by Diane Smith
It was, indeed, a picturesque setting, but I could not fully appreciate its attractions since I was too frustrated at having failed to capture the true likeness of the plant. I took my hand trowel from my bag and started to remove the specimen, when once again Mr. Wylloe interrupted me.
“Miss Bartram, you surprise me,” he said.
Now I was the impatient one. Again I sighed, but this time I fear it came out sounding more like a snort. Mr. Wylloe had been most generous in his interest in my work, and in his quiet observation, never once interrupting me, focusing his attention instead on the sun, the water, a book of verse he carried in his creel. He appeared to take little interest in what I was doing—or at least he did not interrupt me to learn more about it. In fact, he was such an unobtrusive companion that for that hour or two I thought Mr. Wylloe might prove to be a pleasant addition to my day. Someone I could ignore when it suited me, but still talk to once on the trail headed home. Someone I could write home about, perhaps providing my mother with a reason to be pleased or even proud of my experiences here. In the company of such a man, she would certainly have no reason for concern. But my mother’s concerns aside, I would have to discourage Mr. Wylloe’s interest in my work and decline his offer of companionship if he was going to turn into a bother. From the look on my face he must have understood my concerns.
“Please, I do not mean to intrude, Miss Bartram,” he said, rising from his sunny perch. He moved so slowly that I could almost detect each fragile bone moving inside his skin as he left the creek and walked towards me.
“You are young, and probably unaware of the academic life,” he said, leaning softly against a tree. “I, on the other hand, am experienced when it comes to these sorts of things. You will find that the academic life is a closed world. If you plan to succeed within it, you must play by its rules.”
Now I admit that I knew he was referring to the orchid, Professor Merriam, and the rest, but at the same time I did not have a clue what he really meant. The academic world, even the world of our expedition, is one of science, not sentiment, in spite of the Professor’s foolishness at times. And, yes, science and the academy have their rules, but those are the rules of dispassionate reason. If he meant that I should not remove a specimen because of some Indian’s idea of the sacred—well, you know me, I could not hold my tongue forever.
“Now it is you who must forgive me, Mr. Wylloe, for I wish to acknowledge and respect both your experience and your age. However, like the notion of what is sacred, this is simply outside your ken. There is room for sentiment in things like poetry,” I motioned to the slim volume he carried with him, “but not science. And the academy, with all its acknowledged limitations, does not thrive on sentiment.”
After a pause he spoke. “Perhaps you are right, Miss Bartram. Certainly about the science. However, I hope that even you could admit that the academy does not consist of science, or reason, or even knowledge, but people. It is people, Miss Bartram, with whom you must succeed. With that I will leave you to it.”
And he did. He replaced his hat, slipped his poetry back into his creel, and withdrew, his long white hair and beard reflecting the scattered light as if he were retreating underwater.
Which brings me to why I am boring you with all of this. Jessie, I sat there and sat there like a thwarted child. I revisited the words of Professor Merriam, the way he watched me so intently, his comment that the Indian did not want him to remove the specimen, all of it, but I could no more make sense of the Professor’s wishes than I could of Mr. Wylloe’s. Had the Professor argued that, following scientific protocol, a sole specimen should be left to stand, I would have understood and been forced to comply with his wishes. There would have been no discussion. But this sacred business made no sense to me what so ever.
Given that, I did a very inexplicable thing. I took one last hard look at the orchid, packed my colors and journal and tools, and returned to the trail to await Professor Merriam and the rest of our group. Mr. Wylloe was waiting there as well, although he said nothing when I joined him.
As I write this I am still unsettled with my decision. Even if I did what was right, I am not at all convinced that I did it for the right reason. It pains me to admit it, Jessie, but I left the specimen behind not for science, but for sentiment. Or maybe it was my desire to finally make peace with Professor Merriam, and to be accepted into his company. I am at a loss to otherwise explain it.
That night, when I transferred my specimens to Dr. Rutherford for safekeeping, I could sense Professor Merriam watching me closely. I refused to look back at him, and since he never asked to see the specimen, there is no way he could be certain that I left the orchid behind. But he knew. For something changed between us that night. Time will tell if it is a change for the better.
If I believed in God, I would ask you to pray for me. Something or someone better save me soon, or this whole experience may end up being one in which a promising young woman goes out west in pursuit of science only to return to New York just like any other watcher in the woods, starched and prim, dressed in fairy slippers, with nothing but sentimental love of botany and a mere passion for flowers. Maybe you should pray for me after all.
Your struggling but (still) unsentimental friend,
Alex
Lester King
National Hotel
Mammoth Hot Springs
Yellowstone National Park
June 28, 1898
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Bartram,
I am writing as promised to let you know I have arrived in Yellowstone National Park, although I have yet to rendezvous with Alexandria. I have met with a cavalryman at the Yellowstone headquarters, a Captain Craighead, who will take me to her and her colleagues on Friday. He assures me that the naturalists’ camp, as he refers to it, is an easy ride, and has offered to lend me a horse for the duration of my stay. I prefer, however, to wait for his guidance and expert company since I find it difficult to believe that any destination in this wilderness is an easy ride, the roads in and out of this small valley are so steep and treacherous. To make matters worse, it is now threatening to rain, which could make travel even more dangerous.
That is not to suggest to you that Alex is in any danger. The National Park has a competing wildness and a civility about it which are, in my travelling experience, unique to the human condition. Everyone I have encountered, both on the train ride to the National Park and once here in the hotel, seems to think of themselves as world adventurers, latter day Lewises and Clarks, forging their way through the wilderness and discovering new territories, without fear of the shackles society in its wisdom places upon us elsewhere. These travellers come to the National Park, according to Captain Craighead, to break free of those rules and regulations, and to set their spirits free, to find that even here, at what appears to be the end of the earth, or at least the last stop on the train, the long arm of government regulation has them in their grip.
The National Park requires this government control, according to the captain. Not a day goes by, he informs me, that some fool is discovered carving his initials into a thermal feature or chipping off a piece of a stone formation to take home as a souvenir. With thousands of visitors arriving each year, it would take no time at all before there would be little or no National Park left to visit if it were not for the law and order of Captain Craighead and his men.
Then there are the visitors who throw boulders and large pieces of timber into geyser formations to see if they can block their flow. Of course these idiots are unsuccessful and the debris, I am told, shoots hundreds of feet into the air, often endangering the miscreants themselves and innocent by-standers more than the geysers. Poachers, too, are a problem, having almost wiped out the Park’s big game animals which, thanks to the military’s presence, are just now beginning to recover.
The captain appears to be a young man, wiser than his years, and unsuited for the administrative life he has been assigned to here. He told me he was selected for the post without
being consulted and came to the Park against his wishes. However, now that he is here, he is determined to take great interest in his work and do his duty to the best of his ability.
To give you an idea of the kind of degenerate characters he is supposed to control, let me describe a brief encounter I witnessed just yesterday afternoon. As the captain and I were conversing at headquarters, a foreign earl or count of some form of purported European royalty sauntered in under the supervision of two cavalrymen who had apprehended the gentleman and his party on the road into the Mammoth Hot Springs compound. The count in question was fortunate in that he was stopped and questioned as he travelled into the Park, rather than out of it. In his possession was a cache of preserved animals collected throughout the West, including everything from buffalo to elk to prairie dogs to prairie chickens, along with the dogs, ammunition, and alcohol needed to hunt down, kill, and preserve a good deal more.
When questioned by the captain, the count feigned ignorance about Park regulations, he was a scientist and a foreigner after all, but then he took Captain Craighead aside and offered payment for permission to, in his words, collect on the captain’s private reserve. The captain declined, and with his gallant and good nature, explained the National Park’s rules. He suggested, instead, that the count register his specimens with the captain’s office and return for them upon his withdrawal from the National Park.
A simple request to make. Quite another to fulfill. I walked out with them as the count peeled cover after cover from wagons in which his so-called specimens were stored. There were enough preserved animals, and parts of animals including a number of severed heads, to fill a major museum. Or two.
Also in the count’s possession is a full entourage of cooks, butlers, horsemen, musicians, dogs and their handler, the count’s own personal naturalists and taxidermists, who identify and preserve his burgeoning collection of big game animals and birds, and assorted other young men who looked road weary if not out-right debilitated by their employ, the lot of whom sat by waiting for a resolution to be reached between the cavalryman and the count. One young man retreated under his hat and proceeded to snore, an offence for which he was rapped across the knees by the count as he showed the captain around his collection.
“As you can see, my dear sir,” the count explained to Captain Craighead, “I am not a hunter. I have put myself and my men at great risk as we have ventured in the name of science into this western wilderness. You have nothing to fear from me. And the world has much to gain from my studies.”
The captain was resolute. The count was welcome to leave his specimens in the cavalry’s care and enjoy himself while in the National Park, or just as free to leave under escort to the Park’s northern boundary. But the count did not have the option of travelling with his collection unattended within the confines of the National Park, science or no science. As far as Captain Craighead was concerned, there were no other options.
The count walked along the wagons, motioning to the piles of carcasses laid to rest in these large, mobile caskets. As he walked, examining and explaining his collection, pulling up a well-preserved buffalo head for the captain’s closer examination, or unwrapping half a dozen calliope hummingbirds, their diminutive bodies falling into his hand, the count talked of the expenses associated with science, about the costs to all those involved with scientific collections, inferring, in essence, that Captain Craighead, too, must be compensated in some fashion. The captain accompanied the count along the tour of laden wagons, but at the mention again of money the captain lost his composure, and challenged the count to show him just one specimen, in amongst all the slaughter, which would help real scientists, he used those words, better understand the natural world. This was not science, the captain was certain of it, but killing for the simple joy of it.
And with that Captain Craighead raged past me into his office. With resolution reached, the entourage began re-securing the wagons and, after moving them to a shady alleyway next to the headquarters building, proceeded to unhitch and picket the horses for the night. The whole operation could not have taken more than ten or fifteen minutes but during the entire exercise, the count paced and barked orders as if he were being detained for hours.
From there, the remaining entourage, still ten or eleven wagons strong with the count’s bright red buggy in the lead, proceeded down the road to the hotel, where they hitched themselves in a row and began to unload. From the captain’s front porch I watched as four young men wheeled the count’s piano with much effort into the hotel lobby, while another four stumbled along, the count’s large iron bathtub hoisted on their shoulders. Wildness indeed.
As you can see, there are civilizing rules and regulations which, in theory at least, are looking out for the likes of Alexandria. I hope she is looking out for them. All last year, she was forever complaining about the rules and structure of the university and the limits they placed upon her, but what she has yet to understand is that it is through rules and structure and rigid protocols that we gain the freedom for creative work in the sciences. She claims to be enjoying her new-found freedom in the Park. She must be operating under the false assumption that there are no rules or limitations here to protect her from herself.
Captain Craighead has promised to escort me to Alex’s camp on Friday, at which point the captain and I will both take rooms at the Yellowstone Lake Hotel. He plans to be in attendance at a large celebration in honor of Independence Day. I will let you know of my own plans after I have had a chance to speak with your daughter.
In the meantime,
I remain yours,
Lester King
H. G. Merriam
c/o Yellowstone Lake Hotel
Yellowstone National Park
July 3, 1898
Dear Mother,
The U.S. Cavalry has a saying that there are two seasons in Yellowstone, winter and July, but the weather has been at its bleakest in these earliest days of the month. It has been raining steadily for two days, so I find myself trapped inside my tent with Rutherford, his foul-smelling pipe, and his new pet raven, which Rutherford discovered standing by the side of the road, fearlessly gobbling like a turkey for the entertainment of all who passed by.
Rutherford is convinced that if a raven is smart enough to imitate a turkey to beg treats from tourists in the Park, it can just as easily be taught how to imitate a man’s speech. So every time the raven gobbles, it is now rewarded with scraps from Kim Li’s kitchen and is told that it is a “pretty bird.” The strategy, what Rutherford refers to as a scientific experiment, is to see if eventually the bird will not only associate the turkey call with treats, but will also learn to associate the words with the greasy goodies and, thus, learn how to talk.
Is it any wonder that Philip Aber has his doubts about my ability to lead a scientific expedition? Not only does this so-called experiment go on for all hours of the day, but the bird travels everywhere with Rutherford, riding with him in the wagon, sometimes sitting on his shoulder or even on his head.
Journalists are arriving at the hotel to document this weekend’s celebrations and plans for the electric rail line through the Park—plans which are being negotiated as I write. My greatest fear is that one of these journalists will get bored and wander into camp one day, see Rutherford talking to his raven, and the story will be plastered all over the New York and Chicago press. I will be the laughing stock of the scientific community. I can hardly show my face at the hotel as it is, since there is not a person in the Park who has not seen or at least heard about the fat man and his turkey-gobbling bird.
Of course, this weather has not helped my state of mind. Even though it is early in the afternoon, the sky is as black as Rutherford’s raven so I am forced to write to you by candlelight. But the sky is not nearly as black as I feel inside.
This morning a friend of Miss Bartram’s arrived, with the intention, I am certain, of taking her back home with him. He could not have arrived at a worse time. Miss Bartram is devel
oping into a reliable and helpful assistant. She is steadfast in her commitment to science and considerate almost to a fault of the limitations of our meagre expedition. I have come to rely on her contributions as well as her good judgment in so many instances that I cannot even begin to tell you how much she would be missed, should she decide to leave. Worse yet, it is now July, which is peak collecting time in the Park. I could not possibly manage all there is to do without her.
But she is young, with her whole life ahead of her, and this is, in all honesty, no place for a woman on her own. If this friend is as serious in his intentions as he appears to be, perhaps this would be the best option for her, as disastrous as it would be for me personally. So when she came to ask permission to leave camp for the afternoon, I naturally gave my consent. I suggested, in fact, that she spend the entire weekend at the hotel. We cannot make any progress in this weather anyway, so she might as well enjoy a few days of comfort and warmth, regardless of her final decision. Besides, with the Independence Day celebrations ahead of us, this is a fine weekend to spend at the hotel. Many young people and much excitement, I am told. Given my state of mind, however, I think I had best weather the weekend here.
As if things were not bleak enough, President Healey arrived at the hotel this morning, ostensibly to check on our progress and enjoy the celebrations, but instinct tells me he is more interested in checking on tentative conversations about the herbarium I have had with representatives from the railroad (how he found out about those talks I am sure I will never know). He is, no doubt, anxious to initiate conversations of his own.
If ever there were an opportunity to raise funds for the herbarium, it is now, with every principal employee of the railroad in residence at the hotel, along with half the U.S. Congress and their staff. Thanks to a special shipment of alcohol and cigars brought in for the weekend, these gentlemen are in a good humor to bargain, and bargain they will.
