Burning Ground

by D. A. Galloway

  The Pennsylvanian nodded and reached into his pack for the final item. When he pulled it out, Graham was disappointed but not surprised. The chocolate candy bar that had been lying in the bottom of his pack for several weeks was broken into several pieces and had partially melted.

  “Have you ever tasted chocolate?”

  “I had a hot drink flavored with chocolate when I was at Fort Benton with Isaac Baker,” she replied.

  “What did you think of the taste?”

  “It was strong and bitter.”

  “Would you like to try chocolate made with milk and sugar?” he asked, showing her a dark-brown wrapper with Hershey’s in large silver block letters. “Milk Chocolate” was printed below the name of the bar and a retail price of “15¢” was stamped on the bottom right corner of the wrapper.

  Makawee shrugged and held out her palm. Graham carefully unwrapped the bar and put a small, irregularly shaped piece of the confection in her hand. She examined the solid brown substance and gave Graham an inquisitive look.

  “What does HERS-HEY’S mean?”

  “It is pronounced hur-shees,” he corrected, emphasizing the first syllable. “It’s the name of the company that makes these bars. Their chocolate factory is not far from my home in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania.”

  Graham sensed her hesitancy to try the chocolate, so he placed a piece in his mouth. She immediately did the same. A smile came to her face as she experienced the novel sweet flavor. They enjoyed the indulgence of the milk chocolate as it melted in their mouths.

  A lightning bolt flashed on the other side of the lake, followed a few seconds later by a rumble of thunder.

  “Looks like that storm is headed our way,” Graham commented. “I don’t think we can make it back to camp before it arrives.”

  “I know a place where we can shelter. I discovered it when I rode to the end of the meadow,” she suggested.

  “Sure. Lead the way,” he said, hastily wrapping the remaining chocolate and stuffing it in his jacket pocket.

  Graham gathered the materials lying on the rock ledge and placed them in his pack while Makawee folded the buffalo-hide parfleche over the plant samples and picked up her willow basket. He rolled up the blanket and placed the leather pouch over his neck. They walked quickly to their equines, attached the items to their tack, and mounted. Makawee headed north, retracing the path she had taken earlier when exploring the alpine meadow.

  A bright flash arced across the western sky. The volume of the subsequent thunderclap that echoed against the mountain slope a second later indicated the storm was rapidly getting closer. A brisk wind swept in from the lake, swaying the meadow grasses and treetops. Makawee urged Zonta into a quicker pace and stopped a minute later at the base of a steep north-facing slope covered with sedge and willow. They dismounted and secured the animals in a grove of trees.

  “Where is the shelter?” Graham asked. He didn’t see anything that would provide adequate protection from a heavy thunderstorm.

  Makawee walked over to the base of the hill and pulled at thick bunches of grass. Graham joined her in tearing away the overgrown vegetation to reveal a large pile of soil and rock outside the entrance to a small tunnel.

  “It’s an abandoned bear den,” she explained.

  Graham wanted to ask questions, but heavy raindrops began to splatter on his cowboy hat and the winds picked up, signaling an imminent downpour. He dashed to Lindy and retrieved his day pack, then got on his knees and followed Makawee into the dark opening just as the rain began to intensify.

  He had crawled only a short distance when he bumped into Makawee’s feet, as she was curled on her side in the small chamber excavated by a hibernating bear. The den was wider and taller than the tunnel, but barely large enough for a person to sit up. The earthen cavity was dark with the only light coming from the narrow entrance, which was several feet lower than the sleeping chamber. Based on texture, he concluded the bottom of the chamber was lined with evergreen boughs and pine needles. He turned on his side and edged next to Makawee in the dark, bending his legs until their thighs touched.

  A few minutes passed before either one spoke. Graham stretched between his knees to access the pack lying at his feet. He dragged it up the outside of his leg to his waist, unzipped the top, and hunted for the flashlight.

  “I’m going to bring a little sunshine into the den,” he said calmly. He didn’t want her to be frightened when the small chamber was suddenly illuminated.

  Graham mollified her anxiety by gently caressing the back of her neck, but he could still feel Makawee twitch when he turned on the flashlight, and the beam penetrated the darkness.

  “What do you think?” he asked, after their eyes adjusted to the light.

  “It’s amazing!” she replied with childlike joy.

  “Here. You hold it,” he said, putting the smooth chrome cylinder in her hands. The beam from the flashlight fluttered against the earthen den wall as she nervously gripped the light-generating device. But soon she was waving it around the chamber, marveling at the power to instantly summon light.

  Graham pulled the Hershey bar from his jacket pocket, unwrapped it, and handed a piece to Makawee. She laid down the flashlight and gladly accepted the chocolate.

  “We didn’t have a chance to finish our conversation,” he said, speaking softly into her ear while they lay close together. “All those things I showed you must be overwhelming. I just want you to know the truth. I came from one hundred years in the future.”

  Makawee was silent for a few minutes. He could hear her breathing as she considered what she had learned about him.

  “I cannot understand how you can be from another time. Surely the spirits brought you here. There must be a reason. Do you know why you are here?”

  “Not . . . exactly,” he said falteringly. “But I’m glad I am here with you.”

  Graham debated about sharing the details of his vision quest but decided today’s revelations were enough for the young Crow woman to comprehend. He would broach that topic another day.

  Makawee surprised him by shifting to lie on her opposite side so they faced each other with their knees touching. She used the back of her hand to stroke his bearded cheek, then briefly pressed her lips against his before pulling back. Graham smiled as he tasted a faint sweet chocolate flavor on her moist lips.

  Heavy rain created rivulets that ran down the hillside and dripped like a hundred leaking faucets from the vegetation at the opening of the bear’s den. The mellow sound of trickling water was punctuated by muffled thunder as the rainstorm passed overhead.

  Graham reached for the glowing flashlight and switched it off. Darkness instantly enveloped them. He pulled Makawee close and found her lips, kissing her long and hard, wishing the storm outside would last forever.

  Chapter 24

  August 19, 1871

  Waxing crescent moon: 11 nights until the next full moon

  Five men stood on the edge of the small oblong lake and marveled at the magnificent alpine landscape. Stately spruce trees lined the shore of the placid reservoir like loyal parishioners surrounding a baptismal font. A snow-streaked mountain jutted into the sky to the southeast, its majestic image mirrored in the surface of the crystal clear lake. The setting sun illuminated its dual summits separated by a pronounced gap shaped like a U-notch rifle sight.

  A small excursion team had traveled with the main expedition group from Signal Point this afternoon, but the two groups parted ways at Elk Point. Hayden’s pack train had continued north along the shore of Yellowstone Lake, while the group led by Albert Peale turned east and followed Clear Creek for six miles before arriving at Sylvan Lake, where they were now standing. Peale had recruited Graham, Henry Elliott, and Alec Sibley, while Private Lewis Byrch had been assigned as an army escort. The geologist had also requisitioned a spare pack mule to haul specimens.

  “Is that the one you described earlier?” Peale asked Graham as he gazed at the double-peaked mountain that would lat
er be named Top Notch Peak.

  “No. The base of the mountain I explored is over there. It’s easily over ten thousand feet high,” Graham replied, as he pivoted and nodded across Sylvan Lake to the northeast. Dense forest blanketed a steep slope rising from the lake, obscuring the top of Avalanche Peak from where they stood.

  “Is this where we start our ascent?”

  “There’s a better approach about a mile east of here beside another small lake.”

  Peale considered his friend’s comment. “It’s late in the day. This lake is a beautiful place to camp. We’ll stay here for the evening and explore the mountain in the morning.”

  As they sat by a fire that evening, Graham thought about tomorrow’s exploration. He was certain Peale would be pleased with the geological discoveries. And the view from the peak would truly be worth the trek for a landscape artist such as Elliott. Yet he was starting to doubt the wisdom in taking advantage of Elliott’s acrophobia in revenge for Sibley’s being bullied. He could hear his mother repeating one of her favorite axioms: two wrongs don’t make a right.

  But they were here, and there was no turning back. Albert Peale had persuaded Elliott to accompany his group by reminding him Thomas Moran never had the opportunity to sketch Yellowstone Lake from such a unique vantage point. Henry Elliott eagerly accepted the invitation without contemplating his fear of heights. He saw it as a chance to complete a unique landscape portrait and put his stamp on the expedition beyond the myriad of conventional sketches he had completed thus far.

  Graham rationalized his decision by reasoning the choice to summit the mountain was entirely Elliott’s. He had no intentions of harassing the artist. His prime motive was to provide an opportunity for everyone to enjoy a panoramic view of the wilderness three thousand feet above Yellowstone Lake. It was up to Elliott whether he wanted to face his fear and seize the moment.

  * * *

  After a breakfast of biscuits and coffee, the men packed their gear and followed a small stream east toward Sylvan Pass on a chilly morning under partly cloudy skies. Fifteen minutes later, they arrived at Eleanor Lake, which Graham judged to be the size of his family’s pond in Pennsylvania. He knew the Avalanche Peak trailhead was adjacent to Eleanor Lake in 1971, but no one had climbed this mountain in 1871. The ascent would be more challenging without a trail.

  “This is where we ascend,” Graham indicated, pointing to his left as they stopped on the western end of the petite lake. “We follow a small creek to the timberline, then climb to the summit on the leeward side of the mountain.”

  “Sure ’nuff looks steep!” Alec proclaimed, peering at the shallow ravine carved into the mountain.

  “Yes, it is,” Graham affirmed. “We’ll climb over two thousand feet in about two miles. At least we don’t have to handle Goodfellow’s odometer cart, Alec. I promise it will be worth the effort when we reach the top!”

  “Better be givin’ da horses ’n’ mules a good drink first,” Alec cautioned.

  Peale nodded in agreement. While the equines were being watered, Graham shared additional thoughts with the group.

  “When I was on this mountain in mid-June, there was still snow near the top. The wind at the peak makes it much colder than here at the bottom. We might have to put on a coat or an extra shirt when we reach the summit. We’ll have to walk once we get to the tree line, because the upper slopes are steep and covered with loose rocks.”

  “How steep is it at the summit?” Elliott asked warily.

  “I’d guess it’s a forty-degree slope. You have to lean into the mountain on your way to the summit. But oh, Henry! Wait till you see the view from up there. I hope you have some clean pages in your sketch pad!” Graham said enthusiastically, trying to assuage Elliott’s apprehension.

  Elliott looked askance at Graham and shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve scaled plenty of mountains. Let’s go.”

  “Lead the way,” Peale said to Graham after the animals drank their fill and everyone had mounted. “Private Byrch, you take up the rear.”

  The ascent was immediately steep. Horses and mules labored under their loads as the small group slowly advanced up the mountain alongside the creek. Graham had to guide Lindy around fallen trees and occasional boulders under the dense canopy of a spruce forest. He would have had to lead the group in a zigzag pattern even without obstacles because the severe slope limited their ability for a straight ascent on horseback. After ten minutes Graham paused, waiting for his colleagues to catch up to his position. The animals were breathing heavily, water vapor blowing from their flared nostrils into the chilly morning air.

  “We’ll need to take short frequent breaks,” Graham asserted. “We should reach the tree line in thirty or forty minutes.”

  “Stop as often as you need,” Peale said, nodding in agreement.

  At the next break, Graham dismounted and inspected an array of western meadow rue growing along the stream in a plot of dappled sunlight. The plants had waxy leaves with three rounded lobes attached to stems two feet high. A patch of male flowers featured purple stamens with two dozen yellow-tipped anthers that dangled like miniature chandeliers from the tops of the stems. A separate clump of female plants with delicate, upright clusters of magenta star-shaped flowers had sprouted in the moist soil. He used his Barlow knife to harvest ample quantities of male and female plants. After wrapping the samples in a parfleche, he placed them in a leather pouch strapped onto the spare mule.

  Less than ten minutes later, the climbers arrived at a small meadow resplendent with vibrant wildflowers. Peale ordered the group to take a break while he and Graham collected samples of the plants in the alpine field. The geologist and amateur botanist spent thirty minutes gathering a variety of plant specimens including stately, light-purple lupine, large clusters of yellow columbines, and the spidery, dark-purple flowers of silky phacelia.

  After reentering the forest and riding for five more minutes, the team emerged above the tree line at the base of a large bowl. The slopes of the mountain were shaped into a giant amphitheater. The upper half of the slopes was mostly scree. These small, jagged rocks formed a loose aggregate that readily tumbled when disturbed to join piles of talus that had accumulated at the base from the eponymous slides of Avalanche Peak.

  With the forest canopy no longer obstructing their view, they could see the surrounding area to the east and south. Finger-shaped Sylvan Lake, where they had camped the previous evening, lay directly below them. A section of Yellowstone Lake was visible to the southwest. After initially admiring the scene below, all eyes focused on the summit.

  “We should proceed without the horses and mules,” Graham advised while dismounting. “It’s too risky to lead them up that slope. Not only are those rocks sharp and unstable, but the wind near the peak can be fierce at times.”

  “Private Byrch, secure our horses to this large whitebark pine and stay here. The rest of us will take what we need and walk to the summit,” Peale directed.

  Graham nudged Peale and pointed to the smooth gray bark of the weathered pine, which had four parallel vertical gouges several inches long and six feet from the base.

  “We’re in grizzly territory,” Graham announced, nodding at the clawed tree. “They love the whitebark pine nuts. A bear isn’t likely to bother us, but I would stay vigilant and have your carbine ready until we return from the summit, Private Byrch.”

  The cavalryman heeded the advice and pulled his carbine from its scabbard. Elliott retrieved the sketch pad and pencil from his saddlebag while Graham slung his backpack over a shoulder, and Peale grabbed a leather satchel for rock samples.

  “Need me ´ta carry sumptin’?” Alec asked.

  “Nope. But maybe you should put a few rocks in your pockets, so a small man like you doesn’t get blown off the top of the mountain!” Peale quipped.

  “I jes’ be holdin’ on ´ta one of you fellas if’n I need ´ta,” Alec replied with a grin.

  The quartet started toward the summit. Graham was in th
e lead, followed by Henry Elliott and Albert Peale, with Alec Sibley taking the rear position. In modern times, a well-worn trail would guide hikers toward the peak. Since they were the first white men to make this climb, there was no path.

  Scree tumbled down the steep slopes as the men labored to gain elevation. A stiff wind raced down from the summit, buffeting the men and making it more challenging to maintain their balance. Graham pushed upward at alternating left and right thirty-degree angles relative to the axis of the ridge. This series of switchbacks lessened their ascent rate and allowed them to establish more stable footing on loose rocks that occasionally gave way under their boots.

  “Hold up!” Elliott shouted from behind.

  Graham turned to see the artist extending his arms into the rocky slope as if he were doing inclined push-ups.

  “What’s wrong?” Graham asked.

  “I . . . I don’t want to climb any farther.”

  “We’ll be at the top in another fifteen minutes. We can take more breaks if you’re tired. I know it’s harder to breathe at these elevations.”

  “No. That’s not it. It’s just . . . I’m just . . . I’m not comfortable at these heights.”

  Graham looked over the trembling man’s shoulders and caught Peale’s eye. They nodded at each other knowingly.

  “Henry, you can return to the tree line and wait there with Private Byrch until we return. Take your time and retrace our steps. You’ll be fine,” Peale said reassuringly.

  Elliott took a deep breath and carefully started his descent. He crouched and leaned toward the mountain slope, gingerly placing one foot in front of the other and frequently sitting down on the jagged rocks when he sensed he might lose his balance.

  When the trio of remaining climbers reached the barren summit, they sat down to keep a low profile from the wind whipping across the mountaintop. The view was spectacular. The future Shoshone National Forest lay behind them to the east, the innominate peaks of the Absaroka Range strung out to the north and south, and Yellowstone Lake glimmered in the late-morning sun to the west. The iconic pyramidal-shaped summits of the Teton Range punctured the southwestern horizon fifty miles away.