Letters from Yellowstone

by Diane Smith

  I can tell Miss Bartram does not appreciate my interest in preserving this information, since she is very traditional in her approach to science. Except for an occasional spirited discussion, however, she leaves me to my studies as long as I leave her to hers. Rocky and Stony, the two students who are accompanying us, have also been remarkably cooperative, given the long hours and number of miles we cover each day, and have demonstrated a curiosity if not an interest in our work.

  So, surprisingly, has Rutherford, who has reluctantly but dependably followed instructions and returned to camp each night with more specimens than I could have ever hoped for, even if he does follow Miss Bartram’s wasteful example of preserving only one specimen per sheet. Miss Bartram, understanding the financial limitations of the expedition, has been gracious enough to furnish her own specimen sheets which are mailed to her along with other supplies from New York. Rutherford, on the other hand, dips daily into my own personal supply as he catalogues and preserves the expedition’s collection. His is an extravagance we cannot afford and I have told him so.

  But these minor financial worries pale when compared to the people problems I am encountering. This is work for which I have no training or natural inclination, and one which I would just as soon ignore as long as the overall goals of the expedition are being met. Aber, on the other hand, is obsessed by his need to control the every breathing moment of the expedition and insists on visiting our camp at the most inopportune times, allegedly to check on our progress but more likely to catch us with our collective pants down if you know what I mean.

  Just the other night, for example, Aber wandered into camp unannounced, only to find every vagabond travelling the Grand Loop, not to mention the young, foot-loose and fancy-free staff employed at the Lake Hotel, settled in for a long spontaneous night of music and merriment in celebration of the Summer Solstice. Aber was no doubt attracted by our campfire which had grown from a few logs fed hourly, to a bonfire large enough to burn down the entire encampment given even the slightest breeze.

  I assured Aber it was a spontaneous event, Rutherford being too exhausted by day’s end to organize such revelry, but I was not the only one to observe that the participants all seemed to have spontaneously brought food and drink to share (there was much drink including a potent home-brew) and that each of the 50 or so merrymakers (or trouble makers depending on your point of view) had spontaneously prepared a skit, recitation, or song in celebration of summer.

  Miss Zwinger, a woman who has taken great interest in our expedition and who regularly calls upon our camp, prepared a dramatic reading of Shelley’s poem “The Sensitive Plant”: “It loves, even like Love, its deep heart is full; it desires what it has not, the beautiful!”—a poem guaranteed to raise more than one set of eyebrows I can assure you. If hers was the limit of provocative presentations, I could have endured it, but there was more. Much more.

  Another visitor, an accountant on his way by bicycle through the Park, told, in much detail, of the first discovery of Yellowstone Park. We all had a good laugh at the early reports of a bubbling hell where entire forests were “putrefied,” stories so far fetched that it took years before anyone even bothered to investigate the veracity of them. And yet, who amongst us would have believed the stories if we had not seen this bubbling hell with our own eyes?

  Not to be undone, a young woman travelling with Miss Zwinger advanced to the fire with her copy of Chittenden’s book on Yellowstone National Park, from which she proceeded to read a hair-raising tale of massacres and pursuits of renegade Indians in the early days of the Park. Now if the young lady had continued to read to the end of Chittenden’s tale, she would have revealed that even Chittenden was sympathetic to the plight of the Nez Percé who were, in the author’s words, “intelligent, brave, and humane.” He was also wise enough to predict that history would prove that the Indians were in the right. As Chittenden noted, the Nez Percé were making a last, desperate stand against their inevitable destiny, refusing to give up everything, including their land and their dignity, both of which had been theirs for centuries before the arrival of the paleface.

  But the truth is often the last ingredient of a good story and all seemed happy with the general effect of the young lady’s abbreviated tale. All, that is, except for Philip Aber.

  When the next performance turned out to be a rousing rendition of “Turkey in the Straw” on a fiddle and guitar, Aber took me aside and asked if it was prudent to invite Indians into our camp given their history in the region.

  Different Indians, I assured him, and different times. The run-in with the Nez Percé had taken place twenty years before. But Aber was not appeased.

  “You have women here to look after, and our reputation,” he added, the anger rising in his face and voice. “You can’t have Indians lurking around in the trees.”

  “But they are helping with my field studies,” I replied, anxious to defend myself and my own reputation. “The young man is incredibly knowledgeable about the plant life in this region.”

  “Knowledgeable?” he shouted back at me. “Knowledgeable? An Indian is more knowledgeable than you are? What are you telling me, man? That I would be better off hiring a savage to do the work I’ve hired you and your friends to do?”

  Fortunately, by this time the lone fiddle and guitar had been joined by a small band of instruments played by the boys from the hotel, supplemented by a foot-tapping and hand-clapping tempo led by Rutherford beating a wooden spoon and a ladle on one of the cook’s large stew kettles. The resulting noise (I am hard-pressed to describe it as music) drowned out our argument so the party-goers were oblivious to our confrontation. Still, I felt embarrassed that not only my credibility but my ability to lead a scientific expedition had come under attack. And by someone who has not a clue how to collect specimens in the field, preferring the comforts and daily luxuries of the hotel. I fought back. What else could I do?

  “Who are you to tell me who I can or cannot have helping me?” I shouted over the clamor. “You who sit in your hotel room all day, never even venturing into the field? You have no right to tell me how to do my work, and with whom. You have no right.” And then to be sure he understood my point of view, I added, “You have not earned it.”

  If the music had not ended at that exact moment, I am quite certain our exchange of insults would have escalated into an exchange of blows. As it was, the merriment subsided to much hand clapping, hoots and whistles, after which the noise quieted long enough for another performer to step forward into the light of the fire.

  “Who is next, who is next?” Rutherford called out, banging on his so-called drum. “Step forward, and let the celebration continue.”

  Aber retreated to the edge of the merrymakers’ circle, where he was almost hidden by the trees. My insults were bad enough but, in retrospect, it would have been much better if I had hit him and sent him packing. Maybe then he would not have witnessed what followed.

  “Next,” Rutherford shouted again, beating out a parody of a drum roll on his kettle.

  Out of the darkness, our horseman and driver, Jake Packard, emerged. Packard is not the most social of creatures, preferring to keep his distance from the lot of us, although he has taken a liking to Rutherford and his regular liquor shipments, which he had obviously been sampling throughout the day. He held a book tightly to his chest as if it alone were providing the sense of balance he needed as he staggered toward the fire. His dog sat and waited at a safe distance.

  “I have sumpen to read,” he said, and the circle of revellers clapped and whistled in appreciation. The dog wagged his tail.

  “I jus thought you’d wanna know what these little ladies are reading at night,” he added, smiling and weaving and fumbling through the pages.

  “Lissen a this,” he mumbled.

  Then he proceeded, not very well I might add, to pick out, word by word, the description of the sexual parts of the plant.

  “Flowers open when all parts of the plant are matur
e,” he hesitantly started. “Sumtimes,” he continued, and then he stumbled, “the and-roe-eek-cum, or sumpen like that,” he did the best he could with the terminology, tripping over each letter in attempt to make it sound official, but we knew what he meant, “matures earlier than the cum-and-roe-cee-um,” he stuttered and spit, “soes not to inner fear with the pollen and pissels of the same flower.”

  He looked up and smiled.

  “A pissel. I have one of them,” he interjected proudly. Then he spit again into the fire.

  The driver drunkenly tripped over the scientific descriptions, but the overall meaning was not lost on the crowd, which stared collectively into the fire rather than look at the matted mass of hair and shabby buckskins that wove back and forth and blasphemed in front of them. He then went on to read in much the same way how the tip of the pollen tube pushes its way into the ovule in the ovary where it makes contact with the female. Cells rupture, the sperm is released, and it merges with the egg. Standard textbook fare. Certainly nothing unusual about it.

  “Well,” the driver said hacking and spitting with great ceremony into the fire. “I jus wannad to share that with you.”

  The driver waved the book at those sitting around the circle. The dog stood and wagged his tail.

  “I offen wonnered what she was doin in there in bed with a book.” He laughed suggestively. “She calls it science.” He spit again. “I call it inneresing.”

  Before the driver could continue, Rutherford was beating again on his make-shift drum calling for music, more music. The boys from the hotel jumped at the chance to perform their number, a western campfire song about the trees and breeze and the whispering pines. The driver stumbled back to where he came from, his dog following closely behind.

  I looked around for Miss Bartram but could not find her anywhere. She tends to avoid these kinds of social activities, so I can only hope that she had already retired for the night, without her book, and that she had missed the entire dreadful presentation.

  I wish I could say the same for Aber. He was still lurking around the circle of revellers, his worst suspicions about my leadership skills and judge of character now fully confirmed. He flashed a look of pure hatred in my direction and then he, too, disappeared into the night.

  So, Bill, what should I do? I can forbid the use of alcohol in the camp, and will, of course, do that. But I also know that Rutherford and his friends will simply limit their consumption to when they are either on the road (most of the daylight hours) or visiting the hotel (which would probably be most of the rest of the time if they are not allowed to drink here). They will probably also drink in greater abandon, knowing they will have to make it through the night once they are back in camp.

  Another option is to fire Packard, but if he goes, all of our provisions, including bedding, tents, and cooking capabilities, will go back to Butte with him. Then what would I do?

  I can disassociate myself from the Indians, but there is no guarantee that will appease Aber at this point, and it might even put the young Indian family at risk. There are some strange people lurking around these parts, many of whom make the likes of Jake Packard look tame.

  As you can see, it is the human dilemmas, not the field work or science, which puts me at a real disadvantage here. People are not my strength. If you could join us, even temporarily, I feel that a level of respectability would be restored to our group. You met Aber in the Capital. He speaks highly of you and your abilities. I think in cases like these, your age and stature would be a real benefit, providing Aber with a sense of confidence that he clearly lacks when dealing with me. If you simply wanted to visit the Park and not even worry about the field work, your presence and authority alone, I am convinced, could make a real difference.

  Aber originally planned to leave the Park at the end of the month but is now talking as if he is here until the first snow falls. If he knew you were planning on joining us, perhaps that would give him the confidence he needs to change his mind and go home.

  So please, please consider my offer. I have no one else to turn to and need your help all the more because of it.

  Yours most sincerely,

  Howard

  Andrew Rutherford, Ph.D.

  c/o Lake Hotel

  Yellowstone National Park

  Temp. 65°F., 0 precip.

  June 23, 1898

  Robert Healey

  President

  The Agricultural College

  of the State of Montana

  Bozeman, Mont.

  My dear President,

  Happy to report Merriam’s research career fast coming to close. Has alienated Philip Aber, who threatens to withdraw Smithsonian funding. Ruckus & near fistfight over Indians camped in clearing & reproduction of plants. Merriam will soon have no choice but to re-join ranks of economic botanists & agriculturists. Wish I could say was my doing, but result the same. You owe me that new building as promised.

  In other news, railroad active in negotiating lease of land through Park. Planning dams, power generation, large lakes. Much excitement with many swells, black coats, high hats in residence at hotel. Merriam meeting daily to talk about herbarium. Has their attention, in spite of his own dismal situation. You should be here to counter with own ideas. This is big money looking for home. Why not build them one in Bozeman?

  Might find you enjoy Yellowstone. No known highwaymen. Not known as Wonderland for nothing.

  Send supplies care of hotel. Would like anemometer. Windy here.

  Yours reliably &c,

  Andrew Rutherford, Ph.D.

  A. E. Bartram

  c/o Yellowstone Lake Hotel

  Yellowstone National Park

  June 25, 1898

  Jess:

  I have taken your advice and written a long, chatty letter to my parents. There is no reason for them to worry so, and certainly no reason for them to be bothering you with their worries. Still, I will try my utmost to keep them better informed.

  I will not bore you with my day-to-day activities, which have settled into a gentle routine. But now that we have moved to the lake and the “season” is upon us, I have had some interesting backcountry encounters and experiences which illustrate how far I have come on my journey—or how far I have fallen behind, depending upon your point of view.

  First, I should point out, as I should have made clear to my parents, that Professor Merriam plans each day’s outing to the minute to ensure that we are always back in camp before the first signs of nightfall. He has become almost obsessive about this, probably because he fears the wrath of Philip Aber from the Smithsonian. He not only sponsors our work, but monitors our activities closely. Should we ever be even a few minutes late, I am quite convinced that Dr. Aber would call the entire U.S. Cavalry out to prove his point that the Professor is not to be trusted.

  Professor Merriam’s commitment to being back in camp before dark does limit our destinations since we can, after all, only cover so many miles and still return by the light of day. But knowing exactly where we are headed and when we will return does bring a certainty to each outing which the Professor apparently finds comforting. After spending a night in a spring blizzard, I suppose I should take some comfort from it as well, although I question how we will ever manage to collect alpine species once it warms in the higher backcountry if we are confined to our camp on the lake. But those are the kinds of logistical problems that Professor Merriam must work out on our behalf. As Dr. Rutherford is fond of saying, “The Prof doesn’t pay us to worry about the details. That’s his job.”

  The other day, while on one of our well-planned excursions, Professor Merriam was collecting along a streambed with the Indian, who is his constant companion now, while I chose to climb to a shady forested area above and to the right of them. As I pushed through the trees to a clearing on the other side, I came across a small, green tent-like structure sitting just on the edge of the clearing. Curious, I silently crept toward it, not exactly sure what I was looking for, but not at
all prepared for what I found.

  “Shh,” came a voice from inside the tent.

  I stopped, of course, and listened, but I could not see or hear anything other than a slight breeze which rustled through the trees. I continued walking, quietly, toward the tent.

  “Shh,” came the voice again, as a twig snapped under my foot. “You will frighten them.”

  Again I looked around to see what or whom I might be frightening. I could see nothing. The flap of the tent opened briefly. A hand motioned me forward.

  “Hurry,” the voice whispered. “Just be careful,” it admonished.

  Silently, I inched toward the diminutive structure, which opened slightly to let me in. Because of the darkness inside the small tent, it was difficult to make out who or what was inhabiting it, but I accepted the welcome and stepped inside.

  “Here,” the voice whispered, grabbing my arm and guiding me back toward a narrow camp stool. “Your eyes will adjust in a minute.”

  I sat and waited. “Aren’t they beautiful?” the voice whispered again. “A family of yellow wings.”

  Slowly, as my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I saw to what the soft, quiet voice referred. In the tree directly across the clearing a Dendroica petechia was feeding her young.

  “Here, try these.”

  From out of the shadows emerged a pair of opera glasses, which helped to bring the young birds into clear focus. She was right, for the voice was that of a woman, the young warblers with their soft, downy feathers and urgently gaping mouths were indeed humorous if not exactly beautiful to watch.