Social standards as well as family concerns dictated that she shouldn’t make a four thousand-mile trip from the East Coast to Alaska without a companion. She had the perfect person in mind, her forty-two-year-old sister, Etta, who was also single. In spite of their conventional beginnings, these two free spirits had turned their backs on the traditional roles of women. Instead of marrying and raising families, they were both driven by their careers. Perhaps they had inherited this determined independence from their father, Abram, who, at fourteen, had lied about his age so he could fight for the Union in the Civil War.
Etta had a lot to consider when trying to make her decision. She’d been working in metropolitan Pittsburgh. If Alaska’s entire population of fifty-five thousand were equally distributed in the vast territory, each person would occupy more than a square mile. The city of Pittsburgh had a population of five hundred thousand. What did Alaska have to offer besides spectacular scenery? Pittsburgh was rich in art and culture, and it offered diverse educational opportunities, museums, libraries, shopping, and restaurants. Should she trade this progressive, cosmopolitan city for a beautiful but boring pile of snow? Would she be happy being far from her family and everything that was familiar? Who knew what could happen to two single women thousands of miles away from home?
Etta Eugenie Schureman, Pennsylvania Hospital Training School for Nurses, Philadelphia, 1908.
Finally, Etta decided that, yes, she could leave the city and take a much-needed vacation, but it would be for one year only. She told Marie that at the end of the year, regardless of what happened, Etta was going to leave Alaska and return to the East Coast.
In the spring of 1922, Etta and Marie, known to the family as Tetts and Dump, sat their elderly parents down to give them the news. Etta was the second oldest of the four children, born after another sister, Ellen (known as Nan). When her younger brother, Russ, was born, he found it difficult to pronounce Etta’s name, so he called her “Tetts,” and the name stuck. Their father nicknamed Marie, the baby of the family, his “Apple Dumpling.” Her name was shortened to “Dump,” and this was what the family called her from then on.
The sisters announced their plans to travel to a land they had only read about in books. They thought they had enough information to reassure their parents, but Esther and Abram fired off a series of questions that made it sound as if Etta and Marie had not done their homework at all. Did they have enough money to finance their adventure? How much did they need and how could they get more in case of an emergency? How long would it take them to get there? Would they go directly to Alaska, or travel at a leisurely pace, stopping at landmarks and national parks? What would they do when they got there? They felt confident that with their teaching backgrounds, they would have no problem gaining employment in schools. Yes, they were facing more unknowns than guarantees, but Marie and Etta convinced their parents that they were determined to have their adventure.
Left: (Left to right) The Schureman sisters, Ellen (Nan) Schureman Smith, Etta Schureman, and Marie Schureman, Montague, Michigan, 1922. Right: Etta Schureman and her niece, Elinor Smith, on a boat on Lake Michigan, 1922.
Saying good-bye, they boarded a train and headed west. Their first stop was in Montague, Michigan, where they visited their older sister Nan, Nan’s husband Dr. George Smith, and their daughter Elinor.
Proceeding west, Etta and Marie stopped at Glacier National Park in northwestern Montana. The million-acre park boasted turquoise-blue lakes, clear mountain streams, steep snowcapped peaks, and lush forests with trees so tall they seemed to hide the sky. This incredible landscape was home to more than 350 species of fish and wildlife including wolves, grizzly bears, and elk. They rented a cabin for a month and enjoyed the most spectacular scenery they had ever seen. At the end of the month, they reluctantly left this wonderland behind and, boarding another train, headed for Seattle, where they booked passage on a steamship bound for Juneau, Alaska.
Top: Marie Schureman on the porch of the cabin Etta and Marie rented at Glacier National Park, Montana, 1922.
THE BOAT WAS CROWDED, the pier teeming with families and friends bidding farewell to departing passengers. Amid cheers and last-minute messages, while colored paper streamers fluttered, the ship slowly pulled away from the dock as we looked rather forlornly at each other. In all that throng, there was not a soul we knew. But what did it matter? We were adventure bound. It was thrilling!
At that time, the main business of steamship companies was to get supplies to and from salmon canneries. Passengers were of secondary consideration. Ships were tied to cannery docks whole days at a time while loading and unloading went on. Passengers amused themselves as best they could. There were such interesting fellow passengers. They enchanted us with their tales, all having something interesting to relate.
Teachers were returning to isolated schools among the Indians and Eskimos, traders from the Arctic, mining men from the Interior thrilling us with tales of gold and silver, tales of a fabulous mountain of jade known only to the Indians. There were missionaries on board—charming people, going to their lonely posts, some for the first time, some returning after a leave of absence. Salesmen who represented wholesale houses were on board. One man’s story has always stayed with me. He told how the crystal clarity of the air could deceive as to distance: how on one occasion, when he was camped within sight of a mountain, he was astonished upon rising the next morning to find the mountain had moved twenty miles nearer while he slept.
After a few days, we reached Juneau, the capital of the territory. Our eyes popped at the beauty of the setting—high mountains rising almost from the water’s edge, the town built on a narrow strip of land at the foot of the mountain and sprawling partway up its sides, facing calm, deep-shadowed Lynn Canal. Even a month at Glacier National Park had not prepared us for this. Here we disembarked to seek our fortune, or, Marie’s job. We hired a taxi to take us to the one hotel in town, the Gastineau. After riding about two blocks over a plank street with plank sidewalks, we found ourselves at the hotel, gasping at the taxi charges—one dollar each. A dollar for two blocks! That did not seem exorbitant later when we became accustomed to Alaska prices. We learned to disregard pennies; they were not used except in the post.
Juneau, Alaska, 1922.
office. Neither were nickels, and in many places in the Interior, a dime was disdained. The smallest acceptable coin was a quarter. Paper dollars were scarce. Big silver dollars were in common use.
Etta and Marie’s experiences in the educational system had been in metropolitan school districts. They had no knowledge of schools in Alaska.
It wasn’t until 1884 that John H. Kinkead, the first governor of the new Alaska territory, decided to address the absence of official educational opportunities in the region. Organizing a public school system in such an immense, ungoverned territory was a daunting task. In response to Kinkead’s report to Washington, D.C., Sheldon Jackson, a Presbyterian missionary in Alaska who was an advocate for education, was selected to “appoint teachers, prescribe their duties, fix salaries, and make rules and regulations for the operation and