by Diane Smith
We all let out a collective sigh of relief, and laughed, the exaggerated laughter of salvation, for saved we believed ourselves to be. We also laughed at Dr. Rutherford. We could not help ourselves, we were all so happy to be alive.
Hearing us, Dr. Peacock emerged from the trees, carrying his collecting net and tins and blinking in the bright sun. Rutherford was instantly vindicated since it was easy for us all to imagine making a similar mistake. At first glance, Peacock looked every part the bear, with hair and beard filthy and matted from an extended stay in the field. And we could not help but notice, as he approached our small group, that he smelled much like a wild beast, too.
As for Dr. Rutherford, he was initially shaken by the situation and had little to say on our descent back to camp. But by the time we arrived, and settled in for our evening meal, he turned the story to his own advantage, telling of how we all quaked in our boots at the piercing cry of the wild Rocky Mountain peacock “Goddammittohell!” as it stumbled along the river banks in search of bugs.
I have since noticed, however, that Dr. Rutherford is more committed than ever to avoiding the backcountry, preferring instead to stay in camp and log in, dry, and care for our botanical specimens. Since we have such an extensive collection now, the Professor has agreed that Dr. Rutherford’s contributions in this regard are critical, even if Dr. Rutherford opts to spend most of his time not working on the collection but rather in deep philosophical, albeit one-sided, debates with his Corvus corax which follows him everywhere like a dog.
While I am sharing all of my stories, I must tell you, too, that Ralph Clancy, the rancher I have written to you about in the past, has asked me to stay in Montana and to travel with him to his family’s ranch. To be honest, I would love to stay. I am so happy here. But marriage for me now would limit my ability to explore all the rich new possibilities that are awaiting for me and my new career. And children, as blessed as they would be, would steal that part of my future away. If I have learned anything from my conversation with Sara, and my extended stay here in the Park, it is that women can and should take charge of their lives. Sara has done so by removing herself from the traditions of her tribe. I intend to learn from her wisdom and remove myself, at least for the time being, from the traditions of mine.
So you see, I am well, happy, and enjoying my life here to the fullest. You can also be assured that even when I try to see bears in the backcountry, the only hairy beasts I encounter in the woods are members of my own party. There is hardly any danger in that!
I do so hope you are well.
My love to you and your dear, sweet family,
Alex
Andrew Rutherford, Ph.D.
c/o Lake Hotel
Yellowstone National Park
August 14, 1898
Robert Healey
President
Agricultural College &c.
Bozeman, Mont.
Dear Sir,
Returning to campus by end of month. Securing necessary permits to remove raven from Park. Seeking yr. kind permission to establish bird sanctuary & research facility at experiment station on campus. Will personally provide for bird’s room & board, so no out-of-pocket expense to you or college.
Will observe, investigate, & report signs of raven intelligence. Could put Mont. College on higher ed. map. Travellers from around world will visit to see bird like at Tower of London.
Timing critical. Ravens, I’m told, may soon go way of P. pigeons and C. geese. Destined to die out with destruction of W. wolves.
I await your kind reply.
Yours most sincerely,
Andrew Rutherford, Ph.D.
Howard Merriam
c/o Lake Hotel
Yellowstone National Park
August 25, 1898
William Gleick
Smithsonian Institution
Washington
District of Columbia
Dear Bill,
I am writing to inform you that I have received today an ultimatum from President Healey. We must all return to campus by the end of the month or face certain dismissal. We are now in the process of breaking down our backcountry camp, and will be returning to our original campsite near the Lake Hotel within the week. From there we will prepare ourselves and our collection for our return to Bozeman.
Although we could have spent, at minimum, another three weeks in the field, I am still most satisfied with the results of our work. We have, I believe, assembled a very good representative botanical collection, one which the Smithsonian should be most pleased to receive. Philip Aber’s supporters should be more than satisfied with the Rocky Mountain alpine varieties we have collected to supplement his European specimens. In this small way I hope to ensure that his work continues, even now that he is gone.
I will do my utmost to classify, document, and ship everything to you (or Aber’s permanent successor should you be foolish enough to decline their most generous offer) by the end of the year. I will also pry additional duplicates from Peacock’s beetles and other bugs which are taking up far too much space as far as Rutherford is concerned. Based on what you have told me of the Director’s research, the sheer volume and variety of specimens Peacock has collected are certain to be an enormous success.
Before leaving the Park, we will take at least a day, if not two, to allow everyone an opportunity for some sightseeing. For some unknown reason, Rutherford has become fixated upon visiting Old Faithful. He speaks of it often, and plans to visit the upper geyser basin before we depart. Miss Zwinger has invited Miss Bartram to join her for a hike to the top of Mount Washburn to partake of the view. John Wylloe has volunteered to accompany them on the outing, as has Joseph. Their temporary absence from camp allows me the time I need to wrap up any loose ends before we depart.
Jake Packard offered to drive the group to their destination, but I must confess, I still do not trust the man outside of my sight. There still lingers in him a general hostility towards us all. I assume this is based on my decision to let Miss Bartram stay with the expedition. Or perhaps it was the ban on alcohol in camp, with which he has never bothered to comply. In either case, or both, our driver has not been happy with his situation here, so it is best to keep him busy and his mind off other things. Besides, I might need him for last-minute transport. At least that is what I have said.
Having complained yet again about the difficulty of managing or, more to the point, mismanaging those in my employ, I must tell you that if I have learned anything on this expedition it is that, with the exception of Jake Packard who is not unlike that unruly dog of his and requires a short leash, it is best to leave the rest of them alone, to be themselves, and to expect nothing more of them than what they, themselves, are willing or are able to give. When I have not constrained them, it turns out that each in their own way has much to contribute.
Rutherford, I am now the first to admit, has turned out to be a fine scientist, albeit one of a slightly different stripe. He has captured a raven, which he keeps as a pet, although he insists on calling his observations of the bird “research.” Because the bird has a natural proclivity for mimicry, Rutherford has dedicated the summer to teaching the raven to talk. Although I have been openly contemptuous, Rutherford continues to be fascinated by the bird’s every caw, quork, and turkey-like gobble. I am doubtful that Rutherford will garner any results from his so-called experiment, but I cannot for one minute question his dedication or commitment to the work as he has defined it.
Because of all the attention it receives, the raven has become so tame it is becoming a bit of a pest, nightly hopping onto the dinner table, where it preens itself and dips its head from side to side eyeing the food on our plates. Then it gobbles until one of us foolishly rewards this misbehavior by tossing it something to eat. The bird also has taken to pecking through our equipment, carrying away interesting-looking objects in its beak. Just last week it hopped off with one of my smaller pocket glasses. When it started getting into the collection, however, I real
ly did have to protest.
I must warn you as both a colleague and a friend that, should you decide to remain at the Smithsonian Institution, I am certain Rutherford will contact you about his proposed raven research. He considers you his “friend in Washington” and seems to think that that is all he needs to ensure financial support. I have not yet informed him that President Healey has written to me directly, outright forbidding me to transport or in any other way assist Rutherford as he tries to return to campus with that bird. My gut instinct tells me, however, that the news will not alter Rutherford’s plans in the least. I doubt that he will give a minute’s thought to anything the president or I forbid him to do when it comes to that raven.
Miss Bartram, too, has turned out to be another fine addition to our group, proving herself to be invaluable to the success of our work. I am beginning to see now, as I could have never foreseen when she arrived, that her perspective on illustrating flora in its natural environs contributes much to our understanding of the plant life in the Park. Because she is committed to both illustrating as well as collecting, she has often worked day and night to ensure that she has the time to contribute fully to both. Seeing her as I do now, it was with great sadness that I learned from the president that he will not entertain even a small salary to allow her to continue her work on the collection upon our return. I can only hope that you will do whatever it takes to ensure that her illustrations and documentations, when they arrive at the Smithsonian, are well cared for since there does not appear to be a place for her or her work at the college.
That is not to say that Miss Bartram and I do not still have our differences. I fear she still views me as a bit of a dilettante or even a fool in my approach to science. In fact, she grows quite impatient with me when I try to discuss with her my ideas about the nature of science in the modern-day world.
The other day, Peacock, knowing of my interest, told me of a high mountain basin, a few miles from our camp, which was showing the impact of fire on plant life. Because it would take almost a full day to reach the site he described, and because I could not in good conscience insist that Miss Bartram stay behind with Rutherford, I invited along Miss Zwinger (who had recently sent her charges home so that she might spend these waning days of the summer exploring the Park on her own). I also invited the naturalist and poet, John Wylloe, who has been spending some time with us in camp and has demonstrated an interest in our work. Their presence, I hoped, would counter any thought of impropriety of my travelling overnight with Miss Bartram, since Rutherford insists that he is now too busy readying the collection for the trip home to travel into the field. I think the real reason is that he is terrified by the prospect of encountering a foraging bear, but he would never outright admit that. At least not to me.
Anyway, both Miss Zwinger and Wylloe accepted my invitation, thinking of it as an end-of-summer adventure, and the six of us (including Joseph and Rocky, who also volunteered), headed out early the next morning in the direction Peacock had indicated.
The day was particularly fine, with high, thin clouds and no wind. It was an easy hike, but even so it took us most of the day to reach our destination, an open basin on the edge of a pine forest where the underbrush had been cleared by fire just as Peacock had described it. The fire had also felled most of the aging trees, resulting in an eye-pleasing mixture of newly emerging pines, grasses, and flowering plants. A thick wash of fireweed spread along one side of the meadow, intermixed here and there with the young saplings.
As soon as we entered the clearing, Miss Bartram eyed something of interest and commenced collecting. I chose to work where the fireweed was particularly dense, even though it meant climbing in and around the trunks of fallen trees. Both John Wylloe and Miss Zwinger offered to help, but I was really not keen on supervising them so, as I worked, the two of them wandered off for the afternoon to watch a golden eagle circling the basin in search of food.
That night, after a rewarding afternoon of collecting and a satisfactory dinner around the campfire, we opened the third bottle of Miss Zwinger’s wine and I started to explain how the heat of forest fires releases the seeds from the cones of the lodgepole pines, as it makes way for new plant life like the fireweed.
“Epilobium angustifolium,” Miss Bartram, sipping her wine from a coffee cup, corrected. The Latin slipped easily off her tongue.
It was a beautiful night—warm, with the stars bright and clear. Much too lovely to argue about nomenclature with Miss Bartram. Apparently Miss Zwinger agreed, because she, too, interrupted, noting that the Northern Cross was beginning to rise in the sky.
“Cygnus, the Swan,” Wylloe countered without the slightest hint of irony.
“The Crow people call that constellation Goose Above,” I explained, happy to learn that it was not just me and Miss Bartram who argued over the proper names of things. “They see it as a sign that the geese will soon be headed south.”
Miss Zwinger leaned back, perhaps to better detect the shape of the constellations we were naming.
“Some say they look at the stars, and the vastness and uncertainty of the universe make them feel insignificant,” she said. “But I have always felt the reverse. Compared to the stars, the world around us is so much closer. So much more immediate somehow. I look at the stars and cannot help but feel bigger. Or maybe it is that the world seems to be just that much more alive.”
Some believe, I pointed out, that the stars exert great influence on us and our actions.
“Well, Professor Merriam, we know that is nonsense, now don’t we?” Miss Zwinger replied. “Just calling those stars the Northern Cross is silly enough, when you think about it. Just a handful of stars floating in space, not looking like much of anything.”
“Maybe that is how we appear to them,” I said, not in the least bit believing it, of course, but it was late, and we were all a bit dreamy lying there under the clear mountain sky.
Now I should have expected it. John Wylloe certainly did because he was chuckling to himself in anticipation. I did not make the comment to upset her, but Miss Bartram could not let such a meaningless and harmless statement stand.
“Professor Merriam, please,” she chided me from across the fire. “Surely you do not believe that. You really should not say something so frivolous in the presence of our guests. They may not know that you are jesting and might take you seriously.”
To keep the peace, I apologized to all present for my careless remark, but I could not help but add that we must all be careful not to assume that we hold the only key to understanding the ways of the world. Our idea of science was, after all, promoted by those who steadfastly believe that the world was created in six days by an all-knowing and all-seeing god.
This last comment went unchallenged by Miss Bartram, who had withdrawn far enough away from the light of the fire that it was difficult to see if she was even still present, much less paying attention to what was being said. Perhaps she had already fallen asleep.
I can almost guarantee it was the wine, which Miss Zwinger had poured liberally into our cups, but whatever the cause, I could not stop myself from firing another round into the darkness.
“I think that most of us here would say that our collective world view is based, in one way or another, on science rather than religion or myth. By the way, I include Joseph in this grouping because the Crow are fine scientists. Their understanding of the stars, the natural world, even their religion is based on centuries of observation and results, not on blind belief. The Crow are a very pragmatic people when it comes to these kinds of questions.”
Still there was no word of protest from Miss Bartram, so I continued.
“But what is science, really, but another means of looking at the stars, just as Miss Zwinger so eloquently pointed out, and bringing some order, meaning, and, ultimately, predictability to the universe? Isn’t that what the Crow do when they see the starry goose flying south? They know that fall is coming and start preparing themselves for the winter ahead.�
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“Professor Merriam, you are deliberately trying to provoke me,” Miss Bartram called out from beyond the light of the fire. “You have no right to say that myth and science are the same.”
Miss Bartram leaned back toward the group with great earnestness, her wine-filled coffee cup in hand.
“I do not mean to be impertinent,” she continued, “but are you saying that the constellations somehow affect the seasons?” As she said this she suppressed a laugh, but I could not tell if she was thinking the whole notion humorous or simply preposterous. Knowing Miss Bartram, I assumed the latter.
“No, I’m saying nothing of the sort,” I protested. “What I am saying is that science, myth, and religion all enable each of us in our own way, depending upon how we were raised and the books we were given to read at an early age, to bring order to what is otherwise a very chaotic-seeming world. It appears that it is in our nature as a species to construct these kinds of stories.”
“As the much maligned visitor in this camp, I find that now I must intercede,” John Wylloe said. “I agree with Miss Bartram that there is a great difference between scientific truth, that which can be observed empirically, and the fanciful stories you make up out of conjecture and wishful thinking. And you will never convince me otherwise.”
Wylloe spoke with such certainty and authority, it was as if that should be enough to end the conversation right there.
“We are a species that likes to name things,” Miss Zwinger noted, perhaps to cool off the increasingly heated exchange. “I will give you that,” she added, not indicating to whom it was given.
Miss Bartram ignored them both and leaned questioningly in my direction.
“So, Professor, are you arguing that science, myth, and religion are all true?” This time I could clearly hear the incredulity in her voice.
“No,” I defended myself. “I’m saying they are all useful. I don’t know that much about religious beliefs, but I do know that the constellation Goose Above predicts the arrival of winter, Miss Bartram. And I can assure you that if you live in Crow country, and you ignore its arrival in the night sky, you do so at your own peril.”
