Letters from Yellowstone

by Diane Smith

  My notes from the day:

  8:55 a.m. Miss Selma Zwinger, lady naturalist and world traveller, arrives. Pitches small cavalry tent, cot, bedding, & camp stool with much ceremony on edge of clearing. Informs anyone who will listen (just me & Cookee in hearing range) that accommodations are for Dr. Bartram. As you know, my accommodations inadequate, but Butte miners live like princes & kings compared to average cavalryman if this gear any indication. Once all in place, Miss Z departs with equal flair.

  10:20 a.m. Horse arrives. Delivered by Capt. Alexander Craighead from headquarters. Tall, handsome chap with large mustaches who claims keen devotion to botanical sciences. Stays for coffee, then leaves. No sign of Miss B.

  12:05 p.m. Small bundle of poetry arrives, tucked inside fishing creel. Grey-beard transporting same identifies self as writer. Looks more like aging priest with long white locks and long black garb. Catches breath by fire, looks around for Miss B, then leaves.

  1:45 p.m. Delivery wagon from nearby ranch arrives. Prime cuts of beef on ice. Cookee beside himself shouting in Chinese something about bears. Rancher driving wagon shares tobacco & whiskey. Makes me question value of higher education when even cowboys smoke & drink better than I do. Claims to know Park backcountry like back of hand. Offers his services. Says he could be valuable asset. Then leaves. Still no Miss B.

  3:30 p.m. Female delegation arrives with kettle, ceramic pot & sandwiches. Make themselves at home. Brew tea, make small talk by fire. Expecting Miss B & will wait until she arrives. No sign of her. They are not deterred.

  5:15 p.m. Miss B arrives. Dressed for parlors in Philly not camp-grounds in Park. Long hair neatly pinned. Boots shiny. The two louts lug gear. First work I’ve seen out of them since we arrived. Accommodations do not phase Miss B. Stacks books, travel case, equipment alongside tent. Will not fit inside. Miss B smiles & sips cold tea as if laced with fine brandy. One night in this weather will dampen good humor is my prediction.

  6:00 p.m. Young women leave as Merriam arrives. Spies horse hobbled behind Miss B’s tent. Wants to know who will feed it.

  7:00 p.m. Merriam paces all night. Can’t sit still. Even at dinner. Young louts devour steaks. Miss B joins us at table, but says little except to Cookee who she compliments in Chinese after dinner. First time I’ve seen him smile. Has solid gold tooth. Right in front.

  8:00 p.m. Miss B borrows candle from Cookee, says goodnight to anyone who’ll listen, crawls into tent. Merriam walks. Louts sneak into town. I stay put. Too much snow & mud, even if brandy at hotel far superior to what you’ve supplied.

  Tell Little Allen at tobacconist on Main to send month’s supply of usual. Same address for now. Put it on my account. Send better brandy. Put that on yours.

  Sincerely &c,

  Andrew Rutherford, Ph.D.

  8:30 a.m. Merriam & I breakfast alone. Louts sleep in. Miss B, horse, gone by time we’re up.

  A. E. Bartram

  Mammoth Hot Springs

  Yellowstone National Park

  May 22, 1898

  Lester King

  Dept. of Biological Sciences

  Cornell University

  Ithaca, N.Y.

  Dear Lester:

  Please send a field guide or other materials on montane mosses. They thrive adjacent to the hot springs and I am assuming they do equally well in spring snowbeds which are beginning to thaw. There are a number of brightly colored lichens, too, about which I am woefully under educated. Please, please send references.

  Alex

  p.s. I am so happy!

  Howard Merriam

  Mammoth Hot Springs

  Yellowstone National Park

  May 23, 1898

  Dear Mother,

  You will be relieved to learn that I have not turned Miss Bartram away as planned, and that she is now fully ensconced into our camp, with her own tent, bedding, and other feminine necessities delivered (without any charge!) by a woman naturalist who considers herself a patron of the sciences. This leaves me little choice but to accept Miss Bartram’s presence and welcome her into our group. It would be unethical and, I dare say, unwise at this point to do otherwise.

  Miss Bartram has been most gracious in accepting my generosity, and has settled in with little ceremony and even less disruption to our lives. She has even been considerate enough, given our meagre provisions, to return the horse delivered for her use, claiming it would prove to be an inconvenience, and that she prefers to walk to her destinations.

  So far, she has spent most of the daylight hours away from camp, systematically collecting moss, lichens, grasses, anything growing this early in and around the hot springs adjacent to the hotel. When wading in the warm, murky waters she does not appear to be in the least bit hampered by her skirts, which she keeps hitched up around her knees in a most efficient-like manner. In the evenings, she works by lantern light copying her field notes and initiating her illustrations which have a precise, albeit feminine, quality. Copies and duplicate specimens she shares with Rutherford who, she apparently assumes, is the expedition’s record keeper. He appears to revel in the assignment, and has taken to keeping his own daily journal and weather book.

  While at the hotel, Miss Bartram made a number of friends and acquaintances, many of whom now make a regular pilgrimage to the hot springs area, travelling up the hill in shifts to deliver tea, sandwiches, and gossip from the hotel by day, and to our camp to monitor Miss Bartram’s progress each night. Although she is most gracious to all, she is a tireless worker and does not appear to enjoy the constant interruptions.

  Last night at dinner, she mentioned to Rutherford that she is thinking of moving further up the valley and following some streambeds off the main road. Of course, I can never allow her to break camp on her own. For one thing, there is too much danger for a woman, with the bears and the vagabonds and the uncertain weather. There will be plenty of opportunity to venture into the backcountry when we will all be there to protect her. Besides, my plan is to maintain a systematic methodology when collecting, an approach which requires us all to work in one well-defined area at a time. We are a party now and must stick together in all that we do.

  Even though she claims to be anxious to venture further into the field, once we do break camp here I am certain Miss Bartram will miss the companionship of other women. I think Rutherford will miss them, too. Even the Cave brothers, the two students who are travelling with us, have taken to spending more evenings in camp than away from it now that we have female company.

  The only one in our party who will not miss the constant flow of feminine visitors is Jake Packard, our Butte driver and guide. He and his dog have made their own camp on Beaver Creek, refusing to join us even for meals. I am to get a message to him at the hotel when we are ready to move camp. Otherwise, he has made it clear he wants nothing whatsoever to do with us.

  The weather is warming considerably and, thanks to a west wind last night, the clearing around our campground is now completely free of snow. Rutherford complains bitterly about the mud, but then Rutherford will always find something about which to complain. I see the changing conditions as a sign we will be working soon. I am ready to get started.

  I will keep your advice about Miss Bartram in mind, whose name, by the way, is Alexandria Elisabeth although she refers to herself as Alex. I doubt that she will last the month, particularly when faced with leaving the conveniences and conviviality of the hotel. However, while she is my guest here, I will do my utmost to be considerate of her and her special needs.

  Love,

  Howard

  A. E. Bartram

  Mammoth Hot Springs

  Yellowstone National Park

  May 27, 1898

  Jess!

  I am settled, working, and, as promised, writing to keep you informed of my where-abouts and my what-abouts. Thanks to one of the world travellers I met at the hotel, a Miss Zwinger by name, I am now comfortably accommodated in Professor Merriam’s camp just outside of Mammoth Hot Springs. I have
a lovely cavalry tent all to myself, into which I crawl at night feeling quite privileged and pampered, since the rest of the party, even the Professor, is forced by limited funds and facilities to share. I feared that my special privileges would alienate the rest of the party but, with one exception which I will reveal momentarily (just as he has revealed himself to me!), they have been quite gracious about my good fortune and have welcomed me into their group as if they were expecting me all along.

  Professor Merriam has been most accommodating. As long as I cost him little or nothing, keep to myself, and do not bother or talk to him, he appears content to leave me to my own resources, since planning and administration consume most of his attention right now. He spends a good deal of time in the Park headquarters and at the hotel, so I have very little interaction with him anyway. In his absence, I will do my utmost to earn his respect and scientific admiration.

  Andrew Rutherford, on the other hand, has a private reserve of some foul-smelling alcohol, reminiscent of the earliest preservatives we used to work with in the laboratory, so he does not bother to leave the confines of the camp. Instead, claiming the weather is either too cold, too wet, too windy, the ground too muddy or too snowy, or the barometer or thermometer threatening one of the above, he keeps to the fire. Instead of venturing into the elements, or simply touring some of the marvels of this place, he has generously offered to catalogue and maintain my contributions to the expedition collection. Or at least he will manage them until field conditions improve and he can begin the collection process himself, something he insists he is planning to do eventually.

  Dr. Rutherford is an agriculturist by training—a villein who failed at farming his family’s land, due to the vagaries of poor weather and probably poor management given what he has revealed about himself so far. Instead, Dr. Rutherford has pursued this alternative profession in academics with a passion, hoping, I assume, that young prospective farmers and ranchers might learn from his mistakes. I cannot help but believe that the same passion might have saved his family’s farm, but he now sees his future tied to his western agricultural students. Their success apparently will be enough for him.

  However, even if he lacks the temperament for applied economic botany, he has survived the mental molding which accompanies a graduate education and has, in the process, developed some quality academic skills. He is a quick learner, and follows my studies and the illustrations of my small discoveries with great attentiveness and interest.

  Daniel Peacock, the entomologist, has made one brief appearance, returning from the field only long enough to safely store his collection of bugs (which Dr. Rutherford reluctantly has agreed to curate), restock his provisions, and catalogue a stash of trout, which he then stuffed with Allium cernuum (or possibly A. Schoenoprasum—they must taste very much the same) and grilled on wooden racks woven specially for the purpose. The sweet taste of onion is particularly inviting, and enhances the smoky flavor of the fish. I think we all secretly look forward to another visit from Dr. Peacock and a respite from the Chinese cook’s adequate but unimaginative fare.

  Unfortunately, Dr. Peacock did not stay long enough for me to learn much about his studies. Our campground has turned into quite a social place, and he appears adverse to any socialization. I must admit that I, too, weary of the constant interruptions, although it is certainly flattering to have so many express an interest in me and my work. We will be breaking camp soon and I am certain the visitations will cease. It is one thing for visitors to walk down the road from the hotel at tea time in the name of science, but quite another to travel miles into the backcountry without the aid of roads or guides. As for me, there will be time enough at the end of the season to discuss my work, when I have something worthy of sharing.

  That is not to say I have not started collecting. I have. The hot springs area above the hotel is a diverse landscape of multi-leveled terraces of hot water falls, steamy semi-circular pools of red and green and yellow, and singular underground springs which percolate from the earth like a pot put on the fire to boil. The water carries with it a milky-white substance of calcium carbonate and, when it shifts or retreats, it leaves behind strangely formed travertine aprons and solitary projectiles some as high as thirty or forty feet.

  Hayden, or more likely one of his party with poor eyesight or a vivid imagination, dubbed one such travertine cone the Liberty Cap, after the hats worn during the revolutionary war. The name has stuck, but I will admit to you alone that it looks more like a 40-foot phallus than any hat even the most outrageous revolutionary would place on his head. I find it greatly amusing that the women staying at the hotel cluster below the projectile to have their photographs taken. For liberty, or at least that is what they say.

  The Liberty Cap is at the base of the hot springs area where I walk each day in search of specimens. As you can imagine, the sulphurous water is deadly to animal and plant life (pale white tree skeletons stand like sentries marking where the water once engulfed them before retreating), but even in such poisonous and dangerous conditions, much richness and diversity of life is beginning to reveal itself in the land adjacent to the hot pools. I could spend the entire season just chronicling the emerging flora, as it adapts to changing conditions. Because the water and, thus, the land, shifts and moves unpredictably, sometimes as often as day-to-day, it is reminiscent of the beginning of the earth. Or maybe the end. If ever I am to understand the plant kingdom in all of its complexity, and truly internalize the lessons Darwin had to teach us all, it is here, where all of creation constantly changes and struggles to adapt and survive. Even me. Which brings me back, in a stumble-down sort of way, to the Liberty Cap.

  Yesterday, on just such an exploration, I ventured west from the Mammoth main terrace, and passed a large, round, mountainous deposit of travertine and slowly moving water streaked and mottled with an oozing amber and orange. As I walked past the mound, I spotted something growing next to a tree below me, so I cautiously left the path and ventured toward it. The air was preternaturally still and, other than the constant bubbling and boiling noises, there were no other sounds. The earth’s crust is thin and unstable throughout this area, so I was focused more on the ground immediately in front of me, with my concentration only briefly interrupted by the occasional squawk of a solitary Pica pica, a cry which is in itself unsettling.

  As I cautiously crept down the last six or seven feet toward the prize, my foot slipped on an unstable rock or bit of loose sand, and I went tumbling down a steep incline toward Bath Lake. I could not have choreographed it better. After skidding and scraping my left side against a fallen tree, I bounced once into a sheltered snowbank and landed miraculously at the foot of the expedition’s mountain man driver just as he had slipped out of his buffalo and elk skins, but before he had had an opportunity to slip himself into the water. Now it is customary, I am told by my companions at the hotel, that when women wish to swim in the bathing lake they throw rocks ahead of them to warn of their imminent arrival. I took this quaint custom to new heights. I threw myself!

  It must be said that the gentleman in question appears to have a phobia about women. As I may have told you, he refused to transport me into the Park from the Cinnabar station and has declined to re-enter our camp since my arrival. I suppose if I had screamed, or fainted, or cried with shame at my dilemma, his worst suspicions about entertaining a woman in the party would have been confirmed, but at least his world view would have been left intact. I am afraid I looked up at him in all his glory with a total lack of interest, at that particular moment more concerned with the specimen I had missed further up the hill. This only added insult to injury and I am sure will do little to improve our relationship. I can only hope I do not run (or fall!) into him again for a while.

  Once I limped back into camp, Kim Li, the Chinese cook hired for the field study, provided some foul-smelling botanical salve for the scrape on my knee and thigh. Not wanting to offend him, I thoroughly washed the affected area and lightly applied his medic
ine. This may be more a case of performing the proper procedures followed by a folk remedy which can do little or no harm, but I am happy to report that both physician and patient are more than satisfied with the almost immediate healing results. If only Kim Li could deliver a similar potion to calm the savage breast, if not soothe the bruised pride, of my new buckskinned friend.

  Until he heals, or at least for the next few days, I think I will avoid the hot springs area altogether and, after delivering this letter to the post office in the cavalry complex, will proceed down the Gardner River. Although pockets of deep snow still lie in most of the protected areas, I am told that Ovis canadensis populate the cliffs above the river. Once we hit open land, there may not be another opportunity to view bighorns or any other cliff dwellers, so will walk along the river while I have the chance. And you never know. The Gardner is wide and marshy in places, so might even see an Alces alces. I have seen them on several occasions in New England, but to see them here in the West, and in the Wild, would be a most wondrous sight. And I will not give up on the B. bison. They have not all been destroyed, I am told. You just have to know where to look for them.

  If you see Lester, please tell him I am fine and will be sending packages of specimens soon. He has kindly forwarded a travelling library which should prove to be immensely helpful once in the backcountry.

  I hope this letter finds you as well and happy there as I am here.

  Yours most faithfully,

  Alex

  Dr. Philip Aber

  National Hotel

  Mammoth Hot Springs

  Yellowstone Park, Wyo.

  May 28, 1898

  Mrs. Philip Aber

  Dupont Circle

  Washington