Helen Schreider, intrepid world traveler, dies at 98
It wasn't until 2015 — 59 years after her husband was inducted — that Helen Schreider was belatedly inducted into the Explorers Club herself, once it had dropped its gender barrier. Faanya Rose, the club's first woman president, told her: 'You went exploring knowing there was no accolade for women. It was just the pure passion and the pure curiosity.'
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Ms. Schreider, a former art student who always traveled with drawing pad and colored pencils to record her wide-ranging explorations, died Feb. 6 in Santa Rosa, Calif. She was 98.
A niece, Camille Armstrong, said the cause was a stroke.
The Schreiders — along with raft-maker Thor Heyerdahl, deep-sea mariner Jacques Piccard, and others — were part of a semi-golden era of exploration, when bold transits could still be plotted across a globe not entirely subdued by technology.
On the often harrowing trip that the Schreiders made from Alaska to Tierra del Fuego, from 1954 to 1956, they navigated angry stretches of the Pacific Ocean and the Caribbean to skirt roadless mountains in their amphibious jeep, which they christened La Tortuga (The Turtle) and which had a propeller and a rudder.
The journey was recounted in a book, '20,000 Miles South' (1957), with text by Frank Schreider and drawings by Helen Schreider, that was serialized in The Saturday Evening Post.
While on a US tour with footage they had shot of their trip, the Schreiders met the president of the National Geographic Society, Melville Bell Grosvenor, who hired them as a writer-photographer team. They completed six long assignments for National Geographic magazine from 1957 to 1969, beginning with a second trip by amphibious jeep along the Ganges River in India.
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They followed up with a 13-month journey through the Indonesian archipelago, which they recounted in their book "The Drums of Tonkin" (1963).
Trips by Land Rover followed: first in the Great Rift Valley of Africa and then along a 24,000-mile route from Greece to India in the footsteps of Alexander the Great.
Their last expedition, in 1969, was to map the Amazon River from its headwaters in the Peruvian Andes, which they navigated in a small boat they built themselves. Their National Geographic book 'Exploring the Amazon' (1970) made the disputed claim that the Amazon, not the Nile, is the world's longest river. (The Schreiders added the Para River in the Amazon's mouth to its overall length, although others considered the Para part of another system; most cartographers today agree that the Nile is longer.)
That same year, 1970, the couple parted ways with the magazine. They divorced a few years later and pursued individual careers.
Frank Schreider became a freelance writer and crossed the Atlantic Ocean in his 40-foot sailboat, Sassafras. He was on a lengthy cruise of the Greek islands in 1994 when he died of a heart attack at the age of 79 aboard his sloop.
Helen Schreider joined the National Park Service as a museum designer. She created exhibitions within the Statue of Liberty for the US bicentennial in 1976 and at Yellowstone National Park.
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Throughout her life, she painted portraits and landscapes in oil, inspired by her travels, which were shown in several solo exhibitions. She was included in the book "Women Photographers at National Geographic" (2000).
'She was voracious to discover the world and the beauty,' Armstrong said in an interview, adding that she always had her drawing supplies close at hand. 'She could literally with 10 swipes of the pencil get the whole drawing. She could capture the moments right as they were moving through villages.'
Helen Jane Armstrong was born May 3, 1926, in Coalinga, Calif., in the Central Valley, to Breckenridge Armstrong, who managed water districts, and Ina Bell (Brubaker) Armstrong, a farmer and artist.
She earned a bachelor of fine arts from UCLA, where she met Schreider, an engineering student. They married in 1947 while they were still undergraduates.
She is survived by a brother, Donald B. Armstrong, and her partner of 25 years, John Ryan, a retired professor of geography at the University of Winnipeg. A second marriage, to Russ Hendrickson, ended in divorce in 1983.
The Schreiders' plans for a delayed honeymoon road trip grew more and more ambitious, until Frank Schreider suggested driving all the way from the Arctic Circle to the tip of South America.
Helen Schreider agreed, and the couple departed from Circle, Alaska, in the treeless tundra, on June 21, 1954. Along for the journey was their German shepherd, Dinah.
Because the Pan-American Highway had not yet been completed over some mountain ranges in Central America, the Schreiders rebuilt an amphibious Ford jeep that had been manufactured during World War II, which Frank Schreider described as a 'bathtub with wheels,' to take to the sea.
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The ungainly La Tortuga first entered the Pacific Ocean in Costa Rica in 10-foot surf, a terrifying experience for the couple that nearly ended their journey.
'La Tortuga reared like a horse, Helen grabbed for the dash, Dinah was thrown to the back, and I held grimly to the wheel,' Frank Schreider wrote in '20,000 Miles South.'
The jeep later passed through locks of the Panama Canal to the Caribbean, where the Schreiders steered south, provisioned with a month's supply of Army C-rations. They island-hopped for 250 miles, coming ashore onto pristine beaches where children covered La Tortuga in flowers.
After 30 seagoing days, they landed in Turbo, Colombia, where a customs official asked, "Is it a boat or a car?"
'It's both,' Ms. Schreider replied.
At the southernmost tip of the continent, there was a final amphibious crossing in a 10-knot current of the Strait of Magellan to Tierra del Fuego, where they completed their journey Jan. 23, 1956.
Back home in the United States, Helen Schreider told a newspaper reporter that she had been 'game for anything.'
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Tracking Namibia's desert rhinos in the storms of a decade
This article was produced by National Geographic Traveller (UK). Damaraland is certainly a large area (18,000sq miles) and it's definitely in a hot region (current temperature 31C). But where I'd expected lunar landscapes speckled with the occasional succulent, there are rolling hills swathed in softly wafting grass. Where I'd imagined blue skies untroubled by a single cloud, there are cumulonimbus boiling overhead and thick sheets of rain barrelling across the horizon. I'd pictured a world that had no ambitions beyond 'beige' on the colour chart. This is every shade of green, from the near neon of a tennis ball to the silvery subtlety of a sage leaf. 'It's crazy special,' says Bernadro Hillary Roman as I climb into an open-sided Land Cruiser behind him. 'For 14 years, we've had a massive drought. This place normally looks like a rock garden.' I meet goateed guide Bernadro — better known as Bons — at a sandy airstrip in the Palmwag Concession, a protected conservancy of 2,100sq miles in northwest Damaraland. It's several steps beyond the middle of nowhere. Bouncing beneath the clouds in a tiny Cessna, I'd seen signs of life fade the further north the plane travelled from the Namibian capital of Windhoek: first the settlements disappeared, then the trees, finally the roads. Below, enormous rock formations rippled out of the flat earth like petrified sea monsters. Like most people, I've made the journey for one reason: to see a critically endangered species that has learnt to survive in this normally hostile and arid environment. 'We have the world's largest population of desert-adapted black rhino here,' Bons says, driving towards our camp, sunglasses perched on his head. 'And we have a 99.99% success rate of finding them.' Bons has worked as a guide for Desert Rhino Camp since 2010 and knows the concession better than most. 'I grew up 11 miles away, this is my backyard,' he tells me as the rain starts, so faint at first I have to hold out my hand to be sure I feel it. 'Even if you put a bag over my head, I would know where we are.' He doesn't get a chance to demonstrate. Soon after our arrival at Desert Rhino, the skies darken, the wind picks up and the throaty growl of thunder rumbles across the plains, seeming to rebound off the surrounding mountains and pinball around the camp. The rain is quickly torrential. Puddles turn to little streams. Little streams turn to small lakes. We're marooned, hiding in our canvas safari tents like desert Noahs as the waters rise. Life on Mars There's little sign of the storm the following morning. A few clouds skim the horizon in the inky pre-dawn light and the earth is dark and damp, but the water has entirely drained into the porous soil. What I take to be the cartoon-like croak of a frog is, according to Bons, the dual calls of two Rüppell's korhaans — slender, beige birds found in regions with little rain. As the sun rises, turning the grass golden, they form a tiny orchestra, joined by the looping whistle of a Benguela long-billed lark and the cheerful twitters of sparrow-larks. The plan for the day is to join Palmwag's rangers and — with luck — follow them to some of the 17 or so black rhinos within driving distance of the camp. The rangers had set off a couple of hours earlier to get the search underway. 'The trackers track the rhino and we track the trackers,' says Bons with a characteristically mischievous grin. 'It's hard for them though — the rain will have washed away any footprints.' We spend the morning trundling along tracks that weave across the concession, each turn revealing another epic landscape — an endless parade of grass-covered hills filing to the horizon, punctuated by sandstone cliffs and giant outcrops of red basalt. Yellow mouse whiskers and purple carpetweed flowers poke up between the rocks, splashing the desert with colour. The minty smell of wild tea carries on the breeze. 'Usually this looks like Mars,' says Bons. 'If a guest from the last 10 years saw pictures of it now, they would need to see a doctor.' Prominent in the landscape is the plant that allows black rhinos to survive in a more typical year. The drought-resistant Euphorbia damarana, or Damara milk-bush, contain a latex sap that's poisonous to most animals, including humans, but not rhinos, sustaining them in the absence of other sources of food. Deadly toxins are not the only horror concealed within the bush: hundreds of spider-like armoured crickets cling to its spiky fronds, likely feeding on the latex to make themselves unpalatable to birds. As we continue through Palmwag, Bons frequently stops to peer through binoculars, his naked eye having picked up evidence of other life in the desert, much of it drawn in by the abundant grass. Among them are the retreating backsides of springboks, zebras and oryx keen to get as far away from us as possible. A closer encounter comes after we slosh through the fast-flowing water and thick mud of the normally dry Uniab River. An Angolan giraffe stands on the other side, his jaw working at the leaves of a mopane tree as he gazes impassively at us. We have little time to gaze back. The Land Cruiser's radio crackles with a message from the rangers — they've found rhinos. We set off in their direction with some urgency and are soon driving past heaps of megafauna dung, the trackers' 4WD in our sights ahead. Beyond them are the rhinos — a female in front, a small calf sticking close by and a large male ambling in their wake. 'The trackers will tell us where to go, and we follow on foot,' says Bons, his voice hushed. 'We want the rhinos to experience the least human disturbance. We don't want them used to jeeps — you can imagine how vulnerable they are to poachers then.' The team motions us over and instructs us to walk behind them in single file and to stay silent. 'We need you to blend in,' ranger Denso Tjiraso whispers. 'We are in their environment and we want them to be unaware of you.' Our attempts to blend in and stay silent fail almost immediately. Edging down a rocky slope, we dislodge layers of shale, which slide and clatter beneath our feet. The three animals turn and look — they're very much aware of us. At the bottom, we all stand and stare at one another, caught in a Mexican standoff with a hundred metres between us. The rhinos finally relax, conscious of our presence but apparently untroubled — the adults return to the grassy lunch at their feet, ears cocked in our direction, while the baby slumps in the shadow cast by her mother. Along with Denso, trackers Hofney Gaseb and Richard Ganuseb pull out notebooks and cameras, recording the animals' condition and sketching distinctive features that help identify them. In front of us, I learn, are Tuta, daughter Kasper and interloper Arthur, who's likely hanging around in the hope of mating. Survey over, we quietly retreat, leaving them to find some shade as the mercury rises. Good weather for rhinos Guests at Desert Rhino Camp are able to have such unique experiences thanks to a project it runs with Save The Rhino Trust Namibia (SRT). For over 21 years, they've worked with the three communities within the conservancy, leasing land from them and sharing profits from the camp, as well as encouraging them to help with conservation efforts and to report any signs of poaching. SRT also trains and equips Palmwag's rangers, recruiting many of them from those same local villages. I meet the trust's director of field operations, Lesley Karutjaiva, as he's returning to his headquarters in the concession and Bons and I are out on a meandering drive. Leaning on his 4WD, neatly dressed in green shirt and trousers, he tells me that the SRT has trained 71 rangers, and anti-poaching efforts are improving. 'We have around 200 rhinos here,' he says as thunder rattles around us. 'But 500 would be a good number.' The deficit is not down to poachers. 'Our last good rain was in 2011,' Lesley explains. 'During extreme drought we lose many calves — the mothers don't have enough food to produce milk.' In better news, he tells me, Palmwag has received so much rainfall this year, it should see them through for another five. With theatrical good timing, the storm that has been threatening all afternoon finally breaks, raindrops hammering around us with sudden ferocity. Lightning spasms across a sky slashed red with the rays of the setting sun. 'Oh, this is very good weather for rhinos,' Lesley says with a broad smile as we retreat to our vehicles. 'We are all very happy.' The rest of my time in Palmwag produces further very good weather for rhinos, and further rhino sightings. We spot Tuta, Kasper and Arthur as they plod along a dry river bed in the soft evening light, and again as they enjoy a roaming buffet of wild grasses on an early-morning stroll through the hills. Each time, they eventually catch our scent on the wind and take off for the horizon with a surprisingly dainty little trot. The concession's low-intervention approach towards the wildlife on its land means the animals remain unhabituated to both vehicles and humans, and their natural instinct is to run away from both very quickly indeed. But it's not a common strategy in the reserves of northern Namibia, as becomes clear almost immediately at my next stop. Coming into land after an hour-long, corkscrewing flight east from Palmwag, I already feel transported to another world. Nature swaggers here, lavishing the land with thick clumps of trees, the whitest sandy soil and vast turquoise pools of water. Humans have added the decorative touches of arrow-straight roads and fences. It's a 10-minute drive from the airstrip to the gates of Onguma, a privately owned reserve of more than 130sq miles on the edge of Namibia's landmark Etosha National Park. Those 10 minutes provide a bumper pack of wildlife sightings. A family of banded mongooses tumble and play metres from the vehicle; a male wildebeest strides nonchalantly past, so close I might lean out and touch him; a small herd of oryx, horns rising like spears, graze at the edge of a clearing; and a lilac-breasted roller perches on a termite mound as kori bustards strut through the grass behind. Nothing is running away here. Walk on the wild side I soon learn that close encounters are something of a theme at Onguma. While the reserve prioritises the welfare of its animals above all, it allows its human guests plenty of opportunities to quietly observe them at near quarters. At the exclusive lodge of Camp Kala, each of the four suites sits on a raised walkway overlooking a water hole, with hyenas and elephants coming in to drink as guests watch from their plunge pools. A custom-built Land Cruiser with a 'star bed' built over the cabin allows couples to spend the night out in the open, listening to the grunts of nearby lions as the Milky Way dazzles overhead. And a hide set partly beneath ground level allows its occupants to peer out at zebras and giraffes standing oblivious just metres away. The accommodation I'm heading to, however, has been open for barely a month, and the wildlife in the area is not yet accustomed to the new residents. With the sun setting and the bullfrogs croaking, my perennially cheerful guide Liberty Eiseb and I bump along a track towards Trails Camp. Liberty stops the vehicle to point out boot prints left in the sand beneath us by Onguma's anti-poaching unit, who patrol in pairs at night. Beside them are the tracks of a leopard. 'This is probably the leopard that comes into camp when we are sleeping,' he says. 'I hear it every night at 4am.' I can hardly blame it for calling in — Trails Camp is a mini Eden tucked within an acacia woodland, from where guests typically head out on walking safaris. Lantern-lit pathways lead to four safari tents, each with a wooden hot tub at the front and an outdoor shower at the back. When darkness enfolds the bush, the Southern Cross and Scorpio shine bright in the firmament of stars above. 'Here you get silence and you get adventure,' says Liberty with some glee before we both turn in for the night. After an undisturbed sleep, I find him sitting by the fire in the muted pre-dawn light, a blackened tin kettle sat within the embers. 'You see the bushman's TV is already on,' he says, gesturing to the flames. 'It always tells a good story.' He heard the saw-like calls of the leopard as it padded through at 4am and 5.30am. 'The animals need to get used to the camp, but they will,' he continues. 'The big leopard will soon be sitting in the trees around us.' With breakfast soundtracked by turtle doves crooning from those same trees, I could get used to the camp myself, but the bush waits for no one, and I set off with guide Tristan Lewis for a day's exploration. We're soon driving through a landscape pocked with water holes, with makalani palms towering above. Wildlife teems around us — the heads of giraffes appear above the umbrella thorns; elephants cross in front of us and instantly melt into the bush; African grey hornbills pick at termites; leopard tortoises bumble along the track; spotted hyenas skulk through the grass. 'Morning drives are my favourite,' says Tristan, his traditional safari uniform of beige shirt and shorts accessorised by a neat little moustache. 'Everything's fresh, everything's waking up.' Like Palmwag, Onguma has seen unprecedented rainfall, and it's changed the behaviour of the animals on the reserve. 'We usually have a little migration with the rain,' Tristan tells me as we stop to watch a herd of impalas chewing on grass, their black eyes fixed on the vehicle. 'Breeding groups go east because that's where the first rains usually fall. But they're finding rainwater everywhere now, so all the patterns are messed up.' The rain has messed up some of the tracks, too, and Tristan occasionally has to coax the Land Cruiser through deep, water-filled channels in the mud, or turn back and find another route. We're on the lookout for a pride of lions seen near the reserve's border with Etosha when one particularly troublesome puddle finally defeats us. After radioing in for a replacement vehicle, Tristan points to a pair of male white rhinos grazing some way in the distance. 'It's not so bad being stuck when you're stuck by rhino,' he says. 'Shall we go for a walk?' He collects his rifle and we quietly creep towards them over sandy soil scattered with lion paw prints. 'We've spent hours and hours with these rhinos,' Tristan whispers as we draw closer. 'We know their behaviour is relaxed. They're not like black rhinos — black rhinos are a handful.' We're 60 feet away when the two males finally become aware of our presence. Tristan motions me to crouch down and be quiet. 'They know we're here, now we give them time to decide what to do,' he says softly as they stand facing us. 'You can see they're curious.' After a few minutes trying to figure us out, one cautiously pads in our direction, head down, ears rotating. He's so close I can hear him breathing when Tristan slowly rises — the rhino instantly canters away. Over the next 30 minutes, the pair repeatedly amble towards us, only moving away when Tristan gently shifts his position. 'They're comfortable with us but we don't want them too close,' he murmurs, watching as they graze. 'They're wild animals and we want them to stay wild.' It soon feels completely natural to sit quietly in the sand, passing the day with animals each weighing up to 2.5 tonnes and sporting impressively long and pointy horns. 'It's nice when they let you into their space and they're not threatened by you,' Tristan says when the rhinos eventually decide to move on. 'You can share this incredible time with them.' It's a parting gift from the rains of Namibia — a vehicle stuck in the mud, a moment of pure magic. As we wander, slightly giddy, towards the guide who's come to pick us up, I'm reminded of something Bons had said to me as we sheltered from a storm in Palmwag: 'The rain is very good for everything — for nature, for animals, for us.' Published in the September 2025 issue of National Geographic Traveller (UK).To subscribe to National Geographic Traveller (UK) magazine click here. (Available in select countries only). Solve the daily Crossword
National Geographic
3 days ago
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3 days ago
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Your summer travel could be helping you prevent dementia — here's how to get the most out of it
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