Week 9: Fredston - Travel Writing with Personality

Having finished Rowing to Latitude, I realize that one of the reasons I really enjoyed this book was Fredston's ability to constantly situate her travels in the scheme of things. Never conveying an attitude that her rowing made up her life, Fredston refreshingly reminds her reader that the dangers she encounters in her travels should certainly be respected, as the goal of travel should not supercede the traveler's life. Rowing to Latitude is easily my favorite travel writing book.

Particularly towards the end of the book, Fredston begins to really situate her adventures within her life, which is narrated in a way that makes it seem much more well-rounded and full in comparison to the other travel writers. Perhaps this has something to do with the time period in which Fredston writes, since she writes within a genre that perhaps has had the time to evolve and change since Chatwin, Bird, and Thesiger were writing. In the other three, earlier writers, we get much less narrative which gives the reader an idea of the narrator/traveler removed from his/her travels. I would venture to guess that many people might, if asked to, describe the previous three authors as simply, "travelers," or "travel writers," whereas where Fredston is concerned titles like avalanche specialist, wife, and daughter also come to mind quite quickly. In establishing herself as a travel writer, but also so many different things, Fredston's novel seems to have a more full-bodied character to it, and she accordingly creates a story and characters that readers can grasp as being more than one dimensional.

Fredston's tendency to foreground more relationships than just the author's with nature also includes a touching, though often quiet relationship with her travel partner and husband, Doug Fesler. It is interesting to compare Fredston's relationship with nature and her husband, since they are remarkably similar. The quiet respect and trust that Fredston has with her husband is mirrored in her relationship with the wilderness she crosses with him. Taking cues from nature and from her husband alike, trusting that the signals they both give are reliable indicators of proper courses of action, we can see the author's relationship with both simultaneously developing in the interaction with each, both individually and collectively.

Rowing to Latitude succeeds in providing a reader with a wilderness that many people, if they had the chance to experience it first hand, might not even take away from it the insightful point of view that Fredston provides. We can internalize both her respect and fear, and appreciate the wonder and beauty she observes from the comfort of our homes , and save ourselves the muscle aches and the risks that Fredston and her husband seem to endure daily. For the first time I feel like I have a better understanding of a place described in a work of travel writing, a feeling that I attribute to the much more personal tone that Fredston's book takes on.

Week 8: Fredston and casual danger

In the second part of Fredston's Rowing to Latitude, I am continuously impressed with the nonchalance with which the author treats the dangers she encounters. Particularly interesting is Fredston's discussion of fear on page 108, where she notes that "most of the time it isn't real fear that seems to cripple people; it is the worry about all the bad things that could happen." Previous to reading Fredston's explanation, I probably would have defined fear as a the worries about the bad things that could happen, real fear for Fredston is not apprehension, but rather fear in the moment of danger -- of which she seems to have little as she tells of her adventures. Perhaps it is the same kind of sense of authority which is conveyed through Fredston's writing that allows her to feel like she doesn't need to employ fear in order to avoid feeling powerless, in order to feel active, which she cites as one function of fear. Perhaps Fredston's experience and acquired authority give her enough confidence that she has no need for fear to maintain control.

The most obvious examples in which fear is only (if at all) minimally conveyed when we, as readers might expect it to be quite natural, are Fredston's numerous encounters with bears. While at first it seems odd to have what may seem to us such a frightening encounter relayed to the reader as something quite matter-of-fact and very rarely sensationalized, Fredston's nonchalant description of her experiences involving bears are oddly intriguing in their calmness. Though I expect that many sensationalized descriptions after another would eventually cause such encounters with bears to seem dull, I find each of Fredston's encounters with bears to be as interesting as the last, even in her refusal to dramatize her experiences seems to draw me to them even more. I suspect that this has something to do with the authenticity I seem to associate with Fredston's non-theatrical presentation of events.

Fredston later writes about the idea that while she can be as prepared as possible, which contributes to her calmness, there are certain situations in which she must admit powerlessness. She notes that while it may seem difficult to remain calm while simultaneously acknowledging that a situation is completely out of her hands, particular scenarios require such level-headedness. I think that the acceptance of her situation and the understanding that she is a foreigner in the wilderness through which she travels is what makes Fredston's narrative so captivating. We are aware (as is she) that anything can happen at any time, and similarly aware, if not expectant, that the unexpected will happen.

Week 7: Fredston

Aside from proving how important mode of transportation can be in a travel narrative, Fredston's book is refreshing because it was published only a few years ago. While I knew better in my rational mind, I was beginning to form an idea of travel writing as works that gained authority with age. It is interesting to consider this example of a more modern example of travel writing and I feel like I am more involved with the work because I can actually understand the time period. To me, Fredston's book is much more intriguing because I can imagine her narrative taking place right now in the world I also participate in -- in that way this book seems more "real" than Thesiger's, Chatwin's, and Bird's.

Although Thesiger's writing was filled with details, Fredston's work offers her readers with deatails that almost unwittingly create a picture in the reader's mind. We can almost feel ourselves getting into the rhythm of rowing as she describes it. Fredston's choice to begin with her first few experiences with rowing are not only quite appropriate, but also allow her reader to get acclimated with what is surely a very different mode of transportation for most people. As her stories mature, so does the reader's familiarity with rowing as does their capacity to imagine Fredston's narration.

I also thought it was interesting, and rather true, that Fredston notes that our perspective varies greatly depending on our mode of travel. "Travelling backward" as she puts it seems to certainly allow for an appreciation of where the traveller has been, and tends to focus less on "conquering" the land that is yet to be travelled. Perhaps it is also this blatant appreciation for the nature she encounters rather than a need to conquer it that attracts me to Fredston's voice. In all of Thesiger's, Chatwin's, and Bird's work we can almost always understand a kind of need to master the land, whether it be to conquer what has not yet been explored (Thesiger), to pin down the history of a place (Chatwin), or to break into a world that typically would not include you (Bird). Unlike these authors, for Fredston, rowing is breathing - a way of life rather than a conquest or a mission.

Even though Fredston could be compared to Bird in the sense that rowing is typically a male-dominated sport and an appreciation for the outdoors is also typically associated with males, the focus here seems to be much less on Fredston's accomplishments, or even on the wilderness. Rather, the focus seems to be rowing, and I think perhaps this is another reason why Rowing to Latitude is appealing to me. Having had a difficult time adjusting to non-linear narratives with little of the western notion of plot, Fredston's work reads more like a story than a documentary, and while Thesiger and Chatwin's characters were landscapes and abstract personalities, Fredston's characters are a kayak and its rower. Who the rower is seems to me to be of minimal importance.

Week 6: Trying not to lead a Lady's Life

Particularly noticeable to me in the later half of A Lady's Life in the Rocky Mountains is the satisfaction Bird seems to take when she manages, to any extent, to transcend her identity as a woman and be defined only as a valiant traveler. For example, Bird's words appear almost giddy on the page at a recollection recorded in a letter to her sister that recounts her participation on a cattle drive. In this account, Bird unabashedly brags about "keeping pace with the immense strides of the great buck jumper ridden by 'the finest writer in North Americay.'" It seems to me that there is no other passage in this book in which Bird's letter is filled with such excitement that a reader can practically see what must be the author's flushed but glowing appearance. At the end of the paragraph that describes the cattle drive, Bird writes that the leader called her "'a good cattleman' and that he had forgotten that a lady was of the party till he saw me 'come leaping over the timber, and driving with the others'" (129). Not only has Bird proved herself among men, but her actions have (at least temporarily) made invisible the very qualities that distinguish her as a woman. While Bird omits a description of the feeling of satisfaction she gains from a feeling that her gender has been erased in her travels, if only for a moment, it is clear to the reader through the tone and pace of this paragraph that Bird takes much pride in blending in as a cattleman.

Shortly after this description, Bird writes that she has been offered 6 dollars a day to take over typically female household chores if she chose to stay rather than continue her travels. Bird refuses to fall into culturally prescribed gender roles and mentions that it "would suit [her] better to ride after cattle" (134). Further denying her role as a stereotypical fragile woman, Bird frequently mentions the dangers she encounters, but it is quite rare that she spend many words lamenting her situation. Instead, Bird presents the details of dangerous situations rather matter of factly, outlining them as is necessary for her reader's understanding. Rarely admitting to fear - and if so, doing so ever so briefly, Bird seems to attempt to align herself with men in the way that she seems to bravely face danger and recount it in her letters.

On the lighter side, I should mention that I noticed in my investigation of Bird's tendency to shy away from characteristics typically associated with women and align herself more with the behavioral characteristics with men that I did notice one action that is typically not associated with men. Bird regularly stops to ask for directions.

Week 5: A Lady's Life

Since my course of study prompts me to constantly look at travel writing from the perspective of "the other," I was very anxious to compare travel literature written by men (though my sample is thus far limited to Thesiger and Chatwin) with that of women. In the first two authors' accounts I found myself crediting their tendency to "otherize" the people they encountered in their travels to the substantial privileges both of the male authors must have been afforded through thier sex and race. I was interested to see how the same kind of literature might read from a woman's point of view, since especially when Isabella Bird was traveling, women were commonly considered less able, or inferior to me. Since I assumed that Bird must have experienced a similar kind of imposed secondary personhood to men within her lifetime, I wondered if she might be less likely to treat particular people that she encountered during her travels as being particularly strange and uncivilized.

Having read only a portion of Bird's book, I cannot say with certainty that she treats the people she encounters any less callously than Thesiger and Chatwin did in their works, but so far as I have read, it certainly seems that her criticisms, though apparant, are less harsh and less critical. While my assumption reading this work was that, if Bird did indeed tend to view natives less as others and more as fellow human beings, it would certainly be because her status as a woman allowed her to experience such a classification of other-ness herself. However, as I read to get a sense of the author herself, I must remind myself that there could be multitudes of other reasons that Bird's criticisms seem less frequent and less harsh.

There is also something about Bird's tone that seems to make her work stand out (at least in my own mind) from Thesiger's and Chatwin's. Though I haven't managed to completely put my finger on it yet, my best description is that her narration seems to allow for more interpretation on the part of the reader. Rather than present opinions paired with fact, Bird seems to give information much more subjectively than the other two authors, so that a reader might be allowed to process the information him/herself. The descriptions and information that Bird includes tend to focus much more on appreciation of landscape and its contents and noticebly less on the author's own role, which I believe to be the sharpest contrast to Thesiger's work, which seemed to be as intent on informing the reader of Thesiger's protagonism than his settings. Again, I can only guess at explanations for my observations. Perhaps Bird, having little to follow by way of solo women travelers/travel writers, felt less pressure to sell herself as a travel writer, relying more on the feat she accomplished by traveling in the Rocky Mountains: "no region for tourists and women."

This proclamation of Birds', "no region for tourists and women'" is extremely interesting to consider since, by virtue of the fact that Bird rarely hesitates in her own travels, she doesn't seem to include herself in either category of tourists or women. Almost in the very same breath that Bird makes something of a liberating move for women through her accomplishments and her bravery, she contradicts the very capabilities of women which her book works to prove. From her rhetoric, however, we can see that Bird cannot possibly consider herself any ordinary woman, perhaps giving me further guesses as to why she didn't feel she had to set herself apart as a travel writer -- perhaps she felt that her status as an extraordinary woman would do.

Week 4: (Re)Presentation

The non-linear form and short chapters that characterize Chatwin's work, In Patagonia, certainly seem necessary for the both the ethos and logos of the author. While the short chapters including often arbitrary details provide the reader with the kind of evidence that a reader might need to believe in the truth of the stories themselves, Chatwin's form also seems to contribute to the truthfulness that a reader might feel about Chatwin himself.

Reading this work, a reader gets the feeling that Chatwin is very much a wanderer, moving from one place to another on a whim, rather than a meticulous planner of his next destination. With such an observation in mind, it is difficult to see Chatwin faithfully carrying around paper and pencil and/or somehow recording every minute detail of the conversations and knowledge he encountered during his journeys. It is not surprising, then, to notice that those stories which Chatwin did manage to record are short, perhaps including only those details he recalled from each instance, regardless of the individual facts' importance. Likewise, since it is clear that the information that the author gathered during his travels often covered a variety of unrelated subjects, a reader would not expect anything resembling a linear narrative. Rearranging his work so that it might be more comfortable to the western reader accustomed to a linear form would surely provoke questions for readers about whether or not Chatwin's wandering style could have really matched up with a non-wandering form. For these reasons, Chatwin's non-linear form and seemingly sporadic inclusions/exclusions within each individual (short) chapter are all imperative to the credibility of the author.

In this particular work I have to wonder if there is any value in trying to decipher fact from fiction. Since we know through Chatwin's narration that most of his information is obtained from mostly human sources, I don't know that it makes sense to worry about whether or not we can trust the author to properly represent the stories he has encountered. First of all, there is a fundamental problem in the use of the word stories, since little or no truth is implied with the use of this word. Second, are we, as readers, wasting our time considering whether Chatwin is "accurately" relaying these stories to his readers when we have no way of knowing for certain whether they were ever true even prior to Chatwin's obtaining them? The credibility of the author, then seems to lie only in the proof that Chatwin provides his reader with about the validity of the author's journey alone.

And even still, we find another layer of complication when we consider what our reactions would be if Chatwin's journey was, itself a figment of his authorial imagination. Since logic has lead me to become less concerned with the validity of the stories than with Chatwin's method of obtaining them, what is to be a reader's reaction when even the validity of the story explaining how stories were gathered is in question? I would argue that in a work like Arabian Sands, Thesiger's work is based on what he can represent for his reader, so that such a question of whether or not his travels were just as he represented them is essential to a reader's digestion of the work. However, In Patagonia presents its reader with a world of fact comingling with fiction, and Chatwin merely concerns himself with what he can present for his reader, so the validity of his travels (which I am not certain that I doubt anyway) becomes much less important for the work as a whole.

In short, I don't believe that it would be necessary for Chatwin to have truthfully completed the journeys he records, nor that it is paramount to his work that each story included be 100 percent retold as it was recorded because the matter Chatwin presents in his work are rarely (if ever) purported to be truth. On the contrary, Thesiger's Arabian Sands depends entirely on the concept of what is truth, and therefore would not be able to accomplish a comparable purpose if the reality of Thesiger's travel was called into question.

Week 3: Amazonia

Much like the appeal of Arabia for Thesiger, Whitehead points out that the allure of South America and Amazonia has something to do with experiencing the unknown. However, the defining characteristic that separates the unknown of Arabia and of Amazonia seems to be the addition of a certain wildness that is commonly related to the exploration of South America. Not only does Whitehead's description and Chatwin's narrative convey the excitement that writers must feel when experiencing things which are unfamiliar to them, but both make note of the region's extreme characteristics, those which are most different from what the author is familira with, which translate onto the page (if not quite intentionally) as wildness. However, while such characteristics are (again, perhaps intentionally) recorded as wild, many are likely just as normal as some of our most basic customs. "Foreign," "Strange," and "Wild" are certainly subjective words.

I have to wonder if travel writing about this particular region could be successful if they failed to portray the place in the manner that the public expects. If Chatwin, for example, attempted to create a representation of a place that was not only tame, but also un-strange, perhaps his work would be rejected by the kinds of readers who buy into the depiction of such an area as being different, strange in its "wildness." Chatwin's book even proudly displays its author's adherence to such stereotyping on the front cover with Paul Theroux review. The book claims itself to be "The classic of travel literature," and this comment is followed by three adjectives from Paul Theroux: "exciting, boisterous, and bizarre." The arrangement of such a statement suggests that the only reason this work should be considered not "a" classic, but "the" classic of travel literature, is due to the characteristics that Theroux observes. Had Chatwin situated his voice to create a work which did not portray South America in such a way, would his book have been well-received? Futhermore, is Chatwin himself too wrapped up in his own stereotypical view of this region that he might have been inable to write about Patagonia in a less "otherizing" manner? Contributing to the idea that a major reason for this books success is Chatwin's adherence to stereotypes of place is the description on the book's back cover. While marveling at the work's content, the review's writer raves taht Chatwin's work represts "a place that still retains the exotic myster of a far-off, unseen land." Again, I wonder if, without such characteristics represented and preserved in his work, if Chatwin's work might have been less well received.