Translation of “A tale of two Slingerlands”
A friend of mine, professor of economics at SUNY Albany, lives in Slingerlands NY, a name tag that always struck me: I live near Slingerland in The Netherlands, a hamlet 30 kilometers east of Rotterdam. When I visited again in 2019, he showed me a newspaper article on a family named Slingerland, descendants of the Dutchman that gave the town its name. Family members were engaged in reconstructing the family burial vault. In mid-19th century, Slingerlands NY was named after William H. Slingerland, postmaster and surveyor for the construction of the railroad.
I decided to seek for a possible connection between Slingerlands NY and my Slingeland NL. I learned that the Slingerland family take their roots back to Teunis Cornelisz Slingerland. Teunis Cornelis (“Antoni”) Slingerland(t) is on record as born in Amsterdam on April 7 1617 and deceased in Hackensack, Bergen County NJ, after May 25 1700. He was the son of Cornelis Slingerland and an unknown mother. He married twice, first to Engeltje Bradt, in 1654 in Beverwyck, New Netherland and then to Giertje (Jelles) Fonda on April 9 1684 in Albany, Albany County, Province of New York. He is supposed to have come to Beverwyck in 1650 travelling on a VOC vessel . I had to conclude that a connection between Slingerlands NY and Slingeland NL, through Teunis Cornelisz (TC for short), in all likelihood must be ruled out. Yet, once on the track of TC, I found it hard to give up on the search for his origin in the Dutch Republic. If not in my Slingeland NL, then where?
My tale of two Slingerlands was circulated among American – Canadian members of the Slingerland family. One of them, Jennifer Slingerland Chenette, sent me a transcript of “a short bio on Teunis written by Stefan Bielinski” in the Schenectady, NY History Archive (posted on June 15, 2005):
“Teunis Cornelise probably was born in Europe before 1640. By 1658, he had taken title to the house and lot in Beverwyck where he then was living. In 1660, his name appeared on a petition of fur traders operating from the Beverwyck area. He also kept a house in New Amsterdam. In 1677, he leased a farm on the Normanskill from the Bradt family. By that time, he had married the mill owner’s daughter, Engeltie Bradt. The marriage produced at least 4 children prior to her death in 1683. In April 1684, he married the widow Geertie Fonda Bekker at the Albany Dutch Church where he was a member. At least one child resulted from his second marriage. Although he appeared to have held considerable lands in the valleys south of Albany, he maintained his Albany identity for many years. By the 1690’s, his name had dropped from Albany rolls”. The Belinsky note conforms to the WikiTree data and adds a few details.
There are several other pieces of information on TC, but not all of it seems reliable, and we should carefully check the sources. Trustworthy infurmation is given by Donna Merwick (1990), an established scholar who documented the settlements that would become Albany.
In 1609 Henri Hudson, commissioned by the VOC, first landed at Mannahatta and then, hoping to find the short seeway to India, sailed up the wide riwer that the Dutch later would call the Noordrivier and the English thereafter the Hudson river, up to later Albany. In 1614, the Dutch built Fort Nassau there, as the first trade post (fur trade, mostly), the first documented European structure. In 1618 the fort was ruined by a flood, but in 1624 it was rebuilt as Fort Orange, after the WIC had been founded in 1621. The initial settlers were private traders. One of the investors was Kiliaen van Rensselaer (1586-1648), who establised the Rensselaer colony, north and south of Fort Orange, on both sides of the river. However, Kilian himself never visited New Netherland. 1624 was also the year when New Amsterdam was established as a WIC settlement. In 1629, Van Rensselaer, board member of the WIC in Amsterdam, declares himself patron of he Rensselaer colony. In 1652, the area around Fort Orange is incorporated as the village of Beverwijck, in 1686, under British rule, it becomes the city of Albany.
Merwick (1990) presents much information on the early settlement of Beverwyck. She writes (p 7) that Fort Orange was abandoned after 1624 and that only in the late 1620’s the WIC and Van Rensselaer started serious, but still modest settlement. “This settlement, however, lacked the basis elements of continuity in a notable way. It had no founding moment”. As noted above, that founding moment did not come until 1652. Before 1652 it had no single name, it was just Fort Orange and Rensselaerswyck. The settlers of 1624 and those who arrived in small numbers in the early 1630’s were solders and traders at the fort and colonists sent by Van Rensselaer. By 1643 Rensselaerswyk was firmly established, some 24 miles on both sides of the river. There were possibly nine dwellings in the fort on the west bank, with no more than 25 traders and possibly the same number of soldiers, but likely less. On the east bank was another concentration of Dutch men and women, possibly a dozen artisans (o.c., 12). In the mid 1630’s Van Rensselaer had 3 farms rented out. Three quarters of the colonists who had arrived before 1633 were gone by 1634 (o.c., 30). Van Rensselaer was interested in land and farming, the Company in trade and there was clear rivalry among them.
The settlements around Fort Orange and Nieuw Amsterdam were connected by ships riding the Noord Rivier. Ties between Nieuw Amsterdam and Beverwyck were strong and many “burghers” of Berverwyck had business connections in Nieuw Amsterdam. Among these burghers, we find Cornelis Teunisse Slingerlandt. In a chapter on the years 1652-1664, Merwick writes that 25 men have “properties owned there”. The footnote says that she used public records of Beverwyck and New Amsterdam to compile investment portfolios and to list names of Beverwyck burghers “whose names appeared specifically related to a resident of New Amsterdam, either as partner, broker or creditor” (o.c. 110). On page 115 she writes: “Cornelis Teunisz Slingerlandt and Storm Van der Zee each held 2/8 ownership of a house rented in 1662 to New Amsterdam’s burgomaster, Allard Anthonij”. TC is not listed among the men who owned a yacht (o.c. 111). But he does appear among the 49 Beverwijck townsmen and townswomen who shipped financial papers (bonds, receipts, wages, accounts) between Beverwyck and New Amsterdam that tied them to families and business associates in the Dutch Republic (p 120-121). At least 19 of them had dealings with partners in Amsterdam. Interests of the other 31 were located outside Amsterdam . Among those 31 we find Cornelis Teunisse Slingerlandt and Teunisse Corneliszn Slingerlandt. So, now we have a new puzzle: is this father and son or son and aand father? TC’s father was Cornelis, TC had a son Cornelis Teunis (see WikiTree). The son Cornelis Teunis was born in 1660; sources are given in his WikiTree entry . WikiTree lists TC’s father Cornelis as born about 1597 in Nederland, but has no other information. Detailed information is given in My Heritage, with reference to Ancestral File Number B5T4-QL. TC is reported as baptised in Amsterdam April 7, 1617, is recorded to arrive in 1620 in New Netherland, in 1624 in New Amsterdam, in 1650 in Albany, in 1650 to have residence in New Netherland, in 1654 to arrive in New York and as deceased in 1701 in Hackensack NJ. In 1654 he was married to Engeltje Bradt in Beverwyck, in 1684 to Geertje Jellise Fonda in Albany. His father was Cornelis Slingerland 1590-1638 and his mother “Mevrouw“ (Mrs!) Slingerland, 1595-? Source for TC arriving in 1620 appears to be “Passagiers- en immigratielijsten, 1500 – 1900” (Lists of passengers and immigrants 1500-1900). If this is correct, TC came with his father Cornelis in 1620 as a 3 year old boy, as one of the earliest settlers. The information on TC for the years after 1650 conforms to other sources. To find the Dutch roots of the Slingerlands, Cornelis is pivotal. But if he died in 1638 he can not be the Cornelis (Teunisse) that Merwick finds among the Beverwyckers with business connections in Amsterdam.
In 1947, there were 1446 persons with the name Slingerland in The Netherlands; there were also persons named Van Slingerland; no one had the name Slingerlandt. The Slingerlands were spread all over The Netherlands, but concentrated in the western part, and most of them in the province of South Holland, with a cluster of 221 in Rotterdam and 102 in Amsterdam.
An American Slingerland descendant, Jennifer Chenette, suggested that TC’s parents were Cornelis Slingerland (1590-1653) and Neeltje Arlend Oskam (1595-1653) and Cornelis’ parents Klass Leenderce Van Slingerlandt – born in 1570 in Zevenhoven and Aafje Jochems Bentshap. I took this information to the Historical Society Liemeer, where Lenette Rijlaarsdam of the genealogy section took a vivid interest in the search. Lenette checked on father Cornelis: In the Register of Baptisms of the Nederlands Hervormde Oude Kerk in Amsterdam, 1601 – 1634, she finds an Antonis, baptised April 9, 1617. She adds that mother’s name is legible but father’s name cannot be reasonably interpreted as Cornelis.
In the records of Liemeer-Zevenhoven (near Leiden) Lenette finds the names cited by Jennifer, but as persons who have lived later than TC and Cornelis, not earlier. In 1623, she finds two families headed by a Cornelis with a son named Tonis. One of them, Cornelis Jansz, is married to Anna. TC himself had a daughter Annatje (“little Anna”), who may have been named after her grandmother; Cornelis Jansz had a daughter named after her mother Annetgen.
One other piece of information with unchecked reliability is from a document that Jen Chenette inherited from her father: “First Teunis Slingerland came over in “Bonte Kow” (The Spotted Cow), 1650-1654 – records of mrs John Ray Slingerland Century Farm 1685”. Farelli’s list (see note 5) lists sailings of the Bonte Koe in 1655, 1656, 1660 and 1663; this does not match TC’s bio data with marriage in 1654. Between 1624 and 1664 there were 86 boat trips from Nederland (Amsterdam mostly) and New Netherland; the first two came in 1624. My Heritage gives arrival dates for TC of 1620 and 1624.
An other informer checked on passenger lists of ships sailing to New Netherland, but found no Slingerlands. There is an interesting list of references though, see below; passengers state their home address.
New Netherland Ships Passenger Lists Project
I’ve started reconstructing ships’ passenger lists from various source (see below for details) and will be providing these lists online as I complete them. In some cases, I’ve been able to reconstruct names for a ship list that has never been published before! In other cases, I’ve been able to add names to previously published lists. This is an Olive Tree exclusive.
This is a huge project, one I am working on alone, and I will complete it as time permits. If you would like to help Olive Tree bring such databases to the Internet for all to use FREELY, please read about the two ways you can help. With a little expenditure of time or money on your part, you can help make this project (and others) a reality.
Lorine’s Research Notes With Sources: I reconstructed the names of those sailing on various ships from the following sources. Please note that not every source was used to reconstruct every ship. I have indicated which sources were used for each individual:
1. Abstracts from Notarial Documents in the Amsterdam Archives by Pim Nieuwenhuis published in New Netherland Connections in series Vol. 4:3,4; Vol. 5:1-3 (hereafter NNC)
2. Early Immigrants to New Netherland 1657-1664 from The Documentary History of New York (hereafter EINN)
3. Settlers of Rensselaerswyck 1630-1658 in Van Rensselaer Bowier Manuscripts (hereafter VRB)
4. E. B. O’Callaghan’s Calendar of Historical Manuscripts in the Office of the Secretary of State, Albany NY (hereafter CHM)
5. New World Immigrants: List of Passengers 1654 to 1664 edited by Michael Tepper (hereafter NWI)
6. Emigrants to New Netherland by Rosalie Fellows Bailey, , NYGBR; vol 94 no 4 pp 193-200 (hereafter ENN)
7. De Scheepvaart en handel van de Nederlandse Republiek op Nieuw-Nederland 1609-1675 unpublished thesis by Jaap Jacobs [hereafter JJ][Olive Tree Genealogy database]
8. The records of New Amsterdam from 1653 to 1674 [hereafter RNA] [an online book from Ancestry.com]
• Check for TC arriving in 1620 (My Heritage) on “Passagiers- en immigratielijsten, 1500 – 1900” (Lists of passengers and immigrants 1500-1900). TC? Or TC with father Cornelis?
• Locate the source for Cornelis bio years: 1590-1638 and where he died
New Netherland along the Hudson River has been extensively studied; references can be found through Jaap Jacobs, St Andrews University
A marvellous website is: North America, Colonies, Kolonien, Dutch. Nederlands (farelli.info); contains the ship list (Bonte Koe sailed in 1655, 1656, 1660 and 1663). Between 1624 and 1664 there were 86 boat trips from Nederland (Amsterdam mostly) and New Netherland.
Jennifer also sent information on TC’s parents:“digging on ancestry and looking at other people’s family trees on there, made me list Teunis’ parents as:
Cornelis Slingerland (1590-1653)
Neeltje Arlend Oskam (1595-1653)
Cornelis’ parents appear to be:
Klass Leenderce Van Slingerlandt – born in 1570 in Zevenhoven
Aafje Jochems Bentshap
Klass’ parents appear to be:
Leendert Van Slingerlandt
Aaltjen Thijsz Kleijn”
Monty Slingerland, descendant of TC living in Niagara-on-the-lake (Ontario, Canada), had informed me that Klass Leenderce Van Slingerlandt was born in Liemeer (Zevenhoven is part of Liemeer). I took this information to the Historical Society Liemeer, where Lenette Rijlaarsdam of the genealogy section took a vivid interest in the search. Lenette checked on father Cornelis: In the Register of Baptisms of the Nederlands Hervormde Oude Kerk in Amsterdam, 1601 – 1634, she finds an Antonis, baptised April 9, 1617. She adds that mother’s name is legible but father’s name cannot be reasonably interpreted as Cornelis.
In the records of Liemeer-Zevenhoven (near Leiden) Lenette finds the names cited by Jennifer, but as persons who have lived later than TC and Cornelis, not earlier. Klass (Claas) Leenderts en Aafje/Eefje lived about a century after Cornelis, which rules out parenthood; Claas Leendertse was born around 1711, Eefje/Aafje Benshap/ Brenschop around 1714. Klaas Leendertse was indeed a son of Leendert and Aaltje; Leendert was buried in 1754, Aaltje came from nearby Rijnsaterwoude in 1722 with two children, Dirk aged 16 and Claas Leenaarts then aged 11. Lenette also notes that Neeltje Oskams husband Cornelis “came from elsewhere” and has Ariens as father’s name. In 1623, she finds two families headed by a Cornelis with a son named Tonis. One of them, Cornelis Jansz, is married to Anna. As TC himself had a daughter Annatje (“little Anna”), who may have been named after her grandmother; Cornelis Jansz had a daughter named after her mother Annetgen.
My friend in Slingerlands NY sent me information on TC from six websites on My Heritage: Galyean/James, Galyean/Barbara, Appel, Banta, Vrooman and Krull. Most detailed is the information from Galyean/James, under Ancestral File Number B5T4-QL. TC is reported as baptised in Amsterdam April 7, 1617, is recorded to arrive in 1620 in New Netherland, in 1624 in New Amsterdam, in 1650 in Albany, in 1650 to have residence in New Netherland, in 1654 to arrive in New York and as deceased in 1701 in Hackensack NJ. In 1654 he was married to Engeltje Bradt in Beverwijck, in 1684 to Geertje Jellise Fonda in Albany. His father was Cornelis Slingerland 1590-1638 and his mother “Mevrouw“ (Mrs! ) Slingeland, 1595-?
The other websites repeat some of this information, and some add details. Banta notes May 25, 1700 as date of TC’s death. Galyean/Barbara gives 1615 as the year Mrs Slingeland is married to Cornelis in Amsterdam. She is registered as having a son Teunis Cornelise 1617-1701.
Banta names the mother of TC (1617-1700) as Aechie Mabie. Vrooman names Teunis Cornelise (1590-?) as the father of TC (1617-1684) and Aechie Mebie (1582-1622) as his mother. Krull documents Aeche Mabie (born “say 1682 in Albany” as daughter of Jan Pieterse Mebie (1654-1725) and Annetje Borsboom (1665-1725) and married to Cornelis Slíngelant (1670-1753). However, Aechie is not TC’s mother, but his daughter in-law. Documents from the Albany Public Library show that Cornelis Teunise, 1674-1753, son of TC and Engeltje Bradt married Aechie (or Eva) Mebie, born in 1699 in Schenectady, Dutch Reformed, daughter of Jan Pieters Mebie and Antje Borsboom. Jan Mebie was born in Albany in 1681. The name Mebie or Mabie is now extinct in The Netherlands, but New Netherland genealogies point to roots in Naarden, just south-east of Amsterdam NL.
With TC baptised in 1617 in Amsterdam and arriving in 1620 in New Netherland, we may safely assure that his father Cornelis was with him. That would make Cornelis (1590-1638) the first Slingerland to settle in the area. TC is registered in 1650 in Albany and is indeed still likely to have planted the family tree in the Albany area. The marriage of his father Cornelis may well have taken place in Amsterdam. Cornelis will then have travelled to New Netherland in 1620, the registered year of arrival of TC. His mother’s name is not Aechie Mebie.
From Jen Chenette, I got an interesting message:
“4)From “Possessing Albany, 1630-1710: The Dutch & English Experiences” by Donna Merwick There are several references to the men from Albany with interests in New Amsterdam (New York City). I will retype one of them. Page 115 “Cornelis Teunisz Slingerlandt & Storm Van der Zee each held 2/8 ownership of a house rented in 1662 to New Amsterdam’s burgomaster, Allard Anthonij” Footnote #119 For the 25 men & women who retained property in New Amsterdam while residing in Beverwijck see note #109 (I have to find my paper copy or go back to the PSU library to get the book again to see the list of men in Footnote #109. This can not be Teunis’ son Cornelius since he is not born until 1670. So either they mixed up the names or this is possibly Teunis’ father????) As I read further, on page 121 Note #129 “The 31 residents include Cornelis Teunisse Slingerlandt, Teunisse Cornelisz Slingerlandt.”
As TC’s father Cornelis died in 1638, he was alive in the 1630-1710 interval.
Jen, can you check the date for the quotes?
Two other quotes from the Public Library document are noteworthy:
“First Teunis Slingerland came over in “Bonte Kow” (The Spotted Cow), 1650-1654 – records of mrs John Ray Slingerland Century Farm 1685”
This is clearly at variance with the information cited above from the Galyean/James genealogy, under Ancestral File Number B5T4-QL. The conflict can only be solved by checking the sources and assessing their reliability.
“The name was recorded as Van Slingerlandt in Holland, the Estate of Slingerland was located a few miles North of Gorinchem, in the province of South Holland and was in the parish of Noordeloos.”
This is squarely at variance with my conclusion that TC has no connection to Slingeland NL. Here also, the source of the quote should be checked. After all, we cannot rule out that the author simply started out from the same guess as I did and called his (her?) hypothesis a fact. Just dating the quote may already help: the former county of Holland was only dived into North and South Holland in 1840.
The Slingerlands may well have their origin in the Liemeer-Zevenhoven area. I will check the publication by A. Slingerland, Kroniek van de familie Slingerland uit de Rijnstreek en genealogie vanaf 1650 (Slingerland Chronicle since 1650), only available at CBG The Hague.
This note is built on information received from Slingerland descendants Jennifer Chenette, Becky Messing, Monty Slingerland and Sue Virgilio, from Lenette Rijlaarsdam (Historische Kring Llemeer) and from Michael Sattinger. Hoornaar September 2, 2021
In 1609 Henri Hudson, commissioned by the VOC, first landed at Mannahatta and then, hoping to find the short seeway to India, sailed up the wide riwer that the Dutch later would call the Noordrivier and the English thereafter the Hudson river, up to later Albany. In 1614, the Dutch built Fort Nassau there, as the first trade post (fur trade, mostly), the first documented European structure. In 1618 the fort was ruined by a flood, but in 1624 it was rebuilt as Fort Orange, after the WIC had been founded in 1621. The initial settlers were private traders. One of the investors was Kiliaen van Rensselaer (1586-1648), who establised the Rensselaer colony, north and south of Fort Orange, on both sides of the river. However, Kilian himself never visited New Netherland. 1624 was also the year when New Amsterdam was established as a WIC settlement. In 1629, Van Rensselaer, board member of the WIC in Amsterdam, declares himself patron of he Rensselaer colony. In 1652, the area around Fort Orange is incorporated as the village of Beverwijck, in 1686, under British rule, it becomes the city of Albany.
Merwick (1990) presents much information on the early settlement of Beverwyck, but is often vague in her descriptions . She writes (p 7) that Fort Orange was abandoned after 1624 and that only in the late 1620’s the WIC and Van Rensselaer started serious, but still modest settlement. “This settlement, however, lacked the basis elements of continuity in a notable way. It had no founding moment”. As noted above, that founding moment did not come until 1652. Before 1652 it had no single name, it was just Fort Orange and Rensselaerswyck. The settlers of 1624 and those who arrived in small numbers in the early 1630’s were solders and traders at the fort and colonists sent by Van Rensselaer. By 1643 Rensselaerswyk was firmly established, some 24 miles on both sides of the river. There were possibly nine dwellings in the fort on the west bank, with no more than 25 traders and possibly the same number of soldiers, but likely less. On the east bank was another concentration of Dutch men and women, possibly a dozen artisans (oc, 12). In the mid 1630’s Van Rensselaer had 3 farms rented out. Three quarters of the colonists who had arrived before 1633 were gone by 1634 (oc, 30). Van Rensselaer was interested in land and farming, the Company in trade and there was clear rivalry among them.
The settlements around Fort Orange and Nieuw Amsterdam were connected by ships riding the Noord Rivier. Ties between Nieuw Amsterdam and Beverwijck were strong and many “burghers”of Berverwijck had business connections in Nieuw Amsterdam. Among these burghers, we find Cornelis Teunisse Slingerlandt.
Unfortunately, Merwick is imprecise in her documentation. In a chapter on the years 1652-1664, she writes that 25 men have “properties owned there”. The footnote says that she used public records of Beverwijck and New Amsterdam to compile investment portfolios and to list names of Beverwijck burghers “whose names appeared specifically related to a resident of New Amsterdam, either as partner, broker or creditor”(oc 110). On p 117, these 25 persons are dubbed “property owners”. This, at any rate establishes that C. T Slingerlandt lived in Beverwijck at some time between 1652 and 1664. Her source (“public records”) may contain more relevant information on CT’s origin. He is not listed among the men who owned a yacht (oc 111).
On page 115 we find the information cited by Jen Chenette: “Cornelis Teunisz Slingerlandt and Storm Van der Zee each held 2/8 ownership of a house rented in 1662 to New Amsterdam’s burgomaster, Allard Anthonij” Footnote #119 They were two of the 25 men and women who retained property in New Amsterdam while residing in Beverwijck see note #109
On pages 120-121 we find another piece of information. Still in the same time interval, Merwick found evidence that 49 Beverwijck townsmen and townswomen shipped financial papers (bonds, receipts, wages, accounts) between Beverwijck and New Amsterdam that tied them to families and business associates in the Dutch Republic. At least 19 of them had dealings with partners in Amsterdam. Interests of the other 31 were located outside Amsterdam . Among those 31 we find Cornelis Teunisse Slingerlandt and Teunisse Corneliszn Slingerlandt. So, now we find father and son, but ages are not supplied. Conclusion: if we want to trace down the TC who migrated from The Netherlands, we may work from the source given in footnote 128 on page 120: Corr JvR, 345, A. J. F. van Laer (1932), Correspondence of Jeremias van Rensselaer, 1651-1674 ; Publication Albany, University of the State of New York, 1932, Genealogy & local history, LH3977
Henry Hudson arrived in 1609 in Manhattan and sailed on to the location of Fort Orange/ Rensselaerswyck/Albany but he did not come to settle. In 1614 Fort Nassau was built, but in 1618 it was ruined by a flood. In 1621 the WIC was founded, in 1624 New Amsterdam became a WIC settlement and Fort Nassau was rebuilt as Fort Orange. Merwick writes that Fort Orange was abandoned in 1624.
In the early years there were individual traders around; in the late 1630’s WIC and Van Rensselaer started sending settlers, in small numbers. Rensselaer/Fort Orange was modestly populated. In the mid-1630’s Rensselaer had 3 farms rented out. In 1643, “there were possibly nine dwellings in the fort on the west bank, with no more than 25 traders and possibly the same number of soldiers, but likely less. On the east bank was another concentration of Dutch men and women, possibly a dozen artisans” (o.c., 12).
Teunis Cornelis (“Antoni”) Slingerland(t) is on record as born in Amsterdam on April 7 1617 and deceased in Hackensack, Bergen County NJ, after May 25 1700. He was the son of Cornelis Slingerland and an unknown mother. He married twice, first to Engeltje Bradt, in 1654 in Beverwyck, New Netherland and then to Giertje (Jelles) Fonda on April 9 1684 in Albany, Albany County, Province of New York. He is supposed to have come to Beverwyck around 1650 travelling on a VOC vessel .
By 1658, he had taken title to the house and lot in Beverwyck where he then was living. In 1660, his name appeared on a petition of fur traders operating from the Beverwyck area. He also kept a house in New Amsterdam. In 1677, he leased a farm on the Normanskill from the Bradt family. By that time, he had married the mill owner’s daughter, Engeltie Bradt. The marriage produced at least 4 children prior to her death in 1683. In April 1684, he married the widow Geertie Fonda Bekker at the Albany Dutch Church where he was a member. At least one child resulted from his second marriage. Although he appeared to have held considerable lands in the valleys south of Albany, he maintained his Albany identity for many years. By the 1690’s, his name had dropped from Albany rolls”.
Settlers in the Fort Orange area had connections and interactions with New Amsterdam. In a chapter on the years 1652-1664, Merwick cites Cornelis Teunisse Slingerlandt as one of 25 men having property in Nieuw Amsterdam. She also writes “Cornelis Teunisz Slingerlandt and Storm Van der Zee each held 2/8 ownership of a house rented in 1662 to New Amsterdam’s burgomaster, Allard Anthonij”. In the same time interval she finds Cornelis Teunisse Slingerlandt and Teunisse Corneliszn Slingerlandt among the men with connections to families and business associates in the Dutch Republic, outside Amsterdam.
CT: son or father? TCL arrived in 1624 or early 1650’s?
[1] https://www.wikitree.com/wiki/Slingerland-3; Profile last modified 24 Apr 2021 | Created 20 Jul 2011
Arrival in 1650 in (present) Albany, Source: #S-206444358 Place: Albany, New York; Year: 1650; Page Number: 93.
[1] Joop Hartog, Slingerlanden: is Teunis Cornelis de schakel?, Historische Vereniging,. English translation available.
[1] I do not understand the entry “Birth” in WikiTree, stating 3 years ABT 1633, 1636, 1638 and references to sources. Are these references where birth year 1617 is mentioned?
[1] Donna Merwick, Possessing Albany, 1630-1710, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990
[1] The paragraph above is from Henry Hudson | Nationaal Archief and Albany, New York – Wikipedia. A succinct history of the Dutch along the Hudson River is given at North America, Colonies, Kolonien, Dutch. Nederlands (farelli.info). Soures are not provided.
[1] The two numbers indeed add up to 50; Merwick does not explain this, but obviously, overlap is possible.
[1] Source, in footnote 128 on page 120: Corr JvR, 345, A. J. F. van Laer (1932), Correspondence of Jeremias van Rensselaer, 1651-1674 ; Publication Albany, University of the State of New York, 1932, Genealogy & local history, LH3977.
[1] Cornelis Teunis Slingerland (1660-) | WikiTree FREE Family Tree; another son of TC, just Cornelis, was born in 1674.
[1] Scan received from Jen Chenette, 23-08-2021
[1] The paragraph above is from Henry Hudson | Nationaal Archief and Albany, New York – Wikipedia
[1] The two numbers indeed add up to 50; Merwick does not explain this, but obviously, overlap is possible.
[1] https://www.wikitree.com/wiki/Slingerland-3
“NEVER PASS UP THE OPPORTUNITY FOR AN ADVENTURE”
OUR TRIP ON THE COLORADO RIVER
May 2008
1. Yellow, brown and red
The bright yellow triangle of the bow high above me, the brown darkness and the intense cold of the water surrounding me, Tonny who floats by in her red lifejacket as a stately corpse. Three shocking images, as the three hooks in my memory that hold the story of the assault of the treacherous waters.
Nota bene, we flipped at the very first rapid of the Colorado River. Not even a real dangerous one, no more than a modest little five. Later, we would pass them without noticing. That morning we had selected Matthew as our oarsman for the first day. A bold type, unpolished, built like an American football player. Retired, that is, with a bulging belly, that betrayed a lack of restraint in his lifestyle. Always wearing his pear-shaped felt hat. Foreshadowing the pear-shaped body underneath. Later he surprised us by being strong like a bear and smooth as a deer, unheedingly climbing the rocky slopes of the Canyon, casual as a goat. ‘You move remarkably fast and easy for a man your size’, I later remarked to him and he reacted with a dark grin to this perverse compliment. We had departed very quietly that morning, we had smoothly passed some riffles and popcorn in the water and in all detachment lost contact with the group. Strong Matthew rowed us through a long, straight section, sun-drenched but with powerful headwind, and every now and then he took a break, leaning backward against the luggage stacked up high up behind him.
We floated around a bend and we saw the rest of the group waiting for us, at a little beach on river left, the red of their lifejackets clearly visible in the late afternoon. Between them and us was a rapid, I had no idea what lay waiting, it was our first rapid ever. We drifted in without paying any attention, the water was seething and the waves were dancing. All of a sudden a massive wave hit us, the boat stood straight up and that bright yellow bow was way above me, like a forlorn crow’s nest without a mast. Things happened in a flash, I was in the dark brown water before I knew what happened, it rushed along my glasses like a hunting stream behind a porthole. How deep I went, I have no idea, but I bounced up in my lifejacket and I was up before I knew it. No time for fear or panic, only for fright. I remembered bright and clear what oarsman Tom had told us that morning at the drill. Your jacket pushes you up, you float on the current, legs straight forward, toes up. In case you come up under the boat, take a deep breath and dive away from the boat. A boat will come and fetch you. I had come up in the furious foam of the rapid, so I was right on track. But where the hell was my beloved vulnerable little Tonny, who had not wanted to come to the damn Canyon in the first place? Had she also bounced up in her jacket? Caught under the boat and drowned in panic? Where the hell? I wrestled with the waves, the water was icy cold, between wild waves I had to take my breaths, wave after wave rolled over me, I was gasping for air and was searching for my little To. In an icy cold blanket.
At last there was a rest, an end to wave after wave, I had floated out of the rapid and could start to look around. My glasses were still somewhere on my nose, thanks to the nice cord that Tonny had bought for me, like al our equipment. On the shore I saw the boats embark, they all rushed to the river. But where on earth was Tonny? Between the dancing waves I saw some red life jackets going up and down. But who was in it, how many were floating around? I could find only two, but there should be three, Matthew, Sue and Tonny.
And then, stiff and straight as the stem of a dead tree, Tonny came floating by in her red jacket. Like a plank in the water, feet forward, toes up, her little topknot at the rudder. Nothing moved, stiff as a corps she floated by. Goddamn, what happened? A dead tree does not bring you relief. But nothing of what I feared came to pass. A boat came, she perfectly applied lesson five: turn with your back towards the boat, they will lift you at your jacket into the boat. My god, what a relief. Another boat came to fish me out of the water too, three attempts and I was at the bottom of the boat. Sue had been rescued. I saw Matthew walk in the water right below shore. Later it turned out that the fishing fleet had been unable to find him and he had swam ashore himself, ended up in a weird corner and had entered the water again to be within easy reach through an eddy. But because the fishermen did not see Matthew right away they kept going for a while and I became icy icy cold. The sun had set, there was a strong breeze and my teeth started to clatter.
After everybody had been taken in, we rowed ashore. And there, finally, Tonny was sitting. The meeting was more emotional than after two months of solitude in Japan. Seldom I had sensed so intensely how much I love her. Indeed, love deeper than the Canyon. Both deeply moved to hold each other again. Both more concerned about the other than about oneself. No wonder they found us a good couple.
And then the worst cold came, the shaking, the clattering of teeth. Undress, do away with wet clothes, everybody came to bring us warm pieces of clothing. Tonny could not stop shaking, with my body I warmed her. Her tension and the stress she had gone through and the release were at least as large as mine: “I was so worried about you, and I was so worried that you would be worried about me”.
After the chaos had been cleared, the boat turned upside up again, dinner prepared, tents put up and talking it all over at a good glass of wine, it was, literally, heartwarming to lie next to each other again. But I barely slept that night. Over and over the same images returned, the yellow bow high up in the air completely out of place, the muddy brown water rushing along my porthole, Tonny bobbing along like a stiff corps in her red jacket. The fear for what was still to come. What for god sake were we doing here? If I would drown I would rob my children of a father that was still useful to them. If Tonny would drown and I would not, I could not face my children. Why did I have to go into that Canyon at all, shouldn’t I have paid more attention to the dangers that were involved? Shouldn’t we stop, at Phantom Ranch you could still get out, after 6 days on the water. Fear reigned in that night, my pulse pumped at rapid beats.
During the next days the story unfolded. As a start, Matthew had blundered by floating too careless, without preparation, into Badger, exactly on the wrong spot: right in the middle where the hole was. At the beach they saw it happen, with astonishment. They also saw how Matthew was launched from his boat. The second fault was with the other boats. The gap with the last boat had grown irresponsibly high. That’s how Matthew had been unable to see how the others took the rapid: either right or left, but certainly not in the center. That’s why the other boats lay ashore while they should have been waiting behind the rapid, to pick us up much faster. Now we had been longer in the ice cold water than necessary. You should not stay long in water at 50 Celsius. Not the 8 to 10 minutes we had been in it.
And yet the faulty start brought a few benefits. From now on every oarsman was sharp and attentive. Matthew made no more errors, he felt guilty towards us and he turned out to be an excellent oarsman. The group surrounded us with care and attention and Tonny was permanently supported and cherished. We briefly brought up the possibility of giving up halfway, but that was effectively ruled out. If only because it required a climb up a steep mule trail that I would not be able to handle with my fear of height. I had lost my fear and anxiety. I knew now that just obeying the instructions would bring you back to a boat, wet and cold but safe. A flip was part of the game, there were very few accidents on the river itself, most happened ashore. Only at Lava, the very last rapid, the real tension would return, but even then no fear. Only Tonny remained fearful. Every time she heard a new rapid coming, like a train pounding nearer and nearer, she had her heart in her throat, for the “roar of the dragon”, as Dan called it. For her it was and remained a faulty start.
2 The routine of camp and boat
You get up in the bleakness of dawn. The first sunlight starts to descend along the high rocks of the Canyon and here and there colours warmly light up. Massive ruggedness, one row giving way to another, hundreds of feet high.
Surrounded by the unyielding walls, you wiggle out of your little tent, you go to the river for your morning pee and swift wake- up splash, you walk to the kitchen (three tables and a lot of cooking equipment). Coffee, tea, the kitchen crew on duty is already preparing breakfast. The first jokes are served, there is laughter, always laughter; at 5 in the morning the fun was just as excited as at 5 in the afternoon. Straight to work. Take down the tent, wrap it up, eat breakfast, load the boats. The tents, personal belongings, the kitchen, food, everything at its well determined position, sheltered from the water in plastic bags and metal boxes.
“Last call for the groover!” The last object to be packed and stowed is the vault with our most intimate left-overs. Between 8 and 9 we leave. The passengers divide themselves between the five boats, in ever new combinations, the boats are pushed afloat and off we go. The peacefulness of the morning is incredibly beautiful. Five small bright yellow rafts in a majestic canyon that rises way upward and dwindles the little rafts to innocent dots on the water, five happy notes among the untouchable rocks, morning light that still hangs high on the walls or dances over the water. The oarsman gets his oars, the passengers find a comfortable spot, and refreshed we go, into a new day.
Slowly we drift downwards, talking, discussing, joking, silent, in a mixture determined by the composition of the gang in the boat. At lunchtime the sun is high and it is hot. We search for a camp, a sandy edge along the shore, delicate drift-sand, sometimes held together by low bushes, always mingled with rough pieces of rock. Every beach requires its own manoeuvring to land. Sometimes you simply float ashore, sometimes we land with an elegant curve against the current. At a low and flat beach the boat anchors itself, at a steep high beach someone has to jump into the water and rush to tie up the boat to prevent if from sailing away on the strong current.
The set routine of the maritime ants starts immediately: carry the tables ashore, set up kitchen, unload food and drink, prepare lunch. After lunch and dishwashing the entire exercise in reverse. And at four o’clock the original sequence, but now more extensive with tents and personal luggage. And the next morning the whole operation is carried out in reverse. Like a military operation, with fixed drills and iron rules.
During landing the bar opens and we merrily drink beer, usually with cheerful evaluation of the last (or hardest) rapid of the day. The infantry starts its job. Quickly set up kitchen, gas burner, water, hygiene (wash hands, all the time wash, wash, wash, an infection would cripple the entire crew), make sure the cooks on duty can start right away and that dishes are drying in the wind before darkness wraps us up. Everyone searches a good spot for his tent, preferably on soft soil, and if needed sheltered against the all pervading drift sands.
The groover is our treasure in the military operation. There is a separate turn of duty for the precious box. Never, except perhaps in Sri Lanka, where a twin throne was placed in front of the glass façade overlooking the railroad and the ocean, I enjoyed the terminus of my digestion at more majestic places. The shitty crew always managed to find fantastic locations. Seated on a steel box 70 cm high and 30 cm wide, saddled with a real toilet seat, you could in full contemplation return to nature what was hers and in the meantime enjoy that same nature most intensively. Enjoy a river that is always moving, like a whirling sequence of centrifuges: current and counter-current, eddy and boil, riffle and rapid. Overpowering canyon walls, high above you, in most surprising formations that always trigger your imagination, enriched by the sun in timbres of colour from shining deep black basalt, to dull and crude lava, grey clay, red, brown, reddish brown, green, greenish brown and everything in between. I will never shit more beautifully, in a full double meaning of the term: the poor remnants of my digestion will sail with me to the end of the trip. Nothing, truly nothing, will remain in the canyon. Only our footprint in the sand and our pee in the water.
Once the evening dinner was on the fire and the tents had been set (or the sleeping bags had been laid out: sometimes we slept in the open air, some slept on the boat, bathing in shining white moonlight), we came together for an appetizer in the make-shift bar with folding chairs and Matthew’s kiddy seat and enjoyed our meal. Surprisingly varied meals, very tasty, often typically American (a cookie or a chocolate for desert). We made fun, exchanged experiences of the day, sometimes set up a serious discussion. And when night really fell, between 8 and 9: to bed.
3. The rapids
The rapids are the treat of the trip, that’s what it’s all about. Bobbing in the current for 229 miles, no matter how peaceful, would get very boring, a meal without spices. We must have passed some hundred rapids. They are classified 1-10, with 10 barely encountered and 1 barely noticed, popcorn in the water, a riffle. They all have names: dull (152 Mile Rapid), born from metaphor or analogy (Hermit, Granite, Lava, Roaring Twenties’) or linked to a historic event (Upset, where a geological expedition flipped right after their photograph had been taken). Below 5 it doesn’t mean anything, 5, 6, 7 have an entertaining thrill or are unexpectedly mean and powerful (Bedrock, just 6, but o boy), 8 and 9 really count. We crossed a few 8’s and two 9’s, Crystal and Lava. Crystal was overrated, even I could see at scouting that you could just squeeze along on the right. But Lava made everyone nervous during the entire trip. Lava is the last of the real great rapids, in some guides indexed as 9-10. Complicated by large masses of water, an enormous hole right up front, curves and roaring waves across. All great rapids are seriously and intensely scouted, the small ones are taken as they come after reading the guide book: read-and-run. Lava, from long before, was anticipated with nervous respect.
The smaller rapids take you through a sort of standard routine. Some 40, 50 meters before the rapid the water is flat and smooth without a pattern: a floating mirror. A silence before the storm. Behind the threshold is a characteristic V, two lines of waves that converge from the shores and then jointly continue in a wave train. Between the V is the tongue, flat dark water between the white foam at the edge. Majestic like a swan you glide on the flat, black water, sideways on the current, in a gentle dance you slide down across the threshold. You touch the rims of the V, the seething current twists the boat around and the oarsman holds your bow in the waves. Dancing in the dobbing mountains of water you ride out the rapid. Splashing and splattering, high waves or low waves, you may end up wet or dry but without failure you have lots of fun, like a child on a swing, a boy in a water ballet.
The most beautiful and the most exciting, the real thing, that’s the big rapids, 6 or 7 on the Colorado scale. In the serious rapids there is always scouting first: inspection from the trail along the shore, worn out by all the scouts that were ahead of you. You may have made the trip 15 times or more: always scout, every time the rapid will be different. The waters are assessed and memorized in detail: the holes, the waves that come across, the rocks, the currents, the hydraulics. The run is decided: safely along the edge, challenging through the center, crossing over the tongue. Or a simple straight run. Most times there are choices, between dry and wet, between safe and risky, sometimes there is no choice at all. Just one viable option. After passage the oarsmen can still describe in detail what the rapid is like, where the obstacles are, the problems and the challenges, the currents and the eddy, the best opportunity to pass unscratched.
After scouting you return to the boats. Who starts? Tension mounts, number one is pushed ahead and floats towards the current. Like a cruiser streaming up to the war zone, a boxer that slowly walks up towards the ring for the decisive fight. Carefully the take-off position is taken, if you enter correctly, you will run it right, with a faulty start the oarsman has to work like mad to save the run.
The start of a big rapid is the same as the start of a small one. Gracious as a swan you glide over the smooth black water to the middle of the tongue. Softly rocking you surge over the edge. And then, suddenly, you’re right in the middle of it. Mighty turbulence, splashing foamy waters, your boat is thrown to all sides, lifted, twisted around, the oarsman tugs his oars to hold steady, the waters are poured over you from all sides. And then, just as sudden, you have left the wild whirlpool, you’re embraced by the wave train, a row of high waves that you mount and dismount, that you ride like a kid on a swing. And it’s over. You drift into an eddy and you look how the others perform, 20, no more than 30 seconds and you’re through. A rapid never takes longer than a minute.
After all boats have passed, there is the release. Excited evaluation. “I was way too far left, my oar smashed on the rocks.” “That wave had so much power, I lost my oar.” “I was way too close to the hole, I just made it.” “Did you see that, Steve jumped his chair”. Merriment and relief, pride and pleasure that all went well, schoolboys’ fun for old men.
Low rated rapids may turn out unexpectedly mean. Perhaps Horn was the toughest for us. Or Upset. Tom jumped chair and almost landed on my back. I was almost launched from the bow, Tonny barely managed to stay in the boat. I got horrendous waves straight in my face. And these rapids were only 6 or 7. Every rapid has its own story, every rapid is different, on every run.
4. Reading the water.
The craft and skill of the oarsmen, I found it fascinating. An oarsman permanently reads the water, in the rapids but also in between. Power and understanding are the essential ingredients of his craftsmanship. Power is needed on occasions, understanding is indispensable. The Colorado is like a permanently wiggling and twisting squid, always the water moves in shapes and counter shapes, in current and countercurrent, upper- and undercurrent. The river presents itself in permanent twisting and shaving of moving black surfaces bordered by the dotted lies of bubbles and bouncing water. The entire floating machinery is dominated by the downward stream, the permanent flow of the water downwards, hundreds of miles. Down, but far removed from a straight line, not even concentrated in the middle of its bed. No, like a dark drunken worm it wringles sometimes along one shore and then along the other, crosses the bed without plan, neglecting everything, averse of any counsel or advice.
The current draws a trace of whirlpools on the side, like wheels to keep it running. Somewhere in the depths below it hits a rock and it surfaces as if a huge pan of water starts to boil. If the rock is not too deep it cooks up a pour-over, a hole in the river where the river flows over the rock one floor below. Visible even for a layman’s eye like mine. If the rock is deeper you have the meanest weapon of the river, the real hole that everyone fears. The frustrated stream draws a vacuum behind the rock and creates a forceful countercurrent behind the hole, a maelstrom of bouncing and bumping forces, swallowing and smashing tiny rafts. It’s the worst enemy of the oarsman.
In the rapids all attention is drawn to the water. But even outside the rapids there is never some simple relaxed rowing. The current curls unpredictably in its bed, the boils detract you to a side track and the eddies unexpectedly send you in the wrong direction or park you below the bank.
Reading all these signs, that’s the true skill of the oarsman. It takes attentive scouting at the grand rapids. It’s routinely done in between, barely looking up. But craftsmanship it remains, all along, on every stretch, in all conditions.
5. The oarsmen.
We made the trip with a fabulous group of people. Each one of them a fascinating character, all very different, strong personalities, colorful in creating their life. All individuals in search of the adventure of the great outdoors. We were 12 men and 4 women. Next to Tonny, professor Sue, shuffling without fear to the highest mountain tops and never without her sketchbook, exuberant Beth, owner of a bike shop, charming Julia, with an estate of 160 acres including two lama’s and an airplane. Next to me, my dear friend Jules, introvert but very sporty intellectual Bob, joint with Sue the organizer of the trip, comic and caring Marc, Sue’s brother, Seth, gentle intellectual, just graduated from Stanford, Jame the bear, with golden hands, instant practical insight and the jumpiness of a young dolphin, and timid Bob, who could not cope and gave up after six days. And the oarsmen.
The oarsmen, they are king, czar and emperor, they reign in the rapids. And in fact, outside the rapids as well. In a single straight downfloat even I can row, and with proper advice I can pass a riffle or a mini-rapid. But complicated water and strong wind, that’s for the experienced craftsman. In our daily existence the boatsmen were prominent, they determined how you got through the rapids, in the morning you selected your boat and your boatsman and that set the colour of your day. They were interesting characters, these six oarsmen. Matthew, Marc, Spencer, Dan, Tom and Steve. All different and yet all similar. Unconstrained, free, adventurous. “Never pass up the opportunity of an adventure”. True heirs to the pioneers. Instantly prepared to survive in the wilderness.
Matthew was our man of the mishap. It bothered him the entire week, he felt guilty towards us. We had precisely selected him that first morning, because he seemed so robust and reliable. And he was, except for that one silly moment. Laconic, sloppy, never really groomed, with a voice permeated by a deep laugh. The entire week he wore a green operation room jacket. Did not comb his hair a single time during the week he was with us, his crest always looked like a frozen rapid. An engineer, who had sold his company when he was 30, and now made his money by advising on investments. Because of his jocular indifference he looked sullen, but he was much more intelligent than you would think and he could explain more about the geology of the canyon than you would have guessed. Seemed like a slow shuffler because of his massive body, but when he left us halfway, he walked up against the canyon side without hesitation or even paying attention. Jumped smoothly and swiftly across his boat and was strong as a grizzly. And after the blunder that woke him up he proved himself a first-rate oarsman.
Marc was his perfect antipode. As Marc could not do the entire trip, Matthew had taken his place during the first days. He came to us on foot in Phantom Ranch, after departing in the early morning snow and descending 12 kms on a mule trail. A muscled man, lean and slender, with a straw hat, a gray moustache, and beige-grey clothing which seemed to dress him permanently in a grey haze. He smiled like a bleak moon, somewhat scornful and never abundantly. Dan later called him one of the best oarsmen he had ever met on the rivers. He stuck out immediately by his firmness and accuracy. Because of his modesty, you barely noticed him. Into the smallest details you recognized his experience. Jobs you normally shared he did easily on his own. Scouted every rapid precisely, yet had flipped once with his daughters on the Colorado. When on the river he did not drink a drop of alcohol and he was the only one to have a helmet with him. Probably also the only one to have some edifying hymns among his readings. His precisely measured personality was sharpened by his southern wit. A Texan accent, melodious and with clear pause in every sentence, amplifier for his dry humour and his endless inclination to calmly and undisturbingly fool you. And to let Tonny row where she did not want that at all. In a riffle. Marc was almost 60, and worked some 6 months a year. Fixed disruptions in power stations all over the world. The rest of his time he spent at the rivers, to fish and hunt, he shot his meat for the winter time himself. And every now and then he drove to his kids at the other end of America. But apparently he scouted his women less carefully than his rapids, because he now was married for the fourth time.
Spencer in his way was again a perfect contrast to Marc. Exuberant, with his clownish explosions he absolutely could have made a career as a comedian. But he had put his verbal skills at the service of journalism, and had steamed up to Vice-President Communication and External Relation for a manufacturer of cancer radiotherapy equipment. He had the communicative explosiveness of a street vendor. Spotting a situation or statement with comic potential, he would jump up and from his boat hawk about a cartoonesque exaggeration. Expressive in word and gesture, with his lean muscular body and the face of a comedian, he captivated his audience at a single stroke. With his milling arms, his tawny head with grey little beard and his odd straw hat he was the Don Quichote of the Canyon. That same body contained more than enough power to boss over the treacherous holes of the rapids. Or suddenly launch an acceleration and leave everyone behind. He conducted me with beautiful gestures across a modest rapid, he comfortably leaning backwards in the boat, me trying to show the best effort I had. A director of the minimal movement: one hand sharply folded at the wrist to point the way, two hands jauntily pushing forward or equally jauntily pulling backwards to indicate that I should push or pull the oars. And who only used his voice when indeed I almost struck a rock. At home he got up at 4 every morning to go rowing for an hour and only then would serve Communication and External Relations.
Dan, the biologist, was the neurotic among the oarsmen. With an excited giggle he would admit that he was afraid of each rapid of any substance. Just as Tonny, after the act of the “Joint Dutch-American Swimming Team”, would hear the sound of the next rapid with fear and anxiety, so Dan would be frightened time and again when he heard the roar of the dragon coming. High and stately he sat on the barge, with a sun cap from the desert, as if he were riding the Colorado on a camel. Nervous, but always with a broad smile, jubilant and joking. And at night satisfying his need to relax with a good gin and if necessary with a tasty joint. He lived in a big house near Seattle when he enjoyed the company of his many friends. Had been rowing many tines but never on the Colorado and found that very thrilling. A good rower, who cold come away from his battle with the dragon in excited chatter and laughter during the collective evaluation.
Tom was the one who most prominently presented himself as the adventurer. Bob had engaged him as the leading oarsman, and he sometimes took that role. But the differences in craftsmanship were too small for the need of a dominant leader. Incessantly he sought the debate about economic issues and he loved to tell the stories of his life. He had rejected parental support for his education when his father tried to use him as a subordinate and at 25 had decided to explore the adventurous opportunities of life. Had sailed large boats across the ocean and explained in detail how, what and with which tycoon this took place. Had developed a small chain of sport shops and then ran a popular restaurant. Was now restyling a big house to rent out, and was married to Beth who was compelled to leave the navy when she was pregnant, who left her child to be educated by the father ‘as he was better at that’ and who now operated a bicycle shop. On the last day in his boat he happily gave me the motto of his life: “never pass up the opportunity for an adventure!”
Steve had the undiluted romantic aura of the undisturbed adventurer. Like the others, he was not the type for a quiet bourgeois existence. Halfway in his 60’s, tanned head, some remaining black hair fluttering at the edges. Radiating the tranquility that is recognized as the residual of a wild life. He had been wandering through Europe and imprisoned in Spain after a fight with the Guardia Civil (who arrested his mate). A man of little money, not focused on material success. Rather set in motion by humanitarian motives. Had worked as a paramedic, studied at Stanford, wanted to study law later but had to push hard to be admitted at his age. Returned to nursing after 15 years of legal practice because he preferred to care for people. Wanted to prove, also to himself, that he was still powerful and during our last camp swam downstream to a little island in the river and came back half upstream, just a few hundred yards above the rapid. And yes, he had enough power to do it.
Steve is the hero in one of my finest images of the Canyon. The river is shining in exuberant harsh light. There is a gusting hot headwind. Steve is rowing across the current, characteristically standing upright. With his left hand, in fact with his entire body he pushes the oar with all his force. In his right hand he holds the other oar, waiting for the next turn to push. He is sharply penciled in the radiant sunshine and the galing wind. He is the only one to wear a bright yellow jacket with black straps, and with his straw hat and short gloves he looks like an Italian gondolier. Slow and obstinately he pushes the raft, stroke by stroke. Irresistibly moving towards his goal, master of wind and water and what not. My ultimate image of rowing in the Canyon: a man against the elements, in splashing sunlight. I wish I could paint it.
6. So what’s so fascinating about the Grand Canyon?
The Grand Canyon is not pretty, the Grand Canyon is merciless, untouchable, inaccessible. Hard, sharp and rough are its rocks. Its campsites are poor edges of sharp sand along mean ridges. The bushes are sturdy and thorny. High and unapproachable the wall of rocks rises around you, your view is restrained on all sides, you’re imprisoned, locked up in a narrow gutter, with only two exits: one after six days, one after sixteen. The Canyon is deprived of all tenderness.
The playful life, that’s the river. Like a slippery eel the Colorado glides through its gully. Always moving, always twisting and turning. Not for once the water runs in a straight line, meandering it dances from shore to shore, it rolls along on the wheels of its own maelstrom and whirlpools and it bounces, splutters and splashes across the rocks in its rapids. White foam on deep shining black. The Canyon is a layered cake of millennium after millennium, the Colorado is eternal youth.
The river is the only one that measures up to the rocks. Millions of years of twisting and shaving have carved a line of hundreds of miles through that unyielding rock. And exposed a cross-section of eternity. Indeed, the deadness of the Canyon is a deceitful deadness. The Canyon, it’s an endless silent movie of an infinitely slow life. And that’s precisely why you should experience the Canyon at the slow pace of a rubber raft. Slowly the images float by, weathered and crumbling remnants of an era so long that I cannot grasp it. A hundred thousand years, five hundred thousand, a million? All absorbed in one category: giant. And giant is exactly what the Canyon is. High as a giant, massive as a giant, imposing as a giant.
In the morning, in the fresh light that bold Canyon is very charming. Some peaks catch the first rays of sunshine, lighting up against the dark-grey backdrop of the rest. Slowly the sun removes the shades of black and grey and brings back the colours: soft red, soft brown, grey yellowish, greenish, everything layered in geological chronology, eroded by wind and water, craggily formed and reformed by millions of years of peeling to the most fantastic shapes. You detect cathedrals, medieval castles, walled cities, clay fortresses from the Middle East, Gaudi constructs, friable lonesome pillars, loose rocks you expect any moment to come thundering down. What lights up tenderly and fresh in the early morning sun will be hot without mercy in the afternoon, and in the evening will touch you with its warm afterglow. And at night, lit up by a bright moon, will have a completely different attraction, like a romantic nineteenth century etching, in a perfect contrast of light and dark.
There is even life in the Canyon. Condors draw circles high above. Lizards flash across the rocks, grayish brown like the sands, or shining bright green. There are ravens to inspect your camp as soon as you arrive and to start searching for the crumbs that should not be there when you leave. Some goats on the slopes. There are flowers. The Century Plant, a tall straight spear filled with bright yellow flowers, up to three meter high. Blossoming cactuses, tall and tiny, with purple and red flowers or intense red projections. Bushes with edgy lilac bunches at the end. And a few fish in the water, some trout and a lost carp. Even a river otter. And black hummingbirds.
The fascination of the Canyon stems from the merciless roughness of its rocks, the lively frivolity of its river and the challenge they jointly put up. You leave with an overwhelming sense of success and accomplishment if you demolish your boat at Diamond Creek, even if you were only a passenger. A solidarity has grown because you depended on each other and it worked out well, and because you got interested in each other. To each and everyone you say goodbye at least three times, whereas three weeks before you did not even know each other. You have been impressed and fascinated by the unique adventure around you.
And as we say in Dutch: “Je hebt je niet laten kisten!”, you have lived up to the challenge.
See videos on You Tube for the sense of experience, in particular Grand Canyon rafting Lava Falls.