The River of Doubt by Candice Millard

Source of book: Borrowed from the library

My relationship with Theodore Roosevelt is a bit complicated. His legacy, after all, is complicated. On a personal level, I identified a little with him from the first time I read a kids’ biography of him. We both were sickly kids who worked to become stronger through exercise and outdoor activity. Even today, I have a bit of a “damn the torpedos” approach to life. If I waited until I had no allergies to do things, for example, I’d never get out. I am not, however, reckless, which TR tended to be. 

Likewise, his public legacy is complicated. There is no doubt that he was prejudiced, particularly as a young man. His statements about Indigenous people are painfully awful. (Although, to be fair, there is evidence that he changed his mind about the worst of his beliefs as he got older - something rather the opposite from my experience with a lot of my parents’ generation, who seem to have gotten increasingly xenophobic over the last decade.) He was, alas, a product of his time, an era in which the supremacy of white people was taken for granted by most white people around the world. 

There were some good parts to his legacy, however. His distrust of big business led to the first real regulations on corporations and trusts - he is correctly considered the founder of the Progressive movement in the United States. In fact, while he was generally liked by conservatives during my childhood, as the American Right has veered strongly to the far right, he is now being disowned as a “communist” by a surprising number of people I know on the Right. These days, seeking the common good is controversial, it seems. For his time, TR was a reformer, and many of his ideas remain core parts of the progressive legacy. 

One thing that remains true about him is that those who knew and worked with him generally respected and liked him. As the book points out, in person he was a tremendously hard worker, generous with everyone, full of good humor, and self-sacrificing as a leader. And that goes for how he treated least powerful people as much as the best. The native Brazilians who did much of the hard labor during the trip this book describes were assisted by TR and his son Kermit, and TR gave away his own food, often to his own detriment. So, again, a complex, imperfect person, but someone who genuinely tried to be moral and generous. 

The River of Doubt is the story of a lesser-known escapade in Theodore Roosevelt’s life. As is better known, Roosevelt left office after a term and a half as president (he took over when William McKinley was assassinated), assuming that President Taft would continue the progressive agenda. When Taft instead started supporting corporate interests, TR was furious, founded his own political party (the Progressive Party, colloquially called the “Bull Moose” party after its founder.) This, unfortunately for TR, was a failure. He took a bullet, making a speech with the bullet still in his body (dude was a badass), but failed to win. With a split vote, Woodrow Wilson and the Democrats won the election. 

Nursing his bruised pride, TR decided to do what he usually did after a disappointment: find an adventure. What started as a tour of South America with a little moderate river exploration thrown in turned into an attempt to map an unknown and dangerous tributary of the Amazon. At age 55, no less.

The way all this came about is a bit of a shitshow of incompetence. Roosevelt was in contact with Father Zahm, a bit of an amateur naturalist who wanted to explore. Zahm enlisted Anthony Fiala, whose big claim to fame was nearly dying along with his expedition to the Arctic - in part due to Fiala’s disastrously incompetent leadership - to plan their supplies. This probably would not have been a big deal had they stuck with the original plan. A cruise of a known Amazon tributary to collect biological specimens would have been easy enough to accomplish, and the often bizarre packing decisions made by Fiala would have been merely amusing rather than life-threatening. 

Instead, the government of Brazil suggested that TR join Brazilian explorer Candido Rondon (perhaps the rare person even more badass than TR) in exploring and mapping the River of Doubt, an unknown river believed to drain to the Amazon via the Aripuana and the Madeira rivers. 

 Partway down, after the drowning of one of their number. I am not certain who the two on the left are, but from there (l-r):

Theodore Roosevelt, Candido Rondon, Kermit Roosevelt.

Even to get there required hundreds of miles of travel on land (with dirt tracks as the only road), followed by the descent of the river in dugout canoes. During the land transit, it became clear that supplies were grossly inadequate. As a result, the party was split in two, with Zahm and Fiala, among others, sent to descend a known - and much easier - river. It was left to Rondon, TR, his son Kermit, and 16 others to attempt the River of Doubt. (Now renamed the Roosevelt River.) 

After a few days, it became obvious that the dugouts were far from ideal, and would not be able to safely traverse rapids. Thus, portages were made necessary. This slowed everything down, and left the party badly short on food. It was by a combination of luck and grit that they made it out at all. By the end, one man had drowned, one had been murdered (and the murderer abandoned to the jungle), everyone except Rondon was gravely ill with malaria, dysentery, or something else, and TR was near death with both malaria and an infected leg. 

One could say, I suppose, that the expedition was a “success” in the sense that they made it out with most of them alive, and the river mapped. On the other, it was a disaster, and but for some really good luck (and the fact that the native peoples decided to leave them alone), it would have been deadly for all involved. 

For Roosevelt, it was particularly catastrophic in the long run. In an era before antibiotics, he never fully recovered from his illness, and was dead in less than five years later. Kermit, too, seemed haunted by the experience and the early death of his father, and struggled with depression and alcoholism for years afterward, before committing suicide during deployment in World War II. 

[Side note here: this is Kermit Sr. The legacy of Kermit Jr. is problematic for rather different reasons. He was the “mastermind” behind the CIA-engineered coup that destroyed moderate democracy in Iran. That’s a mistake that we are still paying for today.]  

In a weird twist of fate, Roosevelt returned from his trip to accusations that he had faked the whole thing - from respected naturalists and explorers, no less. So, barely able to walk and speak, the still ill TR made a series of presentations on the trip. These did serve to restore his reputation, but probably contributed to further ill health. 

Later, in 1927, George Miller Dyott settled things for good, when he made the trip himself and confirmed that Roosevelt and Rondon’s descriptions of plants, animals, and geographic features were indeed accurate. In 1992, a third expedition further confirmed the accuracy - and shot all but one of the rapids using modern equipment. 

This is the second book I have read by Candice Millard. (The first was The Destiny ofthe Republic, about the assassination of President Garfield - also a good read.) I like Millard’s writing. She avoids hagiography, presenting the complexities of the politics and culture of the time. Both books draw heavily from primary sources, but are written in a compelling prose style that makes them hard to put down. In both books, she presents the less heroic episodes in the lives of her subjects, which makes for an interesting look at complex figures. 

I figured I would end with a mention of the speech that Roosevelt gave after being shot, because it is phenomenal. You can read the whole thing here. In it, he lays out the case for progressivism. 

“Our creed is one that bids to be just to all, to feel sympathy for all, and to strive for an understanding of the needs of all. Our purpose is to smite down wrong.”

Roosevelt correctly notes that when the poor suffer, society is at risk. At risk of violent revolution, at a minimum. And this needed to be prevented now, by enacting legislation that addressed inequality and oppressive employment practices. 

“Now, friends, what we who are in this movement are endeavoring to do is to forestall any such movement by making this a movement for justice now - a movement in which we ask all just men of generous hearts to join with the men who feel in their souls that lift upward which bids them refuse to be satisfied themselves while their countrymen and countrywomen suffer from avoidable misery.”

The speech is pro-union. It is pro-regulation. It vehemently opposes child labor and long work hours for the most vulnerable (he specifically mentions 16-hour days for female industrial workers.) It calls for a uniform Federal policy to prevent states having a “race to the bottom” in terms of regulation. It addresses policy without making personal attacks. 

And it would be considered flaming Communist propaganda by today’s GOP. 

Times have changed. The GOP of Eisenhower is in many ways to the left of the Democratic party today. And the GOP is...not conservative at all. It is radically reactionary, viciously social darwinist, and on the payroll of the plutocrats. Historian Heather Cox Richardson lays it out pretty well here. And now we get to 2020, and we are literally hearing that the hoi polloi should be willing to sacrifice millions of their lives to keep the stock market high. Roosevelt was right: unless significant changes are made, this will not end well. 

Oh My America by Sara Wheeler

Source of book: My wife was given this as a gift.

I was not particularly familiar with Sara Wheeler, but it turns out she is a British travel writer and biographer best known for spending several months in Antarctica writing about the ill-fated Terra Nova expedition that claimed the lives of its members. (To add insult to injury, they reached the South Pole only to find out Roald Ahmundsen had already beaten them to it.)

This book is rather different in that it follows six British women who came to the United States in the 1800s looking for some sort of change. Each of the six also had a “second act” after turning 50. Wheeler spends most of the book writing about her subjects, with a few paragraphs here and there about her own journey following in the footsteps of these women. These are generally interesting, and short, so they do not overwhelm the rest of it. The one part I didn’t enjoy as much were her own thoughts on turning 50 (which she did while researching the book). As is the case for many an author, I think Wheeler is better when talking about others rather than herself. These bits were even shorter than the descriptions of her own travels - which are much better.

I chose this book in large part because one of the featured women was Fanny Trollope, the mother of one of my favorite authors, Anthony Trollope. Fanny’s husband was a barrister who never did very well and ended up bankrupt. Fanny was an enterprising woman, and supported the family by writing, among other things. In her middle age, she departed for America, seeking a better life for the younger children. (Two were left behind in England) Things didn’t work out as planned, but she did gather the material for what would prove to be her greatest hit: Domestic Manners of the Americans. Ms. Trollope was, shall we say, not impressed by said manners, and created not a little stir on our side of the pond. The book, however reviled by the Americans, was wildly popular, and made her fortune. 

No less than Mark Twain, while not a fan of the writing style, noted that Trollope’s greatest crime was actually telling the truth. Fanny found the egalitarianism of Americans (those uppity servants!) to be disconcerting, but she was more on the mark when she called attention to the hypocrisy of slavery in a supposedly egalitarian nation, and when she noted that Americans were both arrogant that everything about them was the best possible, and fragile and insecure whenever anyone doubted it. Some things haven’t changed in the 175 years since.

Fanny Trollope is just the first of the women, who are presented in chronological order.

Next came Fanny Kemble, who I mentioned in connection with Henry James. Her relation of a true story (or at least good gossip) from her stay in America led to James’ outstanding book, Washington Square.

Kemble was an actress who travelled to America with her father after domestic unrest in England led to the failure of their theater. A young woman with a striking - if not exactly beautiful - appearance, she captured the eye of young heir to a plantation in Georgia, Pierce Butler. The marriage would turn out to be a disaster in every way. Butler would inherit the plantation, and have to return home to manage it, taking his young wife. Kemble was appalled at the institution of slavery itself, but more so by the actions of her husband. The slaves would appeal to her - she was a kind and generous woman - for basics such as rudimentary medical care. She would appeal to her husband, who would fly into a rage and have the slave that complained beaten brutally.

Kemble was miserable, and attempted to leave several times, but she knew that the laws of the time would award her young children to their father. (In those days, children were the rightful property of the father, and even abuse was insufficient reason for a woman to be granted a divorce and custody.) Eventually, she couldn’t take it any more, and left, leaving her then-teenaged children behind. By that time, it was obvious that Butler was not just abusive to her but also a serial adulterer.

It didn’t help things that they were fundamentally incompatible. He expected submission, while she had a temper and lacked tact, and had no desire to be controlled. She moved out, and a nasty divorce trial followed. He claimed desertion (a grounds a man had for divorce), while she sought to prove she was forced to leave by his adultery. At one point in the proceedings, he incredulously stated that “She held that marriage should be companionship on equal terms.” That was, of course, unthinkable to most men of the time.

As was the case for many a celebrity divorce, past and present, the case played out in the newspapers, with little sympathy shown to either side. In the end, Kemble received some alimony which enabled her to survive, but he severely restricted contact with her daughters. (Fortunately, they maintained a relationship with their mother anyway, and were closer to her after they came of age.)

This part of the story was interesting enough, but it became even more so in the years to follow. Kemble didn’t read Trollope’s book, but was well aware of the fuss it created, while she herself liked the Americans far more than Trollope did, she noted that Trollope must have spoken the truth, because no lie would have caused so much hubbub. Kemble remembered the book’s success, and decided to re-write and publish her memoirs as the Civil War loomed.

This book, Journal of a Residence on a Georgian Plantation, published during the Civil War, and the memoirs, early copies of which circulated in Abolitionist circles, are considered a reason that Britain refused to aid the Confederate cause.

One other incident which I found interesting was a conversation that Kemble had with former president John Quincy Adams regarding her role as Desdemona in Othello. Adams opined that Desdemona deserved everything she got (including her murder!) as “a very just judgment upon her for having married a nigger.” Kemble found this appalling, writing a friend that she thought maybe the play would have better dramatic power if they changed the opening line by Iago from “I hate the Moor” to “I hate the nigger” given in a Southern accent.

(I recently saw a performance of Othello. You can read my thoughts on the play here.)

Next up was Harriet Martineau, a firebrand of a social reformer and lecturer. She wrote extensively, with pamphlets and lectures on subjects ranging from prisons to plumbing. Her first hit was a series of pedantic stories on moral subjects (perhaps the prototypical “Book of Virtues”) whose interest is primarily academic these days. But they sold back then, rescuing Harriet from a life of drudgery. Eventually, she too came to the United States, on more of an explicit research project than the two Fannys. 

Martineau was quite a character. She had an early engagement broken when her fiance went insane and had to be committed. Whether it was from this or from her personality, which some have opined was on the autism spectrum, she never did seem interested in romance thereafter.

One rather interesting observation by the author was that Martineau, “Like others who strive to improve humanity, she didn’t care much for its individual representatives.” Wheeler contrasts Mark Twain, who was a curmudgeon about humanity in the abstract, but admired and love the individuals he met. I will add that I have encountered the same in my own experience, particularly when it comes to people who like children in an abstract sense, but do not seem to enjoy them in person.

Harriet’s book, Society in America, was a bit different than Trollope’s screed. Harriet genuinely loved the egalitarian dream - including uppity servants. So, she had a great deal of optimism for the future of American democracy. Unfortunately, her biting observations have worn better than the optimistic prediction that slavery would be voluntarily abolished. (That cost 600,000 lives to accomplish.)

One particularly astute observation was that the very worst people among the defenders of slavery were the clergy. (Both Trollope and Kemble noted this too in their books.)

Seeing what I have seen, I can come to no other conclusion than that the most guilty class of the community in regard to the slavery question at present is not the slaveholding, or even the mercantile, but the clerical; the most guilty, because not only are they not blinded by lifelong custom and prejudice, nor by any pecuniary interest, but they profess to spend their lives in the study of moral relations, and have pledged themselves to declare the whole counsel of God.

I cannot but think that future generations are going to make the same judgment about the complicity of our own generation of clergy in fomenting racism, fear, and hate about the pressing moral questions of our own time.

Harriet began her life as the daughter of a Unitarian minister. By the time she reached middle age, her experiences led her to embrace atheism, and also, like many an inconsistent Victorian, also the charms of “Mesmerism,” an early form of hypnosis.

Given her forceful and acerbic opinions, it is not surprising that some other intellectuals that knew her, such as Sidney Smith, said he had nightmares about being chained to a rock and being talked to death by her. In what has to be one of the best lines ever, Douglas Jerrold quipped upon her public announcement of her atheism, “There is no God, and Harriet Martineau is His prophet.” I think I might steal that one from time to time.

The next woman is a complete change of pace. Rebecca Burlend was the wife of John, a decent, hard working man, who failed at his attempt in farming in England due to plummeting wheat prices. They, and the younger five of their children set off for America to homestead in rural Illinois at the suggestion of a friend who had moved there. This was back when Illinois was wilderness and hardly connected with the rest of civilization.

The move was not Rebecca’s choice, and she went only (as she later related to her oldest son, who wrote down her story and published it) because of duty.

I gave up the idea of ending my days in my own country with the utmost reluctance, and should never have become an emigrant, if obedience to my husband’s wishes had left me any alternative.

Times have changed a bit, shall we say. I cannot imagine even expecting my wife to leave everything because I wished it.

In any event, despite hard times, the family made it, barely. It is impossible not to have immense respect for Rebecca, who had to do everything herself after John had a cut go septic on him. He survived, amazingly, but was bedridden for months. Without plow animals, she had to hitch a plow to herself, later harvesting with the help only of her small children. And then, at age 40, she had to plow again by herself while John worked elsewhere to pay off a debt.

So she hitched herself to the plow again, this time seven months pregnant with twins. Bad. Ass.

John and Rebecca lived into their 80s and died within a year of each other. The Burlends went on to become a notable family in Illinois.

Next up is the incomparable Isabella Bird. Bird was a heroine to my father-in-law (who shares her wanderlust and love for solitude in the wilderness.) Isabella was sickly at home in her native England, but seemed to gain an amazing transformation while traveling. Briefly married, she began her adventures after her husband’s death. She wrote a number of books about her adventures, which have become classics. 

One has to admire her sheer chutzpah in venturing out into the Colorado wilderness (and many other places) alone, boarding with frontier ruffians as the only woman in sight, riding her horse in five feet of snow to seemingly inaccessible places (one stable agreed to lend her - and only her - a horse), climbing mountains in frozen conditions, and generally defying the Victorian view of women.

She was eventually - and deservedly - admitted to the Royal Geographic Society as its first female fellow. This honor was not universally admired, with Punch writing the following doggerel:

A lady an explorer? A traveller in skirts?

The notion’s just a trifle too seraphic:

Let them stay and mind the babies, or hem our ragged shirts;

But they mustn’t, can’t and shan’t be geographic.

A bit rich, when addressed to a woman who had clearly outdone any of them.

My favorite line of hers came after she was thrown from her horse after a grizzly spooked it.

“I dreamt of bears so vividly that I woke with a furry death-hug at my throat, but feeling quite refreshed.”

The final woman in the book is Catherine Hubback, one of Jane Austen’s nieces. She married a young barrister, and they were happy for a decade or so, at which time he underwent a catastrophic mental collapse. He ended up institutionalized for the rest of his life, and soon stopped recognizing her or their children. She was left with three children under the age of six, and had to move in with her in-laws. She devoted herself for a while to the publication of her aunt’s unpublished works. She also wrote stories of her own - although they weren’t particularly good. They do, however, hint at the anguish she felt at being in an impossible situation. She wasn’t a widow, or single, or really married. She had no place, and was an uncomfortable inconvenience. But she persevered until the kids finished school. Then, she did her best to get them established in the various family businesses. When one son moved to Oakland, California, she went with him, and proceeded to find a newly expanded life. With her mentally ill husband a world away, she came to a place where the past was less relevant. She poured herself into the founding of a society for moral improvement - and also into travel in the wilderness of California, where she had adventures which she captured in her letters to her other sons. This particular account was interesting to me in part because I know the places she visited well, from the Gold Country to Yosemite, to Lassen National Park.

This book is a chronicle of these “second acts.” All of these women made a major change in their middle age, and for each of them, the United States was the place of a significant transformation of some sort. I think the author’s point that women past the age of childbearing are - even now - disregarded as irrelevant is a good one. It is a product of millennia of sexism and the view of women primarily as resources of reproduction and service to men. Each of the women in this book made the most of opportunities to transcend that in their later years. For three, their husbands were useless or worse. For another, he was incapacitated at various times, and she had to pick up the slack. For the other, a man was never an important part in her life, and she rose on her own merits and energy.

It’s an interesting book, about women who were fascinating and admirable each in her own way.

Impossible Journeys by Matthew Lyons

Source of book: I own this.

My brother is a Folio Society leech. He quits or threatens to quit so that they give him discounts and free stuff. A great side effect of this is that he gives me awesome gifts. This book is one of them. Another was Trafalgar, reviewed here.

It’s a bit difficult to explain exactly what this book is about. The journeys described are in some cases not precisely impossible, but are so changed that they would be unrecognizable to those who undertook them. In general, these are the stories of journeys, real and “embellished” that took place before the world was really known. Most are set in the times of Queen Elizabeth I of England and the two hundred or so years thereafter. The book opens with the real but somewhat embellished tale of Thomas Coryat, who walked through Europe and Asia, eventually making it as far as India. It closes with the decidedly realistic and tragic tale of Sir Walter Raleigh’s explorations of Guyana.

In between are tales such as Andreé’s ill fated attempt to reach the North Pole in a balloon; Pegolotti’s trip to China and back via the land caravan route - most of the cities mentioned disappeared for the same reason towns dried up along the old Route 66; and purely fanciful descriptions of imaginary lands described by explorers willing to exaggerate to please their audiences.

Lyons tells these stories with a bit of a dryly humorous tone, but also quotes extensively from the original writings, which is also rather amusing. The original writers wanted to entertain, and used overwrought language that has an unintentionally comedic effect in the case of the exaggerations.

On the other hand, it is pretty amazing to see how many people were willing to just set off into the unknown, knowing the odds that they would return alive weren’t that great. And many of them didn’t.

The capacity to take risk and to just do crazy stuff is a testament either to the human spirit or to reckless insanity. Maybe both.

Andreé put it this way: “There is in our days only one way of retaining a belief in ideal efforts, and that is by endeavoring to make them oneself.”

On the other hand, you can really see the attraction of exploring the unknown. As the author puts it in the introduction, this book is for “those who half-regret the slow, empirical death by discovery of a world in which almost anything was possible because no one really knew what lay over the horizon.”

Along the way, there were some interesting real and imaginary discoveries. I note that Coryat got a tattoo of a cross in the Holy Land in the 1610s, before the word “tattoo” entered the lexicon (after Cook’s voyage to Tahiti). So no, religiously significant ink isn’t exactly a new thing.

I also found it interesting that wherever explorers went, there were tales of the Amazons. That is, the female warrior race, where the men were relegated to the fringes of society - if they were even allowed to survive after mating. The legend dates at least from Greek mythology, but it reappeared everywhere, from the tales of central Asia to Greenland to North America to the tropics of South America where it gave the name to the second longest river in the world.

This was a fun book to read. The tales were pretty short, except for the extended Raleigh tale, so it goes fast. The book itself, like all Folio Society books, feels delightful in the hands. A testament to the visceral pleasure of a physical object.

I think of this picture of Sir Walter Raleigh whenever I get irritated at having to wear a suit and tie in hot weather.

Turn Right at Machu Picchu by Mark Adams

Source of book: Borrowed from the library. This was recommended by a friend of a friend, and it just sounded interesting.

Mark Adams is a travel writer/editor for a number of magazines, but fulfilled the cushy side of that job description. Prior to the events described in this book, he had never actually backpacked, or even hiked seriously. He decided, however, to retrace the steps of Hiram Bingham to Machu Picchu.

Who? Where? I admit that while I was passingly familiar with Machu Picchu (pronounced MAH-choo PEEK-choo), the picturesque Inca ruins in Peru; I had no idea who Hiram Bingham was. How I managed to miss his story is a mystery, since I have devoured the accounts of various adventurers over the years. It turns out that one reason is that Bingham was a pretty incompetent writer. His original account was full of odd details about supplies, and tended to get bogged down in the mundane. A later book seemed to have had details altered to tell a better story. Perhaps his later fame and career in Congress caused later generations to consider him overrated. In any case, his story is interesting, and forms a key part of this book.

Picture of Machu Picchu from The National Geographic

In format, the book alternates between an account of Bingham’s explorations and the story of the author’s expeditions. I thought this was done rather effectively, although the short length of the chapters seemed odd at first. I suspect this was due in part to my tendency to read books with longer chapters. Adams synchronizes the stories so that the same locations are described in sequence.

Bingham is considered to be a forerunner of the character of Indiana Jones. The author traces the idea, but does not oversell the connection. In fact, while the book is described for sales purposes with this connection in mind, Adams downplays this aspect in the book, choosing to focus on the actual facts of Bingham’s life, which is fascinating even without the connection. See the note below for more on the real and fictional sources for Indiana Jones.

Some things I really enjoyed about this book. First, the description of Peruvian politics made me laugh. While too long here to quote, it contained the gem regarding Alan Garcia, who left office in disgrace, but later ran on the platform, essentially, of “I was an idiot last time,” and then won!

Adams’ descriptive language is fun. He describes one ruin as follows: “At the summit stood the remains of an Inca structure with jagged ten-foot walls like those at Sacsahuaman. A variety of plants sprouted from every crevice, making it look like the Lost Chia Pet of the Incas.”

I also found interesting the description of peccaries, a rather cute type of wild pig, which is nonetheless extraordinarily dangerous because of its tendency to attack. They look pretty harmless at the zoo.

I am a hiker, although not on the scale that Adams’ guide, John Leivers is. If anyone looks and acts like Indiana Jones, it would be Leivers – except Leivers has an even drier sense of humor. I loved the descriptions of the hiking in this book because I know firsthand how daunting the elevation changes are. The most I have ever climbed in a day is 3600 vertical feet. The highest I have hiked is about 12,000 feet. Not only did the author crest multiple passes at 14,000 feet, but he covered a vertical mile up and then down again in a day. My legs hurt just reading about it. Admittedly, they had mules to carry the heavy stuff, but still!

I concur with John Leivers’ philosophy here: “There’s a general law in life. The mind and body only get stronger when they’re traumatized.”

Leivers’ dry humor is also on display when at Machu Picchu itself. A group of hippie tourists approach a rock that was likely important in the Inca religion.

“Watch this,” John said. “Their guide’s going to tell them to hold their hands out to feel the cosmic energy emanating from the rock.”

Several hands reached out toward the Intihuatana. After a second or two, the mystics turned toward each other excitedly.

“I feel warmth,” said one.

“Me too,” said another.

“It’s a rock that sits in the sun all day,” John said, loud enough to be heard in Cusco. “Of course it feels warm.”

The author describes John’s philosophy in the form of a mathematical equation. (R+S) x E = H. Ruins, plus Solitude, times Exertion, equals Happiness. If one substitutes a good view or a beautiful lake for ruins, I completely concur. Although ruins would be cool too.

Finally, I loved the description of the Inca Trail itself, which the two hike on a later trip. The trail was clearly not designed to be either the shortest or the easiest route to Machu Picchu. The author believes it was designed to be the most dramatic and scenic route. 

There’s a school of thought that the Inca Trail had been plotted like a good adventure yarn, with twists and turns, rising and falling action, and foreshadowing of the big climax: Machu Picchu. It’s a suspenseful tale broken up by surprises. 

 Would I like to hike this trail? A thousand times yes!                       

This captures the true soul of the adventure of exploration, whether that of the great age of discovery, or the simple hike taken in the wilderness. The point is not to reach the destination in the quickest and easiest way possible. The joy is in the journey, and what lies ahead.

The Road goes ever on and on

Down from the door where it began.

Now far ahead the Road has gone,

And I must follow, if I can,

Pursuing it with eager feet,

Until it joins some larger way

Where many paths and errands meet.

And whither then? I cannot say.

J. R. R. Tolkien, from The Fellowship of the Ring

Note on Indiana Jones: There are some clear parallels between Hiram Bingham III and Indiana Jones, of course. Both are professors at Ivy League universities, who moonlight as explorers in their spare time. Both were instrumental in the preservation of important artifacts, and both were remarkable in their tenacity and abilities. The book traces the link through a mostly forgotten movie, Secret of the Incas, which clearly drew inspiration from Bingham’s life, and equally clearly inspired the Indiana Jones movies. 

  

There were other sources, however. Bingham’s explorations took place in 1911 through 1915. However, over a century earlier, Mungo Park set the gold standard for kick-butt explorers with his exploration of the African interior. While Bingham was certainly competent, Park had to contend with far greater danger. His physical and mental powers were legendary, but they were not enough to keep him from dying while attempting at later expedition.

In the middle part of the Nineteenth Century, David Livingstone and others continued the exploratory tradition, which became cemented in popular consciousness. In 1885, H. Rider Haggard wrote King Solomon’s Mines, the first of a series of adventure books that I consider to be the true literary source for Indiana Jones. The character of Allan Quatermain is strikingly similar, of course. All those great booby traps? Haggard dreamed many of them up. Who could forget the scene in The Last Crusade after the character drinks the wrong chalice? Haggard envisioned the rapid aging in a slightly different context, but the scene is remarkably similar.

Of course, if one wished to go even further back, one could find a parallel with Odysseus and Gilgamesh. The development of this archetype has fascinated me, and finding one more link as a result of this book was fun.