The female explorers who braved the wilderness but were overlooked by the history books

In the summer of 1905, a young Canadian widow, Mina Hubbard, set out on an expedition to map the northeastern corner of Labrador, from Lake Melville up to Ungava Bay, an inlet of the Arctic Ocean. It was an unusual challenge for a former nurse who had left school at 16.

Her husband, Leonidas Hubbard, had died in this same harsh environment two years earlier. Mina, 35, intended to complete his work. Although she faced physical dangers on the 600-mile journey—starvation, bears, freezing rivers and rapids—her greatest antagonists were the reporters and editors of the male-dominated outdoors press of early 20th-century north America.

The popular Outing magazine, for whom Leonidas Hubbard had written, was the most excoriating. Its editor, Caspar Whitney, thundered in an editorial that “the widow” should not be in the wilderness, let alone speak about it. The wild was no place for a white woman, especially one accompanied by First Nation (Native American) guides. This was not long after she had given an interview to another paper.

Other newspapers described her as a grief-stricken hysteric. This was the only explanation they could find for her decision to go on such a long and arduous journey. When she was 300 miles into her expedition, having found the source of the Naskaupi River, the New York Times reported on its front page that she had given up, beaten back by hardship and privations.

Instead the paper claimed that a man, an explorer called Dillon Wallace who was also in northern Labrador, was “pushing forward beyond any white man’s previous track”. In fact, Hubbard had neither given up, nor had Wallace caught up with her. She would reach Ungava Bay several weeks before his party. But it fitted the dominant narrative of the time: That the wilderness was no place for a woman.

I explore the idea of what the wild is, and of its being a gendered space, in my new book, How Five Women Reclaimed Nature in a Man’s World. From ancient myths such as Ulysses or Gilgamesh, to the present where research shows that women face harassment and othering even on remote Antarctic bases, the wild has for centuries been a site of heroic male adventuring and rugged exploration.

When British mountaineer Alison Hargreaves was killed in the Himalayas in 1995, reporting focused on her being a mother and wife. Historical newspaper records I found during my research roundly accused her of abandoning her primary role of caring for her children.

Studies show that even in modern hunting societies, while women tend forest plots and hunt small game near the village or camp, it is the men who go away, often for many days, to hunt for big game and status. Myths from across the world have told listeners and readers that women who stray beyond the city wall, village paling or encampment are either supernatural, monsters, or have been banished for perceived sins against society.

In the Greek myth of Polyphonte, the young girl who refuses to follow the correct gender role to become a wife and mother, and wants instead to hunt in the forest, is treated to a terrible punishment from the gods. She is tricked into falling in love with a bear-turned-man and gives birth to two bestial children. She and her sons are then transformed into flesh-eating birds.

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In a more recent echo of the media coverage of Mina Hubbard’s journey, in Kenya in the 1980s and 1990s, the environmental activist Wangari Maathai was attacked and belittled. She even had a curse put on her for planting trees in forests earmarked for development by the country’s then president, Daniel arap Moi, and for challenging Moi’s plans to build a skyscraper in one of Nairobi’s last green spaces.

At the height of Maathai’s confrontation with President Moi, the Daily Nation newspaper repeated criticism of both Maathai and her Green Belt Movement organization. Headlines included: “MPs condemn Prof Maathai” and “MPs want Maathai movement banned”. Her crime? Wanting to slow disastrous desertification and soil erosion, and to empower rural women by planting 30 million trees.

When British mountaineer Alison Hargreaves was killed in the Himalayas in 1995, reporting focused on her being a mother and wife. Historical newspaper records I found during my research roundly accused her of abandoning her primary role of caring for her children.

The Sunday Times called her “A mother obsessed”, while the Independent led with the headline, “Dangerous ambition of a woman on the peaks”. The Daily Telegraph headline read, “A wife driven to high challenges”. Readers’ letters were even more critical, branding her as selfish and irresponsible.

A novelty nail file

Women who have received neutral or positive coverage for their work have tended to have novelty value, or had accomplished a feat so extraordinary that their being a woman was part of the narrative.

The entomologist Evelyn Cheesman spent decades collecting insects on Pacific islands, from the Galapagos to New Guinea. Her work led to support for a biological dividing line between different ecosystems in the New Hebrides to be named Cheesman’s Line, and her contribution to science was a great novelty for the newspaper press.

More broadly, my research disappointingly concludes that over 100 years on, women explorers and scientific fieldworkers are still represented as unusual or out of place in the wild.

Her months-long, arduous expedition to Papua New Guinea in the early 1930s earned her the headline in the now defunct UK News Chronicle, “Woman collects 42,000 insects”.

After Cheesman published her memoir in 1957, detailing four decades of exploration, the headline in the newspaper Reynolds News announced: “Woman trapped in giant spider’s web”. The sub-head simply stated, “saved by her nail file”.

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