Bradford Washburn transcended the centuries and generations. He was born when the first ascent of Mt. McKinley was nearly achieved and died when young people were using his map to climb it.
The longtime director of the Boston Museum of Science made his reputation in several realms with 70 trips to the Far North, becoming an Alaskan hero without ever residing in the state.
Mountaineer, photographer, pilot, scientist, administrator, explorer, cartographer, author, father and husband of nearly 66 years when he died Jan. 10 at 96, Washburn was a slightly built man of great stature who earned the appellation of doctor many times over with honorary degrees.
Ansel Adams was a huge fan of his photos, and Sir Edmund Hillary admired his climbing acumen. Washburn’s name appears on books published in the 1920s and the 2000s. He won praise from kings, queens and Kennedys, and he was a friend of mine.
Washburn was meticulous, a perfectionist who could be cantankerous, but he was always generous with advice. We met in Alaska and got to know one another through newspaper interviews and by overlapping in Boston, where I grew up.
He was a boy climber in the French Alps, recorder of 13 first ascents of Alaskan mountains and survivor of harrowing escapades in the Yukon Territory–eventually Washburn and I wrote it all down in his 2005 autobiography.
Washburn married his former secretary Barbara in 1940 when he was just establishing the Boston Museum of Science as a going concern. He was director from 1939 to 1980 and kept going to the office for about 15 more years. She accompanied him all around the world and became the first woman to scale 20,320-foot Mt. McKinley in 1947.
Washburn was convinced McKinley could be climbed by a much easier route than was accepted, and he proved it in 1951 when he pioneered the West Buttress. Now 90 percent of adventurers who climb the mountain follow this path.
Washburn was 5 feet 7 inches and never weighed more than 145 pounds, but he could carry a 90-pound pack on journeys shared with famed Americans in the mountaineering world such as Bob Bates, Charles Houston and H. Adams Carter.
Washburn was born June 7, 1910, in Massachusetts. At that time, the infamous Sourdough Expedition was trekking up McKinley in hopes of notching the first ascent. Poorly equipped for the vicious, frigid weather, the men proved themselves hardy, but they inadvertently climbed the mountain’s shorter peak.
In Alaska or Massachusetts visits, Brad and Barbara held me spellbound. Once over lunch, Washburn regaled me with the “greatest adventure of my life.” That was when he and Bates, still living in New Hampshire, were forced into a 100-mile overland retreat to safety in 1937 after making the first ascent of Mt. Lucania in Canada. They could have drowned crossing a high-water river, and they ran short of food.
Washburn maintained close ties with Life magazine and National Geographic. He was perhaps the greatest mountain photographer of all and received fan mail from Adams. Washburn led an exploration to the Yukon that named newly found peaks after the king and queen of England and immediately received a thank-you telegram. Washburn helped organize the first ascent of Canada’s Mt. Kennedy, named for assassinated President John F. Kennedy, and advised Bobby Kennedy on his climb of the mountain.
When I think about Brad Washburn, vivid images come to mind. I picture him as a young man courting death for his art when he was strapped into the open doorway of a low-flying plane to take his Alaska mountain photos. I see him and Barbara in the oil painting that greets visitors to the Boston museum–based on his favorite photo of them together on the summit of Mt. Bertha in 1940.
I remember hours spent in his Lexington, Mass., home listening to story after story about his life as he scurried to his study to pull out carefully kept diaries, long-preserved pictures and copies of his McKinley, Mt. Everest and Grand Canyon maps made over the years.
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Washburn appreciated the awards and honorary degrees that flowed to him before he succumbed to heart failure, but he cherished most of all his partnership with Barbara. Washburn said his only regret in nearly a century of living was not climbing Everest first. My favorite Washburn story was how he was invited to Amelia Earhart’s home to hear an outline of her plan to fly around the world. Seemingly on the verge of being invited as navigator, Washburn told her that radio and fuel issues marred the plan. Two stubborn people. She was wrong and disappeared. He was right and outlived her by seven decades.
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