November 6, 1913: The “White Hurricane” Begins Brewing

It’s been dubbed “America’s deadliest maritime disaster,” but it did not happen to one ship or on one day.  The Storm of 1913 extended over three days and five of the six Great Lakes with shifting gales, monstrous waves and blinding snow.  On November 6, 1913, it was just beginning to brew off the foothills of the Rockies. 

This most infamous of Great Lakes gale was a freak storm; a double-pronged whirling monster that blasted the region amidst the otherwise warm, dry fall and early winter of 1913.  The system was born over the north Pacific and dropped southeast out of the Gulf of Alaska to a position just off the foothills of the Canadian Rockies on November 6.  The low continued southeastward to near the Twin Cities 24 hours later. 

In anticipation of a wind shift as the storm pulled northeast, the U.S. Weather Bureau issued a storm warning on Lake Superior for “brisk to high southwest winds…shifting northwest” the next day.  This is the usual pattern for “clipper” lows originating off the Canadian Rockies; they drop into the Upper Great Lakes then turn northeastward with a rush of northwest winds behind them as they move off into eastern Canada. 

Everyone, forecaster and vessel man alike, were surprised by this rogue storm. “My own forecast for November 7,” stated an experienced lake captain after the gale, “was that the wind would shift from south to southwest, blowing hard from that quarter for perhaps twelve hours, then shift to northwest and blow itself out in from 24 to 36 hours.” 

There was never any shift in the wind once the gale set in on Lake Superior.  As the primary storm crept through the Upper Lakes, wind energy continued cascading southeastward down the Rockies toward the Gulf Coast spawning the development of a “secondary” wave of low pressure in northern Georgia.  This had the effect of holding a northerly wind on Lake Superior, while the Georgia wave quickly became the primary storm center by early on the 9^th. 

The Great Lakes low settled slowly eastward on the 8^th.  This movement kept Upper Michigan in the storm’s cold northwest quadrant, bringing the first substantial snow along with strong northerly winds to most areas.  At Escanaba, the lighthouse keeper wrote: “Wind NNW.  During morning hours it increased to a severe snow storm, which raged all day.” 

Significant snow also fell in Menominee accompanied by winds up to 70 miles an hour.  It was the earliest bout of winter that old-timers had seen in many years.  Green Bay “presented a beautiful marine spectacle over the entire weekend of the 8^th and 9^th as the strong winds whipped the waters into a ‘lashing frenzy.’”  

The ferocious windstorm also brought a marine tragedy to the twin cities of Marinette-Menominee.  The tugboat Martin, towing the barge Plymouth, left Menominee on Thursday afternoon bound for the Door Peninsula.  On the evening of the 6^th, the two vessels laid in the lee, or northeast side, of St. Martin Island as protection from a freshening southwest gale.  All the next day the strong southwest wind continued blowing, keeping the ships at anchor.  A wind shift to the northwest occurred late that night and forced the Martin and Plymouth off their anchorage. 

The northwester increased in intensity, making the going difficult and dangerous.  The Martin tried to proceed with the Plymouth in tow but made little or no headway against the violent gale and began taking on water.  The Martin was rapidly losing power; coal to keep the boilers going had to be shoveled from three feet of water.  As water continued rising on the tugboat, the captain, realizing he was in danger of sinking, cut the Plymouth free and sought refuge on the south side of Summer Island. 

The barge floated helplessly.  It carried a crew of seven men, six of them from the Marinette-Menominee area.  Escape by lifeboat was impossible; no small boat could survive so terrible a sea.  The only hope of survival laid in playing out enough anchor chain; then it might be possible to control the Plymouth and keep her from foundering on one of the many islands dotting the boundary between Green Bay and Lake Michigan.  The chance was slim, but if the barge made it past the islands into Lake Michigan, a passing steamer might pick it up. 

That chance never came.  The Martin and other vessels searched all day on the 9^th for signs of the Plymouth.  None were found.  The barge went down at the height of the storm with all hands.  Its sinking added seven victims to the enormous death toll of this unprecedented November gale.  

On Lake Superior, the steamer Cornell and its crew encountered a stormy nightmare similar to the one endured by the Martin and Plymouth.  She passed out of the Sault the afternoon of the 7^th, heading for Two Harbors, Minnesota.  By early evening, the steamer rounded Whitefish Point.  Captain Noble, the ship’s master, expected to hit a southwest gale, but instead, noted a light southeast wind with overcast skies as the low-pressure system was still off to his southwest.  By midnight the Cornell encountered a heavy northwest sea with a continued southeast breeze—an ominous sign that storm conditions were imminent. 

A couple of hours later, with “the sea running so high that the propeller wheel was frequently out of the water,” a sudden, violent wind shift to the north occurred accompanied by blinding snow.  The primary low had moved east into the northern Lower Peninsula where it came to a virtual halt as the Georgia low began to take over.  This atmospheric maneuvering brought the hapless crew of the steamer a three-day struggle for their lives. 

On the west end of the lake, the ore carrier L.C. Waldo was blasted by northerly winds before they reached the Cornell.  The vessel had loaded ore at Two Harbors on the 7th and was heading northeast into the lake when the gale hit.  About midnight, a huge wave slammed into the Waldo, ripping off its pilothouse.   The surge of water nearly killed the ship’s captain, John Duddleston, who barely escaped to the lower wheelhouse. 

With the steering gear severely damaged and the electrical system gone, Duddleston charted his course by oil lamp using a lifeboat compass.  Gigantic seas continued pummeling the steamer and the zero visibility from the blizzard added to the danger. Duddleston had to get his vessel around hazardous Keweenaw Point, then he and his crew would have a chance at refuge on the east side of  the Keweenaw Peninsula.  Down below, amidst the violent pitching and swaying caused by the waves, the watchman courageously kept the engine fires stoked, which kept the propeller turning.  A mountainous sea eventually broke into the cabin housing the rest of the crew.  They all narrowly avoided getting washed away and sought refuge in the steel windlass house in the forward portion of the ship. 

In the early hours of November 8, the beleaguered steamer rammed bow first into Gull Rock near the point.  The force of the collision split the steamer in two, breaking the steam pipes in the engine room.  The crew of 22 men and two women became stranded in the forward section of the steamer with no heat or access to warm clothing.  They each did their best to come to grips with their circumstances—their ship was fatally wounded several miles off the mainland, while a furious blizzard continued unabated.  Hypothermia and eventual death seemed inevitable. 

Back on the eastern end of the lake, Captain Noble headed the Cornell “before the wind.”  At the time of the initial northerly blow, his ship was about 90 miles north of Whitefish Point, “completely covered with a thick coating of ice.”  After 12 hours of heavy rolling, despite the fact the engines were wide open, Noble was shocked to realize his ship was rapidly approaching the beach—the gale had moved her backwards nearly 90 miles toward the Upper Michigan shore! 

Frantically, the crew sprang to action.  Noble ordered one of the anchors out, then the other.  All the while the vessel pitched wildly in the immense waves.  With two anchors out and the engines fully stoked, Noble was able to “get her to wind” and avert a wreck on the beach.  “She hung on for eleven solid hours, during which her engines never once stopped working at full speed,” he recalled.  “I estimate we were about a mile or mile and a half off the beach and probably five miles from the Deer River Lifesaving Station” (at Deer Park on the shore in Alger County). 

The next afternoon, the wind let up a little.  The crew hove up the anchors and Captain Noble headed northeast, seeking protection from the northerly gale on the north shore of Lake Superior. The lull in the winds occurred as the now primary Georgia low moved over the central Appalachians and intensified.  This misleading period of relative calm led to one the great tragedies of the 1913 storm. 

Jimmy Owen, captain of the 565-foot ore carrier Henry B. Smith, was in a hurry. This seasoned Great Lakes master usually proved easy to work with; this time was different.  Rumors were flying that Owen was in the doghouse with the Smith’s owners.  Through circumstances out of his control, he had been running behind all season.  He was reported to have been given the ultimatum—deliver the last load of the season on time or stay on shore next season. 

So despite the stormy, cold weather, he demanded his steamer be loaded at the Lower Harbor ore dock in Marquette.  The freezing, damp air caused the ore pellets to stick together and forced dock workers to crawl on hands and knees into the chute to loosen the frozen clumps.  The dangerous work of loading the sleek, seven-year-old steamer with 10,000 tons of ore was finally completed late on the 9^th.  Owen, his confidence bolstered by the easing of the gale, decided to run for the Sault.  Sailors on other boats at anchor noticed the crew members frantically rushing to finish battening down the hatches as the Smith pulled out of the harbor.  Just as the boat left the safety of the breakwater, the second installment of the storm hit as the southern low moved due north toward Georgian Bay. 

Observers on shore watched as the Smith heaved before the building seas.  Captain Cleary, commander of the Lifesaving Station at Marquette, predicted the carrier would be back in Marquette Harbor within a few hours.  Another lake captain swore that he saw the boat turn around less than a half hour after leaving the harbor.  Surely Captain Owen decided to head for the relative shelter of the east side of the Keweenaw.  That change in course was never confirmed; observers on shore lost sight of the Smith in a blinding snow squall. 

Meanwhile, the Cornell had been chugging northeastward toward the east shore of Lake Superior when stage two of the Freshwater Fury began.  The steamer was somewhere south of Caribou Island when a strong northeast wind hit the beleaguered vessel.  The captain and crew battled the raging gale until early on the 10^th “when a tremendous sea came over her aft.”  The wave, estimated at 40 feet high, flooded the dining room and the galley, breaking doors and smashing windows.  The powerful surge of water pounded the dining room furniture “to kindling wood.” 

Back west on the bisected L.C. Waldo, the sailors broke up the interior of the cabin, the furniture and anything else wooden they could burn.  One ingenious crew member devised a make-shift stove out of Captain Duddleston’s bathtub and some fire buckets.  The crew was divided into groups; one would take a turn warming themselves by the fire while the others would exercise to stay warm or gather more “firewood.” 

Amidst all the activity, one of the crew spotted a steamer.  The George Stephenson passed relatively close to the wounded Waldo; close enough for its captain to get a good look at the ice-laden boat perched precariously on the rocky point of Gull Island.  The Stephenson captain, despite his curiosity, dared not get too close to the wreck.  Instead, he made his way to the comparative shelter of Bete Gris about 13 miles west of Gull Rock.  This only darkened the emotional state of the stranded inhabitants of the Waldo; their only hope of rescue was from another boat, but the Stephenson passed by and kept going, leaving them to their fate. 

On the exposed eastern end of the lake, the battered Cornell eventually found itself pushed back to the same vicinity it had been two days earlier.  Desperately, Captain Noble turned the wheel “hard over to hard over” with one anchor out (the other’s chain had broken and was lost) and the engines at full speed.  He caught a glimpse of the beach off the Two Hearted River but kept his vessel from going aground. 

Eventually, the wind let up enough to raise the anchor and move away from the beach.  It also gradually backed to the northwest and the Cornell rode to safe port at Sault Ste. Marie.  The smashed vessel with its exhausted crew limped back to the place it had left 78 hours earlier! 

On the east side of the Keweenaw, the Stephenson anchored in Bete Gris and a crew member was sent in a lifeboat to the mainland to report the wreck on Gull Rock.  After the crew member rowed to shore, he waded through snow drifts and a driving blizzard eight miles to Delaware.  There he phoned the lighthouse at Eagle Harbor and told the lighthouse keeper about the wreck.  The keeper then relayed the message to the Eagle Harbor Lifesaving Station. 

The lifesaving crew took off around midnight the 9^th in their big, gasoline-engine-powered surf boat.  A short distance into their roughly 32-mile journey the engine sputtered and they had to put back for repairs.  The motto of the Lifesaving Service stated that if a boat was in danger they had to go out.  So the crew launched the smaller surf boat, powered by a tiny eight-horsepower motor.  The small engine was no match against the 60-mile-an-hour gale.  The crew resigned themselves to the futility of this attempt and returned to Eagle Harbor.  Immediately, a couple of the more mechanically inclined crew members began working on the big surf boat engine. 

Meanwhile, the Portage Lake Lifesaving Station got word of the wreck on Gull Rock.  The shortest route to the Waldo was along the west shore of the Keweenaw; however, this way would expose the Portage Lake crew to the full fury of the northwesterly winds.  Instead of this route, the station captain ordered his crew to take the long way to the Portage Entry, where they were met by the tug Daniel Hebard.  The tugboat towed the lifeboat to Gull Rock.  It took until the early morning hours of November 11 for the vessels to reach the vicinity of the wreck.  The Portage crew could not risk groping in the dark for the Waldo so they took their boat to shelter behind Keweenaw Point until daylight. 

The Annual Report of the Lifesaving Service described what the almost frozen survivors of the Waldo saw at the break of dawn:  “They beheld in the early morning light of the 11^th a grotesque, ghostly shape top a wave, poise on its crest for a moment, then sink out of sight as the wave slipped from under it and went racing on.”  The next time the shape came into view, the Waldo inmates recognized it as an ice-covered boat.  One of them spotted the lifesaving emblem on its side.  They were saved!  A couple of the men took axes and pounded on the ice-covered doors until they sprang open. 

While the storm had moved on northeast into Canada, the lake was still rough, so it took some maneuvering but the crew managed to get 10 men off the Waldo.  During all the excitement on board the remains of the Waldo, the Eagle Harbor lifesaving crew also arrived on the scene.  They navigated into position as the Portage boat left and pulled the last dozen men and women off the rock.  There was no hope for the L.C. Waldo; the mangled steamer was left to the mercy of Lake Superior. 

The Henry B. Smith and her crew were also at its mercy once they pulled out of the breakwater.  Back in Marquette, an uneasy feeling of apprehension settled over the marine community.  Captain Cleary’s prediction that the Smith would return to port did not come to pass.  The storm reached its peak of violence just after the ship left.  It seemed that no vessel could survive the near hurricane-force gusts that built mountainous waves and rendered the lake an awesome, frightening site. 

The sailors in harbor held onto a shred of hope that the Smith had somehow pulled through.  Cleary, interviewed by the local paper, said the Smith may have “forced her way much farther to the north than Keweenaw point” and sustained damage in fighting the waves.  Just maybe Jimmy Owen brought his ship into some port for repairs and eventually the vessel and crew would turn up safe.  He admitted there was only an outside chance this happened; most likely the Henry B. Smith foundered during the violent storm and went to the bottom. 

Communications on land finally returned to normal a couple of days later as telephone and telegraph wires brought down by the storm were repaired.  The Mining Journal immediately received a telegram from Escanaba; a family of one of the crew members wanted to know the fate of the Smith.  In Cleveland, the owners of the vessel sent messages asking for evidence of her demise after authorities at Sault Ste. Marie reported she had not passed through the locks. 

Fears that the Smith was lost turned to certainty after a landlooker returned to Marquette from a nine-mile walk down the beach to the east of the city.  He brought back an oar marked Henry B. Smith, “mute testimony” to her fate.  Other wreckage, including a pike pole and pieces of the deck house, was also strewn along the deserted beach.  The next spring, the body of the second engineer was found encased in a chunk of ice on Michipicoten Island, over 100 miles from where the Smith was presumed to have gone down.  Despite several searches by marine interests over the years, including recent sweeps by a Navy plane equipped with a submarine detection device, the exact location of the Henry B. Smith remains a mystery. 

After the worst of the blow was over, those lucky sailors that remained in port during the storm cast off and saw the shores of the Great Lakes littered with ships run aground—their wreckage strewn here and there along their way.  One crew member on a Lake Superior steamer reported spotting a body floating face down with a life jacket on.