by Diane Smith
As I am certain you will hear from Lester, I, too, have paid a personal price for staying in the Park, and I apologize for any grief or concern that this might cause you. I know how you both feel about Lester; I have felt the same. But as I am certain you will understand, I must continue to find my own way. You have raised me to believe that I can accomplish anything I am determined enough to achieve. I came here with a commitment to work for the duration of the summer, to collect the best possible botanical specimens during that time, and to learn and to grow into the best possible scientist I can become. This is my goal, if not my destiny.
I am also now more committed than ever to Professor Merriam, who has been particularly shaken by Philip Aber’s loss. Contrary to what Lester will no doubt tell you, Professor Merriam has proven to be a sound leader with a clear vision of our work, a vision which is only now beginning to be understood and valued by the rest of us. Although the Professor and I have had our disagreements, each day I learn to appreciate his world view, as I believe he is beginning to appreciate mine. I can only hope that by the end of the summer he will have learned to accept me as a colleague, and maybe even as a friend. Perhaps then he can see me, not for who or what he had hoped I would be, but for who I truly am. If and when that happens, I will have succeeded here beyond my wildest dreams.
Given our location, I will not be able to correspond with you or Jessie as frequently as I have in the past. I promise, however, to do my utmost to keep you informed about my progress here in the Park. And please, do not worry. I am doing fine. In fact, in spite of the great loss of Dr. Aber, and of Lester, too, I am doing very well indeed.
My love to you both,
Alex
4. EPILOBIUM ANGUSTIFOLIUM
Howard Merriam
c/o Lake Hotel
Yellowstone National Park
July 28, 1898
Mother,
I apologize for the delay in corresponding and for any unnecessary worry my silence may have caused. This has been a difficult, if not debilitating, time for me, and it has taken me longer than I could have ever imagined to sort through the implications of those difficulties.
As a result of Philip Aber’s disappearance and subsequent death, I have experienced an unexpected and overwhelming sense of despair, finding myself in the deepest, darkest emotional trough I have ever encountered. As I was too blind and selfish to see, while he was making my professional life hell, Philip Aber was living through a personal hell of his own. That the continuation of the expedition should be contingent on someone else’s personal loss is difficult for me to accept. That the expedition ended up costing Philip Aber his life is almost more than I can withstand. I am quite certain that had I known Philip Aber’s true situation, and understood my small but undeniable responsibility for it, I would not have been able to justify the continuation of our work. Unable to morally defend myself and my party, I would have had no choice but to return home under the critical eye of President Healey.
I cannot tell you how grateful I am, therefore, for the friendship and support of Bill Gleick and my other colleagues here in the Park. After complaining bitterly about having to look after Rutherford and the rest, I find myself now in the position of having to acknowledge that without the constant distraction of their day-to-day demands I do not think I could have endured.
Gleick has proven to be the expedition’s strongest supporter and, as it has turned out, its ultimate salvation. Once he departed from the Park, returning to Washington with Philip Aber’s remains and Aber’s widow, he called upon the director of the Smithsonian and successfully argued for our continued support. The meeting was beneficial for Gleick, as well. He is so familiar with our work and the other interests of Philip Aber, that he was asked to stay on with the Smithsonian, which he has agreed to do, at least through the end of the summer. I would not be surprised, however, if he decides to relocate to the Capital permanently.
I am equally grateful and indebted to all of those in our party who have stood by me through all of my personal ups and downs and the collective sense of uncertainty about the future of our expedition. Peacock, as always, seems oblivious to it all, but Rutherford and Miss Bartram, in spite of their own individual setbacks and losses, have made great sacrifices on my behalf and on behalf of our work here in the Park. It is because of them and the others—even the cook and the driver have done their share—that I am more determined than ever to go on.
My dear friend Andy Rutherford has proven his loyalty time and again, first by agreeing, in direct opposition to his nature, to accompany me to the Park, and now consenting to remain, even though he so clearly longs to be back home. I would like to believe that Rutherford has experienced, perhaps for the first time in his life, the joys and companionship of scientific endeavors, not to mention the satisfaction which derives from beginning to study and understand the natural world. More likely, it is the unexpected pleasure he has experienced as he methodically attempts to teach a raven to mimic human speech—as futile and foolish as his attempts might be. In either case, his willingness to sacrifice his own comforts for our common good is heartwarming, and has helped me sort through—and put into perspective—my own sorrows.
Even though Rutherford has made the commitment to stay through the duration of the summer, his mood has been fragile at best. In fact, for days after President Healey refused to transport Rutherford’s bird, Rutherford, in turn, refused to speak to any of us. Not even to Miss Bartram, with whom he has established a particular rapport. It was not until Miss Bartram angered him with her continual glowing comments about the Lewis and Clark expedition that he was drawn back into our party again.
Theirs is an interesting friendship. Up until the tragedies at the Lake Hotel, Rutherford and Miss Bartram spent many evenings arguing around the campfire about the merits and limitations of the Lewis and Clark expedition, about which they are both knowledgeable and highly opinionated. Miss Bartram is extremely well informed about Lewis’ contributions to the botanical sciences, having studied his work at great length in Philadelphia, but she also lists with great enthusiasm the expedition’s hundreds of other non-botanical discoveries—the western tanager, the broad-tailed hummingbird, the cutthroat trout, the grizzly bear, the mule deer, and even the lowly jack rabbit—all of which were new to the scientific establishment and most of which were described in great detail by Lewis, even if he did not employ the scientific terminology or, I dare say, the spelling preferred by Miss Bartram. Lewis even went so far as to box up a prairie dog, four magpies, and a grouse and sent them live, over land, river, and sea, to Thomas Jefferson. Can you imagine? Both the prairie dog and one of the magpies survived their four-month journey and arrived in good health in Washington where they were displayed in Independence Hall for politicians and scientists alike.
These discoveries and other accomplishments of the expedition impress Rutherford not at all. He points to the fact that Lewis was charged by President Jefferson to maintain strict weather reports, recording the speed and direction of the wind, temperature, access and recess of frosts, &c, an assignment at which, by Rutherford’s account, Lewis failed miserably. For months on end, Lewis did not even bother to keep a daily journal, one of the first signs of a weak character. Worse yet, Lewis broke his last thermometer, to hear Rutherford tell it, out of personal spite or sloth or both.
When Miss Bartram counters that Lewis’ horse had, in fact, lost its footing in the snow when the sole surviving thermometer was broken on their return journey, Rutherford is deaf to the facts of the case. Miss Bartram also notes that the loss of the thermometer caused great consternation to Lewis, who took even the most insignificant setbacks to heart, but Rutherford refuses to acknowledge the truths of Miss Bartram’s evaluation of Meriwether Lewis’ character. On the contrary, he dismisses her explanations as non-scientific, advising her to focus on the results of the case, and quit making so many excuses for the man and his motives.
When I consider the passion Rutherford exhibits
in these arguments I cannot help but think that when it comes right down to it, my dear friend is but a common phenologist at heart—as was Thomas Jefferson, I should add, lest you think it a malady of a smaller mind. Regardless of his beliefs, Rutherford apparently has made a perfunctory review of the Biddle and Coues editions of the expedition journals and, finding them lacking in the meteorological sciences, has nothing but contempt for Lewis and his men. He even goes so far as to make gross allegations about Lewis’ supposed melancholia and his inability to inspire or lead, a weakness Lewis himself acknowledged, to hear Rutherford tell the story, when he illegally shared leadership with Clark. It was Clark who took command and responsibility for choosing the majority of the men who travelled with the expedition—a choice key to the success of the expedition, Rutherford argues.
But Lewis was not just a poor leader and inconsistent journalist, Rutherford takes great pleasure in noting. Worse yet, Meriwether Lewis was a drunk. Now this is an odd argument indeed for a man like Rutherford to be making, but who am I to judge? I barely get along with my colleagues much less understand their true natures.
The same cannot be said about Miss Bartram, who knows how to bring out the best in Rutherford. In fact, in this particular instance, she was the only member of our party capable of bringing him out at all. As I noted earlier, Rutherford has been suffering from a melancholia of his own, refusing to speak—or drink I might add—since his falling out with President Healey. I believe he was ready and, in fact, anxious, to return to campus and to what he considers a somewhat normal life. He was not prepared, however, to leave behind his bird.
Please realize that I relate the following story without any disrespect to you or your friends, Mother. To understand it, however, I must first point out that unlike other women, Miss Bartram is not one to repeat herself. She is well spoken and, like Rutherford, extremely opinionated, but she does not go on and on about a topic like many women have a tendency to do. So it was surprising and, I dare say, even amusing, to hear her say time and again one night at dinner that our encampment near a high country lake made her feel just like a modern Lewis and Clark. About the third or fourth time she made this very same declaration, Rutherford grunted, the first sound we had heard from him in days. Miss Bartram then turned and asked our cook, Kim Li, if he, too, did not feel as if he were travelling into the wilderness with Lewis and Clark.
Rutherford could tolerate her gibes no longer. He charged into an elaborate diatribe about how Miss Bartram was well aware that the Lewis and Clark expedition was wildly over rated. They never accomplished any of their objectives. They never found the North-west Passage for which they were commissioned. That they managed to survive at all was only thanks to the good graces of the Indian tribes they encountered along the way, many of which lived to regret their generosity. And yet, he raged, both Lewis and Clark were lavishly rewarded with land and prestigious government appointments upon their return. To make matters worse, their so-called triumphs are celebrated to this day. They even name college buildings after them both, he added with a contemptuous snort.
As abruptly as he had started, Rutherford silently returned his attention to his unfinished dinner, pushing at a piece of potato with his knife. When it appeared we had heard the last from him on the subject, he turned to Miss Bartram and added in not much more than a whisper, “No one ever celebrated or rewarded my failures,” he said.
We were all silenced by the declaration, which Miss Bartram acknowledged with a sad smile and the slightest nod of her head. She reached across the table and touched Rutherford ever so softly on the hand.
What could have been an uncomfortable moment for us all was transformed when Rutherford’s raven took advantage of the lull in the conversation, hopped onto the table, and gobbled like a turkey. Rutherford set his dinner plate down on the ground, an act for which he had been soundly reprimanded by Kim Li in the past. This time, however, Kim Li chose to ignore it and, as the raven hopped back down again to pick at the remains of the meal, Rutherford, without another word, retreated to his tent. But the spell had been broken, and by morning Rutherford was back, talking as if nothing had happened, and letting us know he was ready to get back to work.
Miss Bartram has also proven to be of great moral fortitude to me as she has helped me regain my own enthusiasm for our work here in the Park. Sensing my despair over the death of Philip Aber, she suggested that I consider dedicating the expedition to Aber’s memory, noting that should we not complete our assignment, we would in effect allow Aber’s death to be in vain. It was such a gentle, sweet-natured suggestion, that I was almost moved to tears. Funny how such a small token can mean so much. It has motivated me to do my utmost to see this project through to completion, no matter what the personal cost.
I realize now that I could not ask for a better colleague and friend than Miss Bartram. Since setting up our new camp, she has intensified her already impressive level of work, setting forth without complaint at the break of dawn and only returning to camp at nightfall, determined to squeeze each and every collecting moment from these long summer days. Thanks to Captain Craighead, we have a stable of horses which browse contentedly on the luxuriant grasses around the boundary of the lake where we are camped, but Miss Bartram prefers to travel by foot, afraid she will miss something if, in her words, she travels so far from the ground.
This may be motivated, at least in part, by the fact that she has been told by that Montana rancher, who makes an effort to visit our camp from time to time, that white variations of the ubiquitous fringed gentian exist in this stretch of the backcountry. The dominant blue variety is in bloom alongside creekbeds and drainages. We see them everywhere we collect, especially in and near thermal activity where they seem to thrive. To date, however, there have been no signs of an alba variation, but Miss Bartram is not deterred. Since finding that early-blooming bitterroot, she seems willing to believe anything that rancher tells her, and is convinced that she will locate a white one eventually.
She also seems to have warmed to the traditional botanical knowledge of Joseph, who has established his own camp adjacent to ours. I believe Miss Bartram was raised in an enlightened family for she seems true of heart, and unencumbered by the degrading view of so many others of our race who seem to think racial superiority is their birthright. And yet, in spite of the fact that she appears to appreciate our common humanity, Miss Bartram has been, up to now, openly contemptuous of Joseph’s botanical knowledge—or, I should say, my appreciation of it. It is clear she has been conditioned since her earliest days in school to believe that there is but one view of the world, that seen through the lens of the eastern scientific establishment. That kind of academic indoctrination, like religion, is difficult if not impossible to escape.
Still, having written that, I find that after she witnessed the miraculous cure of Rutherford, who, she informs me, could have easily succumbed to the poison he imbibed on the 4th of July, she has been watching Joseph and me closely as we discuss plant uses while in the field. She does not speak of it, at least not to me, but I can sense a previously unseen interest there. She has even gone so far as to befriend Joseph’s wife, Sara, and their two small children, offering them gifts of a bound journal, loose sheets of paper, paints, and colored pencils, much to their amazement and joy.
Miss Bartram has also renewed friendships established while in the Mammoth Hot Springs area. Last night, Miss Zwinger unexpectedly arrived in our camp with the entourage of young women who accompany her, along with the naturalist and poet, John Wylloe. It was Miss Bartram who asked if they might be allowed to stay so that they, too, might enjoy the wonders of our camp’s remote location. I wholeheartedly agreed, even before I knew that Miss Zwinger and Mr. Wylloe had transported their own equipment and provisions, and intended to more than pay for their own expenses while in our camp. I must say, our visitors’ unexpected but much appreciated generosity, coupled with Miss Zwinger’s seemingly endless supply of excellent wine, has already done much t
o improve the quality of our living conditions, not to mention the positive effect all the female attention and companionship have had on Rutherford and the boys.
In spite of Rutherford’s lack of respect for his accomplishments, I cannot help but wonder how Meriwether Lewis ever managed to accomplish what he did with so many different men for whom he was responsible. I can hardly manage with my small mission, and we have all the luxuries and advantages of the modern-day world. What would I do if I had to leave all of that behind and travel against the current for thousands of miles with three squads of men, a Frenchman, a slave, and an Indian with child? Not even in my wildest dreams could I imagine myself succeeding.
The truth is that even with my own meagre group to look after, I have often found myself overwhelmed and discouraged by day-to-day events. And yet, in spite of all my shortcomings and personal and professional falterings, my party to a man (and yes, to a woman) has been so good to me in my hour of need. I now understand that as I focused all of my energy on caring for them, trying to guarantee the safety and success of each member of our group, they were, in reality, looking after me. I cannot tell you how blessed I now realize I have been throughout this ordeal. I can only hope that I deserve their care and concern. I hope, too, that I can yet earn their respect. And their love.
Your most humbled son,
Howard
A. E. Bartram
c/o Lake Hotel
Yellowstone National Park
July 28, 1898
