SOURCE: Kollin, Susan. “‘The First White Women in the Last Frontier’: Writing Race, Gender, and Nature in Alaska Travel Narratives.” Frontiers: A Journal of Women's Studies 18, no. 2 (1997): 105-24.

[In the following excerpt, Kollin focuses on Elizabeth Beaman's Alaskan travel narrative in order to explore the intellectual labor that white women performed in claiming a space for themselves in new environments.]

NEW LANDS, NEW WOMEN

The period that gave rise to the United States' quest for a northern frontier also saw the emergence of what historian Walter LaFeber calls the “New Empire,” the project of global economic and cultural expansion that arose after the Civil War.¹ The incorporation of Alaska aimed to secure the nation's hegemonic control across the Western Hemisphere, the extension of its course of empire from the Atlantic to the Pacific and from the “Arctic to the Tropics.”² William Henry Seward laid the foundations for these new imperialist ambitions, negotiating the 1867 purchase of Alaska from Russia in order to establish an expanded arena for the nation's acquisitional activities. In his own words, Alaska was “the sure stepping stone to world empire,” a useful land bridge to the markets of the Far East.³ Other nation builders supported Seward's expansionist projects; for instance, one lawmaker hoping to curtail European competition in the Western Hemisphere saw the bid for Alaska as enabling the United States to “cage the British lion on the Pacific coast.”⁴ Likewise, another lawmaker applauded the Alaska purchase because it promised to help U. S. expansion advance “so far north that wandering Esquimau will mistake the flashings of the midnight sun reflected from our glorious flag for the scintillation of an aurora borealis.”⁵

The period that saw the emergence of the U. S. quest for “New Empire” also produced the “New Woman,” a transnational female subject who broke free from the biological determinism that limited women's roles in culture and restricted their spacial mobility. Rosemary Hennessy demonstrates how imperialist enterprises and the production of these new gender ideologies intersect with one another. She suggests that the New Woman may be traced to the larger crises in national subjectivity and global economic relations that were part of the recomposition of capital in the West between 1880 and 1920. During this period, the development of capitalism with its new markets and increased competition produced changes in expansionist policies as well as in class, gender, and racial ideologies. As Hennessy argues, the New Woman appeared out of this rearrangement of subjectivities; although she initially emerged as a feminist critique of bourgeois gender codes, the New Woman was soon claimed by the dominant social order as a site where nationalist and imperialist ideologies could be linked to traditional views of middle-class femininity. This transformation produced a “revised version” of female identity that enabled middle-class women to assert themselves as public citizens whose new domain of authority expanded beyond the traditional domestic realm.⁶ The “first white woman” trope may be regarded as an instance in this cultural transformation: By announcing the appearance of a pioneering figure who ventured where no other white female had gone before, the “first white woman” trope effectively broadened the horizons of the new white womanhood, doing so in the service of western expansion.⁷

Elizabeth Beaman's account of her travels to Alaska illustrates how the emergence of the New Woman operated alongside U. S. imperialist projects. In 1879, twelve years after Seward's purchase, Beaman sailed to the Pribilof Islands off the western coast of Alaska, leaving her Washington, D.C., home to accompany her husband to his new government job as a supervisor of the Aleut workers in the fur trade. During this time, Beaman kept a diary in which she recorded her experiences as a southern Victorian woman living just outside the Arctic Circle, locating herself within the framework of the New Woman by claiming to be the “first white woman” to arrive in the islands. Although as Brigitte Georgi-Findlay points out, the “first white woman” trope appeared as early as the 1840s among women diarists on the Overland Trail, the emergence of the New Woman in the late nineteenth century allowed Beaman to adopt the trope for new circumstances in the Far North.⁸ The discursive construction of this exceptional female figure operated to secure authority for white women in colonized places: It enabled them to assert their connections to nation-building projects while also distinguishing them from the natives in that region.

Traveling in an era when the New Woman was still an emerging discourse, however, Beaman's authority to venture into strange lands appeared uncertain at times. To legitimize her desires for travel, she tried to naturalize her presence, developing complex strategies of justification that involved carefully staging and managing her arrival in the region. On the one hand, she sought to claim distinction for herself as the “first”; yet, in doing so, she also threatened to draw attention to herself as a “white woman.” Beaman thus found it necessary to forge a balance between presenting herself as extraordinary and ordinary, a double move that appears frequently in her travel account. In the beginning of her diary she explained, “I am the only woman aboard. But Captain Erskine says I have greater distinction. I am the first white woman, the first American woman, to sail to the Aleutians and to the Pribilofs. Should I be proud of another first?”⁹ While she initially claimed pride in her accomplishments as the “first” such figure, Beaman's question at the end of this passage also indicates the discomfort she felt in acknowledging her accomplishment. Her comments highlight the strange balancing act of trying to simultaneously uphold her position as both a significant and ordinary American figure.

At another point, Beaman described the response she received upon her arrival in the region, explaining that “everyone was agog at this strange new creature who was white like the company men but wore skirts like a woman” (71). Because her position as the “only white woman” seemed to make her vulnerable on the island, Beaman stressed her status as a “rebel” figure able to defy the “feminine restrictions” and “silly, outmoded customs and manners” white women were expected to uphold. Beaman likewise claimed she had many talents usually considered male that made her fit for this venturing enterprise. Presenting herself as “careful, meticulous, exacting in detail,” a woman who possessed a “scientific curiosity about natural phenomena,” she effectively sought to claim a space for herself as a woman adventurer, an exceptional and knowledgeable female figure (12-13).

Throughout her narrative, Beaman also tried to minimize her gender transgressions as much as possible by carefully aligning herself with the realm of culture. At one point she described the resistance she met from her family when she confessed her interest in accompanying her husband to the remote and isolated Pribilof Islands:

There was always a “but” and a return to the old arguments about weather, living conditions, the absurdity of an American woman living … among barbarians at the rim of the Arctic: the absurdity of Libby Beaman of Washington, D.C., living … under primitive conditions, when in her own home … she had all the comforts and conveniences of the overpampered and was surrounded with the very cultural, intellectual life she would be denied on the Pribilofs.

(40)

Insisting that she could adapt to the extremes presented by the northern environment, Beaman argued that such travel not be regarded as a problem and that women adventurers be considered commonplace. Before her journey began, she told her husband, “I hadn't quite counted on the North Pole. … But as you see, I am willing even to go that far to be with you. … Women are crossing this continent every day in nothing more than wagons, on horseback, even on foot. If they can do such things, so can I” (40). According to her, the nation's “course of empire” across the continent during the nineteenth century created a need for westering women such as herself; Beaman therefore maintained that white women travelers should not be considered oddities, but as vital figures in an important national enterprise.

In many ways, however, Beaman differed from the pioneering women to whom she compared herself; in contrast to the wives who followed their husbands west on wagon, horseback, or foot, Beaman was a class-privileged woman whose journey to the Far North arose out of rather unusual circumstances. In fact, as she confessed at one point in her narrative, the impetus to leave Baltimore's “polite society” and venture to Alaska was not her husband's idea, but her own. As she explained, the chaos of the post-Civil War period saw retrenchment in all areas of government service, leaving her husband John chronically unemployed. Deciding to take matters into her own hands, Beaman arranged a visit with President Rutherford B. Hayes, petitioning him to locate a job for her husband. After learning that the only position available was a two-year stint in the Pribilofs, she accepted the job on her husband's behalf and insisted on accompanying him. Beaman kept the meeting with President Hayes a secret from her husband, explaining that “to this day, John never has suspected that I had anything to do with his official appointment” (38). Her involvement in the northern journey effectively counters images of westering women as reluctant followers, for, in this case, she proved not to be a hesitant traveler, but the actual impetus and agent for the adventure.

Later in her narrative, however, Beaman also discussed the ambivalence she felt as a white female traveler. Describing her arrival in the Pribilof Islands, she explained:

Almost as soon as the ship's crew landed, many Aleut men and boys leaped into their skin boats, hoisted sail, and came hurrying out. … “The welcome is for you, Mrs. Beaman,” Captain Erskine said. “The natives do not usually come out to demonstrate like this.” I took out my handkerchief and waved to the men in their little boats. Immediately there was a roar, and they all broke in Russian song which one of the men at my side translated for me; it was a song of welcome to a brave soldier who had just returned from the war. How appropriate!

(69)

As Mary Louise Pratt argues, descriptions of “first contact” with the native population function as a convention in travel writing that presents the westerner's initial meeting as a welcome encounter with natives who seem eager to serve the visitor's needs.¹⁰ Although in this instance Beaman seemed overwhelmed by the natives' response, her comment, “how appropriate,” actually mirrors the larger rhetoric of self-mockery and detachment commonly employed by female travel writers, according to Georgi-Findlay.¹¹ In that sense, her reply may be seen less as a straightforward disavowal of her authority than as an aspect of what Pratt calls the “anti-conquest,” a strategy of innocence writers used to deny their participation in imperial enterprises.¹²

The gender constraints European American women faced as they claimed agency and authority in colonial history often required them to seek multiple ways of justifying their travel experiences and naturalizing their presence in “remote” places, a task they accomplished by casting what seemed to be “taboo” acts within the domain of proper white womanhood. The domestic skills they performed frequently aimed at arranging, organizing, and controlling the environment around them. At one point, for example, Beaman took great pains to establish a basis for her presence in the region, describing the unusual training she received as a mapmaker in her father's government office. Inundated with the job of revising maps in a period when the United States was rapidly expanding its national borders, Beaman's father employed her help lettering charts featuring Alaska, by that time a U. S. possession. The task was particularly intensive, for the maps made one day were often rendered obsolete the next. Beaman's job was to “letter in Unexplored, Uncharted, Frozen Sea, and Ice Barrier all over the area.” As she proudly asserted, “perhaps there was no one more familiar with the details of this part of the world than I was at the time” (29-30).

Beaman's position as mapmaker exemplifies the power-knowledge dynamics required in acts of territorial expansion. As David Spurr points out, imperial power is frequently predicated on transforming the landscape into an object of possession, a project that involves arranging the scene according to the needs and desires of the colonist.¹³ Just as she had earlier located and assigned items on the map for her father, Beaman likewise began arranging the terrain she encountered in the North, domesticating the land in order to ensure her safety and establish her authority in the region.

Because imperial authority is predicated in part on the gaze, Beaman's task in managing the landscape and social relations also required her to establish new “looking” relations. As a white woman, she became aware of the ways gender codes frequently consigned her to the role of being “looked at.” At one point she wrote: “I am tall and slim with an eighteen-inch waist sans stays. … I have an unusually white, white complexion and long black hair, so long I can sit on it. … I wear clothes well—always the latest fashion—not out of vanity, but because I am comfortable when well dressed” (12). Recognizing her status as an anomaly, she became particularly concerned about her clothing, wondering if it would make her an asset to her husband. He dismissed these concerns, however, telling her not to bother about her apparel as it would be “wasted on the Natives” (12). Upon hearing this news, Beaman expressed relief that she needn't be preoccupied with clothes, proclaiming, “I've other plans. I want to explore the islands and to learn” (12).

Although she took care in establishing new relations of mastery on the island, Beaman also found herself in situations that challenged her power. Shortly after arriving in the Pribilofs, for instance, she explained:

The windows are my greatest problem … we simply will have to have shades and curtains for privacy. I realized that just after we began unpacking yesterday. I heard a slight noise outside our windows and looked up to see half the village with their noses flattened against the panes! Everyone was fighting for a place to watch what we were doing. … I went to the window and made a shooing gesture. They all fell back a ways—men, women, and children. Then they moved back to their places by the windows as soon as I returned to the task of unpacking and storing our things in the wardrobe.

(74-75)

Shooing away the curious Aleuts, Beaman tried to maintain the power to arrange social relations while protecting herself from the natives' gaze. She considered establishing distinction between herself and the Aleuts through housekeeping skills, suggesting that curtains might serve as the means of constructing difference and hierarchy among the races.¹⁴

Beaman also sought to keep her body hidden from the native gaze for other reasons. As bell hooks explains, bodily concealment often serves as a crucial element in establishing racial hierarchy; in fact, the white body frequently asserts authority precisely by positioning itself as a mystery, an enigmatic, unknowable entity.¹⁵ Moreover, because gender codes consign white women to the role of being “looked at,” Beaman found she also had to arrange her “white, white” body in a way that drew little attention to her status as a European American woman. Yet, while she sought to naturalize her authority by appealing to the privileges of her body, the meanings she wished to establish were not self-evident to the Aleuts who, refusing to remain in the background, instead viewed her body as a curiosity itself.

Beaman's careful attention to social arrangements in the region were also threatened one day when she set off to explore the island. Although the company members warned her not to venture outdoors by herself for fear that the Aleuts might jeopardize her safety, Beaman disregarded their advice. With her pad of paper and art supplies in hand, she searched for a noteworthy landscape to sketch, and in the process, encountered the seals' mating ground. Drawn to the spectacle of two animals coupling, she wrote:

[The seals] fondled each other more and more excitedly. … I had to watch with not even a scientist's justification, but with frank curiosity and a sense of personal involvement. … Their mating lasted a long time, with frequent convulsive movements that set their whole bodies quivering. I grew limp with my own intense absorption in the scene, my sketchbook and crayon forgotten in my hands. I … was ashamed of myself for succumbing to such an unlady-like experience. … I stood up, bent on going back to the dunes and away from this mass of mating, fighting seals. I turned to face the Senior Agent standing silent, just behind me! “Interesting, isn't it, Elizabeth?” he asked with a thin smile on his lips and mockery in his eyes. I wanted to faint into nothingness.

(134)

Eschewing the position of the scientist who collects knowledge about the landscape in a disinterested fashion or the mapmaker who stands outside the charts and arranges objects on paper, Beaman instead became bodily involved in the scene, disrupting the separation she desired and threatening the colonial power she earlier claimed. While viewing the mating seals she became caught up in the erotics of the gaze, entering the same looking relations that often structure gender codes in patriarchal culture. Beaman's own mastery of the gaze, her sexualized view of the seals, ultimately proved unsettling to her; being “watched watching” by the senior agent disrupted her attempts to establish a detached scientific relationship with the land. The colonial arrangements she had earlier established collapsed in this scene, for at the moment the senior officer gazed upon her, she herself became part of the landscape, an object to be viewed.

Beaman's status as the “first white woman” in the region then was not merely an accomplishment to be celebrated, but an event that conferred other obligations. Cast as both trailblazer and oddity, she learned she had to justify not only her presence in the region, but also, by extension, the colonial project. At one point, the authority of both entities was called into question when the members of a fur company enlisted her help as a schoolteacher to replace Mr. Butrin, a Vermont-educated Aleut teacher. The fur company soon discovered, however, that native acculturation would not be as easy as they had planned. One Aleut student explained the problem to Beaman:

We are as you can see, very Russian. That is because the Russians were in these islands a long time. We do want to know more about America. It is very new, yes? Russia is very old and very civilized. We try hard to be civilized like Russians. … They were very happy when the Russians were here. Even Mr. Butrin here, who has been to your country did not always like your ways; he prefers to teach in the Russian language.

(77)

As Beaman discovered, nationalist influences of an older sort had to be eradicated for the Americans to successfully incorporate Alaska into their course of empire. The task turned out to be a vexed one, though, for rather than confronting a pure, “natural,” or untouched Aleut, the Americans instead faced what James Clifford calls a “disconcertingly hybrid ‘native,’” whose colonial encounters with another imperial nation still carried power.¹⁶ Because the territory the company encountered still held the traces of its previous colonizers, the U. S. civilizing mission in Alaska involved transforming Russian Aleuts into American Aleuts.

By drawing attention to the United States as a new nation, the Aleuts also effectively reversed a central strategy western travelers developed in asserting colonial dominance. As Johannes Fabian explains, westerners frequently established relations of power by consigning natives outside the present, relegating them to a site that is not the time and place of the western self.¹⁷ In this instance, however, the Aleuts located the Americans outside their time. By contrasting both the recent American arrival in the region and the United States' status as a young nation with Russia's status as a previous colonizer and an older entity, the Aleuts presented themselves, through their contact with Russia, as more cultured than the Americans.

Beaman's intellectual work as a travel writer served to gloss over the natives' critique; by claiming to be the “first white woman” in the region, she adopted a title that operated as part of a larger project designed to legitimate American encroachment in all areas of the world. As Pierre Macherey points out, the announcement of the “first” white person's arrival marks the history of an appropriation; the title serves as a tool of conquest that presents the colonial figure's appearance as the originary moment of history.¹⁸ In naming European American women's arrival in the region as noteworthy, the “first white woman” trope signals the beginning of an alternate history that enables discovery to begin anew by foregrounding white women as its agents. In the case of Beaman's travel narrative, however, the natives refused to acknowledge this moment as a radical break with the past, insisting instead that her presence served as part of a continuous history, an arrival signifying yet another colonial encounter to resist.

FRONTIER NOSTALGIA AND FEMINIST STUDIES

Cynthia Enloe addresses the paradigms in feminist historiography that construct an interest in the arrival of the “first white woman.” In doing so, she questions feminist assumptions that the appearance of this figure would somehow transform the colonial project into a more palatable enterprise. According to Enloe, the arrival of the “first white woman” in a distant place often generated new interest in the colonial project; her appearance frequently ensured that the site would be incorporated into the international system. “If a white woman traveler reached such a place,” she asks, “could the white wife or white tourist be far behind?”¹⁹ The first white women's arrival was meaningful because it often pointed to the fact that more white women were sure to follow. The “first white woman” trope also aided the colonial project by establishing difference along race and gender lines, contributing to the production and dissemination of unequal power relations in that region. By claiming to be the first, white women travel writers constructed a gendered colonial discourse, a rhetoric that served to manage the native inhabitants of a region through the establishment of racial hierarchies.

Accounts of the “first white women” in the “Last Frontier” also serve other needs for contemporary readers, alleviating anxieties about the environment in a postmodern era marked by what Fredric Jameson calls the “relentless saturation” of the world's last “remaining voids and blank spaces.”²⁰ We see this reflected in the narrative frame opening Elizabeth Beaman's travel account. Acquainting readers with the physical setting of the text, Beaman's editor and granddaughter, Betty John, describes what contemporary visitors might encounter if they were to travel to the Pribilof Islands:

Today there's a landing strip on St. Paul Island, the Pribilofs. Though socked in most of the time by the same sort of dense fogs that have always shrouded these Seal Islands from the world, they can be reached in minutes by plane. … There now is also radio and telecommunication. But the sea around the islands remains just as turbulent as in Libby's time. The rolling waters, the fogs, the storms, and the strange tides combine to make the islands as remote and isolated as they were in the 1870s.

(ix)

As the editor explains, although the islands are now more accessible to visitors than they were when Beaman first visited, the landscape has not substantially changed in the hundred years that have since passed. The same dense fog appears, the sea is just as turbulent, and the islands nearly as remote. Such a description may be read as part of the contemporary rise of frontier nostalgia for remote areas like Alaska, a nostalgia that helps fuel the sale of these narratives.

While tales of the westering male adventurer abound in American culture, these texts are rivaled by stories featuring pioneer women. Because Alaska is considered a particularly harsh and challenging terrain, stories of female adventurers in the Far North have become especially intriguing to today's armchair travelers. As a result, white women travel writers are themselves transformed into objects of nostalgia, into heroines who brave the unknown by stepping out of their confined social roles. As their travel narratives become more widely available with new accounts printed or reissued by university and popular presses, the western United States in general and Alaska in particular become textually constructed as white women's “virgin land,” a new terrain where European American women can compete with white male adventurers, earning the right to engage in their own nation-building projects.

Although feminist scholars interested in assessing the links between environmental abuse and gender oppression typically address the ways women have been regarded as products of nature in patriarchal society, I would argue that we must also consider how some women have functioned as bearers of culture who provide the symbolic and intellectual labor necessary for acts of conquest. In doing so, we must carefully assess the authority with which white women “care” for the environment lest we, too, unwittingly advance the exceptionalist discourses of white womanhood, nature, and conquest that need to be dismantled.

Some feminists argue, for instance, that because women and nature have been subordinated in culture, a strong link exists between the two, which positions women as exceptionally able defenders of the environment. The example of explorer Ann Bancroft is a case in point. As the “first white woman” to reach the North Pole by foot in 1986, Bancroft has received a great deal of attention for her attempts to reinvent exploration as an ecologically sound endeavor. During the 1992 American Women's Antarctic Expedition she encouraged other members of the team to carry out a “low-impact” trek to the South Pole in order to make “environmentally friendly” practices the norm among all explorers. While the group aimed to promote public awareness of the Antarctic, spread information about environmentally responsible forms of outdoor experiences, and challenge gender stereotypes, they eventually cut their goals short when they were unable to secure adequate funding from corporations.²¹ One could argue that Bancroft's attempt to reconfigure the world explorer was doomed to failure from the start. Despite her efforts to construct an exceptionalist female rhetoric and an ecofriendly campaign, she was not able to overcome the fact that exploration is always done in the interest of expansion. In this case, her inability to reach the Pole without corporate sponsorship demonstrates how modern exploration remains firmly tied to capitalism's own need to expand.

Rather than being outside a history of conquest, Bancroft, like Beaman and Lindbergh, betrayed her ties to larger projects of expansion precisely through the tropes she used to define herself as a traveler. By disregarding such rhetoric, feminists risk overlooking the ways white women developed a gendered nationalist discourse in an effort to become exceptional figures in history. Through an investigation of these rhetorical gestures I have sought not to celebrate these achievements but to critically analyze the authority white women claimed in various nation-building projects. As I have been arguing here, notions of female exceptionalism must be critiqued in all arenas in which they occur, whether in women's travel writing or in ecofeminist debates. Recognizing the power white women desired as agents of history reveals that European American women were not always marginal figures in acts of expansion and conquest, but often crucial factors in its success.

Notes

1. Walter LaFeber, The New Empire: An Interpretation of American Expansionism (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1963), 164.

2. Fredrick Merck, Manifest Destiny and Mission in American History: A Reinterpretation (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1963), 201.

3. Quoted in LaFeber, The New Empire, 132.

4. Quoted in William Appleman Williams, The Roots of the Modern American Empire: A Study of the Growth and Shaping of Social Consciousness in a Marketplace Society (New York: Random House, 1969), 137.

5. Quoted in Martin Plesur, America's Outward Thrust: Approaches to Foreign Policy, 1865-1900 (DeKalb, Ill.: Northern Illinois University Press, 1971), 183.

6. Rosemary Hennessy, Materialist Feminism and the Politics of Discourse (New York: Routledge, 1993), 105.

7. For a related discussion of the “first white man to see” trope, see Bruce Greenfield, “The Problem of the Discoverer's Authority in Lewis and Clark's History,” in Macropolitics of Nineteenth-Century Literature, ed. Jonathan Arac and Harriet Ritvo (Pittsburgh: Pennsylvania State University, 1991), 12-36.

8. Brigitte Georgi-Findlay, The Frontiers of Women's Writing: Women's Narratives and the Rhetoric of Westward Expansion (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1996), 67, 100.

9. Elizabeth Beaman, Libby: The Alaskan Diaries and Letters of Libby Beaman, 1879-1880, as Presented by her Granddaughter Betty John (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1879), 3; further references will be incorporated in the text.

10. Mary Louise Pratt, “Fieldwork in Common Places,” in Writing Culture: The Poetics and Politics of Ethnography, ed. James Clifford (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1986), 36.

11. Georgi-Findlay, The Frontiers of Women's Writing, xiv.

12. Mary Louise Pratt, Imperial Eyes: Travel Writing and Transculturation (New York: Routledge, 1992), 33.

13. David Spurr, The Rhetoric of Empire: Colonial Discourse in Journalism, Travel Writing, and Imperial Administration, (Durham: Duke University Press, 1993), 27.

14. Georgi-Findlay refers to this as the “darkening of the window trope.” For further discussion of this point, see The Frontiers of Women's Writing, 158.

15. bell hooks, “Representing Whiteness in the Black Imagination,” in Cultural Studies, eds. Lawrence Grossberg, Cary Nelson, and Paula A. Treichler (New York: Routledge, 1992), 340.

16. James Clifford, “Traveling Cultures,” in Grossberg, Nelson, and Treichler, Cultural Studies, 108.

17. Johannes Fabian, Time and the Other: How Anthropology Makes Its Object (New York: Columbia University Press, 1983), xi.

18. Pierre Macherey, A Theory of Literary Production, trans. Geoffrey Wall (London: Routledge, 1978), 243.

19. Cynthia Enloe, Bananas, Beaches, and Bases: Making Feminist Sense of International Politics (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1990), 24-25.

20. Fredric Jameson, “Cognitive Mapping,” in Marxism and the Interpretation of Culture, ed. Cary Nelson and Lawrence Grossberg (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1988), 351.

21. Martha Irvine, “Fiery Determination on the Ice: Four Antarctic Explorers Are Committed to Doing It Differently,” Ms. Magazine, January/February 1993, 82; and Stephen Herrara, “Dreams on Ice,” Minneapolis/St. Paul Magazine, May 1994, 38＋.