Canadian Force, high over the Lake
Winnipeg region in northern Manitoba, in an Avro plane. I only hope
he never knows how scared I was that day!
Forest products comprise one-quarter of Canada's total export trade,
and the United States uses up four-fifths of this, so perhaps your
evening newspaper tonight comes from the great timber tract over
which we patrolled searching those miles and miles of green forest
for the first wisp of smoke that means a forest fire.
The Air Force and Forestry Division in Canada have Worked out a very
simple plan of action. The patrol order covers a definite area,
marked on a colored map, always carried by the pilot. For instance,
Patrol D is as definitely mapped out for the pilot to follow through
the air as a roadway would be to a motorist. On board the plane is
carried a wireless telephone, over which reports are sent at fifteen
minute intervals. Back at the flying station a powerful receiving
set picks up messages and reports them to the Chief Fire Ranger on
duty during a patrol.
Then, as Flight Lieutenant Mercer points a gray plume of smoke in
some heavily timbered area still miles ahead, but easily visible from
a height of 2,000 feet, he reports it at once to the station seventy
miles away. By the time the fire is reached, which already has a
good start, he is informing the fire ranger there of the extent of
the fire, which way it is traveling, and the accessibility of water
with which to fight it.
Back at the station, the suppression aircraft, always waiting ready
while the patrol is being carried out by the scout plane, is equipped
with a small fire engine, hose, ropes, picks and shovels, food, and
tents for the fire rangers, loaded up with men, and long before the
scout plane has returned to Lac du Bonnet, the flying station, the
suppression aircraft has landed the men and equipment at the fire,
and if necessary has gone back for more help. Some idea of the value
of this quick action in saving the forests of Canada can be gained
when I tell you that on the first patrol of the season last Spring,
nineteen such fires were reported within a flight of forty miles. No
one knows how many millions of dollars have been saved to the
Canadian government through the practical work that is being done by
these lonely sentinels of the air.
It is a sublime sight, especially to those of us who love trees, to
look down upon a forest that stretches unbroken, rippling in the wind
like the waves upon a sea, for miles and miles and miles--a forest
that has taken hundreds of years to grow, and which will take
hundreds of years to replace. A rare and unforgettable beauty is
there--untold wealth--and death!
The value of the Canadian production of pulp and paper for an average
year is tremendous, and four-fifths of it is absorbed by the United
States, which uses this source of supply for two-thirds of its
newsprint.
Spruce, balsam, and pine are most extensively used in the production
of pulp and paper, and this seaplane flight we were taking with Mr.
Dunn, the entomologist from Ottowa, Ont., and Mr McDonald, the
Forestry Inspector from Winnipeg, as passengers of the Royal Canadian
Air Force, was to map out the extent of deadly destruction that is
being wrought by the spruce bud-worm amongst all the beauty below us.
Looking for tree bugs from thousands of feet in the air! It does
sound a bit far-fetched, but it's being done--too easily done.
Throughout that vast stretch of lovely, living green, there runs the
tragic marking of death--a strange bluish-gray that means the spruce
bud-worm has passed that way. In Quebec and New Brunswick, alone,
enough pulp wood to keep every mill in those two provinces busy for
fifty years has been destroyed by this one blight--an outbreak
covering thousands of square miles--in which ninety per cent of the
entire balsam growth in that territory was killed.
Before the days of aviation, it was a hopeless sort of fight against
this terrific loss. The distances were so great--the almost
immeasurable depths of the forests so inaccessible--so many thousands
of square miles to be watched for the first signs of the blight. The
only means of control is by keeping the balsam growth to young
cuttings, for it seems that the older tree is more susceptible and
less likely to recover. So, time is a most important factor.
But from our seaplane we could accurately mark upon the map we had
with us, the extent of that blue-gray shadow, over 2,000 square
miles--a flying distance of 250 miles, a short day's work. And it
took Mr. Dunn five weeks of hard canoe travel to only partially
accomplish this before the Department of Agriculture in Canada began
to make practical use of the Air Force.
My entomological education was much helped along by hearing of the
very interesting way that wheat rust also is being fought through the
use of aviation. Each day spoor tests to discover the direction of
travel for this costly blight are made by having the patrol pilots
suspend from their seaplanes in flight a simple apparatus that looks
like a long handled spool, to which is attached a microscope slide,
lightly smeared with vaseline, which holds whatever germ it comes in
contact with. When the spool is brought back into the plane, it is
put into a corked bottle and turned over to the Department of
Agriculture for examination. They are also trying out the
possibilities of dusting the wheat fields plagued by the rust blight,
by flying over the crop with an enormous spraying apparatus attached
to the aeroplane so that great tracts of land can be thoroughly
covered in this manner in a very short time.
It is estimated that the development of Canada has been hastened a
whole generation through the introduction of flying in far northern
areas where until the last few, very few, years, the dog team and
canoe were the only means of travel. Great credit for this is due to
Group Captain J. Stanley Scott, Director of the Royal Canadian Air
Force, who has carried on his experiments in spite of every
discouragement.
The Air Force in Canada, instead of working on air services for mail,
express, and transportation almost exclusively, as most other
countries in the world have done since the Great War, have chosen an
entirely different and wider development--that of protection and
co-operation in developing the natural resources of Canada.
# Hazel Clements (1891-1967)
HTML Outdoors Unlimited, Fall, 2024
Long considered a mystery in OWAA circles, her signature on the Bill
of Organization is the only evidence of her participation in the
organization's founding, and only then as Mrs. Hall Kane Clements.
The story she likely would have told that 1927 spring evening in
Chicago happened eight months earlier when a plane she was aboard in
Canada crash landed into a lake from a height of 300 feet.
"How far, gentle reader, have YOU fallen?" she asked in an article
she wrote on the accident for the Cleveland Plain-Dealer. "Have you
ever stood and gazed thirty stories to the street below and wondered
what would happen if you were to find yourself falling through the
air at the speed of something like 150 miles an hour?"
"There is, I have found, at least one thing about an airplane crash.
It doesn't take long."
She watched it unfold from a seat next to the pilot, who lost control
of the plane while trying to turn it around in high winds.
"I didn't know much about flying then," she wrote, "and if I had
realized the awful helplessness of the pilot to swerve a falling
plane, I might not have been quite so thrilled as the great, gray
rocks of the small island leaped up at us."
Everyone on board miraculously survived the harrowing experience, but
not without injuries. Clements, who was catapulted through the
fuselage on impact, suffered three broken ribs, and her scalp was
ripped from the crown of her head to just above the neckline.
Misfortune turned to good fortune when the picnickers on shore revved
up their motorboat and came to the rescue as Clements and the others
clung to the plane.
"In the silence which hung over the mess of the wreckage, human and
mechanical, that was strewn over that section of the lake, we could
hear the staccato put-put of the boat coming nearer and nearer," she
wrote.
They were rushed to a hospital, where Clements stood by "shaking with
a nervous chill" while others were treated for their injuries.
Seeing that Clements also was injured, a hospital worker picked her
up and summoned help.
"I found myself, to my surprise, with the whole hospital staff
gathered around the bed into which I had been bundled," she wrote.
"My teeth were chattering so that the staff couldn't or wouldn't
understand my protests that I was perfectly all right."
Clements got the impression that the hospital staff thought she was
going to die from shock.
"However, being an altogether unamiable person, I decided that wasn't
my day for dying, and after the scalp had a few tucks and neat seams
taken in it ... I wanted to get away from that place," she wrote.
She succeeded three days later and in four months began a 40-day tour
flying with the Royal Canadian Air Force.
Flying became her passion with multiple trips into the Canadian bush
that she called "gorgeous fun." She helped do aerial mapping of
timberland, flew fishery patrols over Hudson Bay, and fire patrols
over northern Manitoba, and had more than 50,000 miles of airtime
doing roundtrip mail delivery in harsh winter conditions to the
remote village of Seven Islands, almost 600 miles north of Montreal,
Quebec.
"Somehow, in spite of a whole-hearted enthusiasm for flying for
several years, this flight to Seven Islands was my most vivid
realization of what a miracle air travel can accomplish in overcoming
the handicaps of distance, storms, and inaccessibility," she said.
"We had come through a wilderness which for hundreds of miles at a
time showed no sign of civilization or mark of any kind of travel."
Clements also delivered written accounts of her aerial exploits to
magazines and newspapers as "Letters of a Little Lady Vagabond."
She was born Hazel Philomenia Kane in Olean, New York, and married
shortly before her 17th birthday in 1908 to George H. Brenner, a tool
shop worker. They had one daughter, Enid, in 1912 and divorced four
years later. She remarried in 1921 to George Clements, who worked in
newspaper advertising.
Clements also worked in advertising for the Cleveland Plain Dealer
and Illinois State Journal before turning to writing. To make her
stories more saleable in a male-dominated industry, she disguised
that she was a woman by using a byline of Hal Kane Clements. Over
time she adjusted it to Hall Kane Clements, perhaps to avoid
confusion with Hal Clements, an actor and silent movie director of
the same era.
In 1929, she launched a radio show--the Women's Aviation Hour--on a
New York station. Among her guests were pioneering female flyers
Amelia Earhart, Phoebe Fairgrave Omlie, and Elinor Smith.
As hair-raising as her own flying adventures were, Clements found
them less traumatic than standing before a studio microphone.
"I have never felt the least bit nervous flying over some of the most
hazardous country I have ever seen, hundreds of miles from
civilization," she said. "But when I get up before the mike, my
knees wobble. My hands shake. Maybe I seem frightened! I'm going
up one day soon and try broadcasting from a plane to see if I can
only get over being afraid of the mike!"
Clements continued writing for newspapers in Chicago, Cleveland, and
New York but went a different direction once the United States got
involved in World War II. She participated in the Victory Book
Campaign, a program started by the American Library Association,
American Red Cross, and United Service Organizations to collect and
distribute books to members of the armed forces.
In 1942, the USO hired her as associate director for its station in
Port of Spain, Trinidad, where she worked 14- to 16-hour days. She
was quoted in a short news item that circulated widely about a
Maltese cat that adopted the USO station as its home and was fitted
with proper identification. Clements said it was "the only cat in
the army wearing 'dog' tags."
Before retiring in 1963, she wrote a series of articles on Latin
America for the U.S. Information Agency.
She died of a cereberal hemorrhage in 1967, leaving a legacy of
adventurous spirit.
tags: article,history,outdoor,travel,vagabond
# Tags
DIR article
DIR history
DIR outdoor
DIR travel
DIR vagabond