Resolute Pioneer Pluck Credited For Prof. Merk's Epic 1940 Trek

Ten years of painstaking research has brought to light the true story of Prof. Frederick Merk and his Eastward Movement through the Great Snow of 1940.

Exposed as a myth is the decade-old fable which has been accepted as true since that fateful winter when a four-foot snowfall blanketed Greater Boston, halting all transportation.

So deep were the drifts that year that thousands of Harvard and Radcliffe undergraduates were trapped in their houses, unable to force open doors or windows to reach their classes.

Right on Time

Merk, however, showed up at the usual hour of 9 a.m. for his class in the History of the Westward Movement. On hand were two or three startled students who had managed through combined effort to push a path across the snow-clogged Yard to the classroom.

Astonishment was widespread when Merk's achievement became known. Many of his students, realizing that the professor lived four miles away in Belmont, had abandoned efforts to extricate themselves and had gone back to bed. It seemed incredible that the diminuitive historian had braved four miles of snowdrifts as deep in spots as he is tall.

"Just like the frontiersmen he lectures about," students told one another as they marvelled at the feat. "Pioneer Merk," he was referred to affectionately by the undergraduates.

Owtaluk the Eskimo

How had he done it? Merk, it was said, had employed a brawny Eskimo guide named Owtaluk, a native of Kodiak, to drive him to class in a sled drawn by a dozen Eskimo dogs.

People living along the route reported seeing such a sled that morning and hearing the driver's cries of "Much, you huskies, Mush!"

In fact it was said that the professor, in a remarkable display of foresight, annually employed Owtaluk to stand by each winter at Merk's home; ready for any such emergency as the Great Snow.

Owtaluk, it was reported, lived in an apartment over Merk's garage with his wife, Nosuchluk. The two Eskimos arrived in Belmont each November and stayed until the following spring when they and their dogs returned to Kodiak.

Today this story is discredited, thanks to a young researcher who has spent the last ten years working on the problem. Here is the true story:

Professor Merk left hame early that morning bundled heavily in topcoat, muffier, gloves and snow-boots. Resolutely he fought his way eastward through head-high drifts toward Concord Turnpike two blocks away.

After a fatiguing struggle the indomitable professor gained the superhighway. Here he found he could move faster by walking in the ruts left by the few automobiles which had got through the storm the night before.

Down the long hill he went, bent against a harassing wind, the fine snow stinging his face. Reaching Massachusetts Avenue after what seemed an eternity, Mark turned toward Harvard. Confronted constantly by virgin drifts and a light crust insufficient to support his weight, the half-frozen professor forced his aching body forward by sheer brute strength.

He reached Harvard Yard almost on the point of exhaustion, and wearily stamped into his classroom just as the bell on Memorial Chapel began to chime 9 o'clock.

Thus Prof. Frederick Merk is accorded his rightful place in history as a 20th Century trail-blazer no less resolute, determined and tenacious than those hardy, self-reliant pioneers about whom he lectures.