Letters from Yellowstone

by Diane Smith

  Again those pale, hostile eyes scanned the room, before darting back to the hotel clerk. I looked at her, too, hoping, I suppose, for some sort of confirmation, but she avoided us both by shuffling her registrations, still looking for that elusive “Dr.” Bartram. So again I persisted.

  “Are you Professor Merriam?” I repeated, placing my ignored hand on the registration desk. Well, maybe I banged it on the desk a bit for emphasis, but I was trying to get his attention.

  The man looked contemptuously in the direction of my hand, mumbled something like, “I ain’t Merriam, and you ain’t Bartram,” and then he stalked out of the hotel, climbed into a wagon, and drove off. I am certain my mouth dropped open as I turned back to the woman at the front desk who, by now, had found my name in her shuffle.

  “Dr. Bartram?” she asked. She, too, sounded incredulous. I assured her there was no physician in the house, promptly paid my bill, and checked out, catching the yellow stage into the Park, where I was met by yet another telephone message from the real Professor Merriam, who arranged to meet me at this second hotel later in the day.

  For, yes, that was not Professor Merriam, but his hired hand, who had met me earlier in Cinnabar. It turns out, however, that I am not the real Dr. Bartram, either, for it seems that we have all suffered from a most unfortunate comedy of errors. That we should live to see the humor in all of this remains to be seen.

  As I should have expected from his initial correspondence, Professor Merriam is not at all like the mountain man with matted hair and beard and stinking skins I initially took him for, but more like any member of the faculty you might encounter at Cornell: soft-spoken, attentive, neat and tidy in a befuddled sort of way, clearly more passionate about the common names of plants than the opposite sex—destined to break many a Montana matron’s heart I am certain. That I could have mistaken his hairy, fur-clad assistant for Professor Merriam just goes to prove what a fool I am.

  Unlike his driver, Professor Merriam was gentleman enough to accept my offered hand and to sit with me by the hotel fire, and, in spite of my written clarification to the contrary, he insisted on addressing me as “Dr. Bartram.” After the usual niceties about the trip and the adequacies of the accommodations, Professor Merriam finally blurted out that he feared he had made a terrible mistake.

  “I must apologize for my driver abandoning you at the station like that but you must understand that we were expecting . . .” He hesitated, and untangled himself from a long knitted scarf which he pooled in his lap.

  “Well, I guess you could say we weren’t expecting . . .” and again his voice trailed off. This time he busied himself wiping his spectacles on the scarf fringe, taking great care in both the cleansing and subsequent replacing of them upon his nose. His is a long, narrow nose, so perhaps spectacles are difficult to balance.

  Finally he looked up, his eyes squinting as if to focus. He shook his head and removed his spectacles again, tipping them back and forth to catch the reflection of the fire in hopes of finding the speck of dust or lint which was impairing his vision. Still he said nothing.

  “Whom were you expecting?” I finally asked. I wanted to tell him that William Bartram, if that was who he had in mind, had been dead for more than 75 years. His father, John, for well over a hundred. But as I thought through the actual number of years, it occurred to me.

  “You were expecting a man?” I asked.

  He blushed and mumbled, hurriedly replaced his spectacles, and then leaned toward me from his chair, squinting and staring so intently that I felt that I, too, might blush.

  “Oh, Dr. Bartram, please do not misunderstand me,” he said. “It’s just that we simply cannot accommodate a woman. As it is, we’re three or four men to a tent. We can barely accommodate ourselves. And in this weather . . . I don’t know what to tell you.”

  I felt so sorry for him, mumbling and fumbling and smoothing his scarf, that I wanted to lean over, pat him on the knee, and tell him that I understood. But before I could act on that most primitive feminine instinct, I realized he was sitting there with the fire glistening off his spectacles, robbing me of my opportunity. My very next instinct, a much more rational one I might add, was to lean over and pull that scarf around his neck so tight that he would choke.

  Don’t worry. I did not do it. I did, however, tell him that I would not leave. He invited me and I am staying. He cannot get rid of me that easily. And I told him so.

  He looked up again, bewildered, said he would see what he could do, encircled himself a few times with his scarf, looked again at me very closely, coughed a time or two, and then left. And that is the last I have seen or heard from him.

  So I am waiting. And will wait, at least until I hear one way or another. Please do not breathe a word of this to anyone, particularly not to Lester who has taken to sympathizing with my mother over this misadventure as he calls it. And please do not worry. I will keep them all informed of my whereabouts, but I will keep the details necessarily vague. I will let them know about the rest when things are settled. One way or another, things will work out. They are bound to.

  In the meantime, think positive thoughts! Looks like I will need them.

  Alex

  Howard Merriam

  Mammoth Hot Springs

  Yellowstone National Park

  May 20, 1898

  Dear Mother,

  Remember that Dr. Bartram I wrote to you about? Well he has arrived. Only he is a she, and now I am at a complete loss as to what I should do. I am so woefully short of staff, I would embrace the worst laggard or miscreant the scientific world has to offer but, dear Mother, what am I to do with a woman? We already have a cook.

  Bill Gleick wrote from Washington to warn me of her arrival. Unfortunately, his letter has just arrived. A day late and a dollar short, much like this entire expedition, I fear. Bill is in the Capital now and, as a courtesy to me, met with my contact at the Smithsonian. In the course of the conversation, Bill politely asked after this Dr. Bartram of whom I had written so enthusiastically. Philip Aber remembered her well, according to Bill. In fact, Aber apparently went out of his way to look her up while visiting Cornell.

  Miss Bartram’s credentials are impeccable, and her work, albeit that of an amateur, is well respected. She has published two papers on the Bartram collection under the deceptively androgynous name “A. E.” Bartram—I still don’t know her given name. She has also contributed to the Nation’s collection—specimens and scientific illustrations at which she reportedly excels. Although Aber did not refer her to the expedition, Bill seemed to think Aber would recommend her if asked.

  In her personage I can find no fault either. She is quiet, understated, and respectful, not at all the chatty old woman that the botanical field is wont to attract amongst the female sex. Even so, if she were to join us in the field, I fear the entire enterprise would be put at risk. Where would she sleep? With whom would she travel into the backcountry? And how could she possibly endure an entire season of collecting in such primitive conditions? I desperately need the manpower but . . . you see, even the language conspires against me.

  And that is not to mention my driver. Straight from the mines in Butte, he “ain’t gonna haul no women,” he has made it perfectly clear. In fact, he even refused to transport her into the Park. As for the others, Peacock advised that I should take advantage of all the help I can get, but then he promptly disappeared, off scouting early hatches, while Rutherford contentedly sits by the fire, puffing on his pipe, mildly amused by my dilemma. But now that his new provisions have arrived from town, Rutherford appears to be mildly amused by everything. Even the weather.

  And the weather is anything but amusing. Gusting and damp at one moment, cold, still, and snowy the next. I made the mistake of asking the driver when spring arrives in this part of the country and he looked at me with that vacuous look of his and grumbled something like “this is spring.” Then he grumbled and growled some more (at the sky this time, or maybe it was at his dog) and
staggered off to the hotel where he spends so much time soaking in the outdoor baths that he looks more and more like a boiled lobster every day. Hard to tell if his coloring is from the curative powers of the water or the degenerative powers of drink which he also generously partakes of at the hotel. A combination of both is my guess.

  The driver is not the only one who wanders back to the campsite at all hours of the night. I foolishly made the mistake of inviting two students to join the expedition to prove my point that research and field work are the foundation of a scientific education. Now that they are safely established in the Park, and away from the watchful eye of their father, these two young men appear to be more interested in sniffing around the young blossoms arriving daily at the hotel, than uncovering any botanical discoveries. More than once I have heard the cook cursing them in Chinese as they tried to sneak into their shared tent well past midnight. I must say I cannot find too much fault in their harmless pursuit of amusement. At least not yet. Other than Peacock, we all have to sit and wait until the weather shifts.

  In the meantime I am busying myself noting wildlife, of which there is a growing abundance in the Mammoth area (some elk have become so tame, they have taken up semi-permanent residence at the hotel where they are fed nightly by the hotel staff). Saw my first pair of sandhill cranes down by the river. Also spied a goshawk circling the field where we are camped, a sure sign that it is warming—even if the thermometer and Rutherford both deny it.

  By the way, I did not shoot anything. It is strictly forbidden in the Park and the U.S. Cavalry is now fully in charge of the administration to ensure that all visitors respect these regulations. But even if it were legal, I admit that I am losing the desire to add to that part of my collection. Maybe it is the bleakness of this country, almost primeval, but I am beginning to see even a solitary raptor as an essential contributor to the fragile thread of life. I certainly do not want to be the one to start it unraveling.

  So you see, perhaps having excess time on my hands is not such a bad thing after all. I may still be skeptical about God and his so-called creation, but I am learning to see the world around me with older and, hopefully, wiser eyes. That anything—hawk, man, or beast—could survive in such a bleak and unforgiving land is truly a miracle of evolution worthy of respect.

  I hope you are well and it is warmer in California than it is here. It must be.

  Yours faithfully,

  Howard

  p.s. Miss Bartram is short and very slight of build so would not eat much. Given our meagre provisions and the state of our finances, that would be an asset, I must admit.

  Alexandria Bartram

  National Hotel

  Mammoth Hot Springs

  Yellowstone National Park

  May 21, 1898

  My dearest family,

  I write to you, believe it or not, from Yellowstone National Park. Mother, one sight of this place and you would understand why I had to experience it for myself. It is as though I have travelled back in time, to the very edge of the universe, where the earth, still in its most primordial stage, sputters and bubbles and spews out the very origins of life.

  That is not to imply that the modern day world has forsaken Yellowstone National Park. On the contrary. It is like a small city here, complete with post office, hospital, laundry, riding stables, barber, and a large barracks facility for the U.S. Cavalry which administers and patrols the Park.

  The hotel where I am staying is a large, very modern tourist facility, conveniently located within walking distance from the boiling cauldron further up the road. There is a spacious lobby, dining room, even a ballroom, and hot and cold running water on every floor. My fellow lodgers, many of whom are women you will be relieved to know, entertain me over dinner with stories of their travels abroad or their mishaps in the Park. These women appear to be an adventurous lot, arriving before the six-day coupon tours commence, often travelling on their own or in small groups of like-minded souls, demanding equal time in the hot ponds, which are otherwise monopolized by the men.

  When I tire of my dinner companions and their tales, I can retreat to the lobby with a cup of tea or a glass of English sherry, and enjoy a good book (right now I am reading a history of the Park written by the resident historian, another regular in the dining room). While sitting thus by the fire, a young pianist, knowing of my love of Schubert, selects his lobby repertoire as if to entertain me alone. I feel as though I have been transported to the wilds of New York City—not the wildest West.

  If I long to view the Park’s wildlife I have heard so much about, I simply step outside onto the verandah and there I am joined by more wildlife than I know what to do with. Just last night, for example, nineteen elk (Cervus elaphus) lingered on the cavalry’s snow-covered parade grounds just outside the hotel, their moist, warm breath mingling with the steam from the hot springs behind them. It was a lovely sight, until I realized that these handsome and stately creatures have been reduced by habit and convenience to begging for handouts, a degradation encouraged by the hotel staff which throws out table scraps after dinner.

  The Park’s other persistent and virulent form of wildlife (a subspecies I have Linnaeanized Homosapiens horribilis but who are identified locally by their common names of Whiskey Jack, Lord Byron, Geyser Joe, Handful of Dollars, &c.) can also be viewed after dinner, congregating in or around the hot baths up the hill from the hotel, or in the hotel itself, caging drinks and entertaining guests with their tall tales. One claims to have fallen into Old Faithful only to be spit back out at Beehive Geyser miles away! Another told of how the birds in Mammoth drink so much hot water, they lay hard-boiled eggs.

  “You watch for ’em, next time you’re out there, little lady,” one told me. “Hard as rocks those eggs are. Hard as rocks.”

  Not to be outdone, a third leaned over to a particularly gullible-looking young woman sitting next to me and warned her quite sincerely of the dangers of wading in Alum Creek.

  “Why, it’s so potent,” he cautioned, “it turned my first set of horses into Shetland ponies, just by settin’ foot in it,” he said.

  At this point the young woman’s mother intervened, suggesting that if the creek were as powerful as he suggested, then the teller of the tale would no doubt benefit from soaking his head therein. Great laughter erupted amongst the group, but the storyteller had the last laugh when a large jar of beer appeared at his table not long after the mother and daughter returned to their rooms.

  This natural ability to entertain and successfully beg, borrow, and steal from tourists must be yet another form of specialized western selection and adaptation, not unlike that demonstrated by the Park bears (Ursus americanus, U. cinnamoneus, and U. horribilis if you can imagine!), which have learned to rummage through the garbage dumped behind the hotel for their benefit—or, more likely, for the benefit of the hotel’s guests. They have even learned to beg at the kitchen pantry door (I am referring now to Ursus americanus, not Homosapiens touristii americanus!) and take apples and other treats directly from the hands of fools (for only fools would be so foolhardy!).

  Thoreau was right. We are at risk of civilizing our native species right off the face of the earth. We must all work to document this last wild place in America before it, too, is gone from us forever. If the fauna is so easily domesticated, can the flora be far behind?

  It is unclear what accommodations will be made for me to join the scientific expedition, which has established a temporary camp outside of the Mammoth Hot Springs area. The organizer, Professor H. G. Merriam, is working out the details for my joining them now.

  I think you both would like him. He is quiet and mild-mannered, so should be easy to work with. He also appears to worry a lot and to take his scientific calling seriously, in spite of his irritating penchant for common names. Father, you would be interested to know that the Professor spent three years teaching on the Crow Indian reservation where he apparently developed an appreciation of medical botany, primitive as it is. Lik
e you, he is interested in native cultures and Weltanschauung.

  His colleague, Andrew Rutherford, is a large, red-faced man who clearly enjoys the hotel and all it has to offer. I must admit I cannot imagine him enduring the rigors of field work, but perhaps he has another assignment in mind. An entomologist, Daniel Peacock, has left for the field, so I have not had an opportunity to meet him, but I have seen the expedition’s two student assistants, with the unlikely names of Stony and Rocky Cave, who also spend their evenings at the hotel. They, too, seem serious in their pursuits. The group has hired a driver and cook from the mines in Butte so I am sure that even when they leave the luxuries of this part of the Park behind them, accommodations will be more than adequate.

  As you can imagine, I am anxious to join them in the field, but it has been such a harsh winter, and cold, blustery spring with much snow still on the ground, that we cannot even begin to explore much less collect. In the meantime, I am determined to enjoy my warm room and the luxuries of the hotel, and to do my own exploring of the natural wonders of the Park. There will be time enough to “rough it” in the pursuit of science!

  So you see, dear Mother, and Father, too, there is nothing whatsoever to worry about. I am warm, safe, and enjoying myself immensely.

  I hope you are both well. I miss you, love you, and wish you were here!

  Most affectionately,

  your loving daughter,

  Alexandria

  Andrew Rutherford, Ph.D.

  Mammoth Hot Springs

  Yellowstone National Park

  May 21, 1898

  Dr. Robert Healey

  President

  The Agricultural College

  of the State of Montana

  Bozeman, Mont.

  President Healey:

  Dr. A. E. Bartram has officially arrived. Happy to report Bartram is a Miss. Not a physician. Not even doctor at that. Merriam prepared to send her packing. No female facilities. But she is not deterred.