Letters from Yellowstone

by Diane Smith

  I cannot be certain if it was my last comment, or Joseph’s distant “hmmm” of approval, that bothered Miss Bartram more, but she was now so agitated that it seemed to be all that she could do to keep from jumping over the fire at me.

  “Professor Merriam, now you really do go too far,” she cried. “Please, do not jest like this in the presence of our guests.”

  Our words volleyed back and forth over the campfire which sizzled and crackled between us in the deepening dark, until John Wylloe felt compelled to once again intercede.

  “As a guest,” he said, “it might be useful, at least for me, if you defined the nature of your disagreement. Are you saying, Miss Bartram, that you do not feel it is good form to question the nature of science in the presence of amateurs? Is that the heart of your argument?”

  “No, of course not,” Miss Bartram replied forcefully. “It is that Professor Merriam is a man of influence and, as such, has great power over us all.” She said that in all earnestness. “I certainly hope that he would not, on a whim, say that the stars influence our behavior or the weather or other such nonsense as Miss Zwinger rightly calls it. Because he is a man of science, someone might take him seriously.”

  At this comment, one of the logs in the fire let out a loud pop, sending shimmers of sparks into the night. As Wylloe poked at the fire with the toe of his boot, re-settling the logs, Miss Zwinger rejoined the conversation.

  “Well, I certainly do not take him seriously,” she said with much conviction, at which John Wylloe laughed loudly, helping us all to relax once again.

  “I meant no offense, Professor Merriam,” Miss Zwinger added. “I only meant to say that I assumed that you were just trying to be friendly. You know, making small talk around the campfire.”

  I assured her no offense was taken, but I also felt compelled to bring some order to the now chaotic nature of our conversation.

  “Think of it this way,” I offered. “We look at the stars and take what, from our perspective, are random points of light and make them into pictures. Now some make up stories associated with those pictures, which you may or may not believe, while others make up stories to tell us where the points of light came from in the first place. But in both of these cases, the universe seems less random if you name or in some other way describe the origin of the stars. Would you agree with that, Miss Bartram?”

  “Well,” she hesitated. “I would agree that when Miss Zwinger points out the Northern Cross, I can look to the sky and know precisely which stars she is talking about. When Mr. Wylloe calls it a swan, it gets more problematic. But I can say in all honesty that I do not see a goose flying south. That is beyond me.”

  “Now, I am not saying, Miss Bartram, that you should see a cross or a swan or whatever the stars are supposed to be,” I countered. “What I am saying is that in the masses of stars that confront us nightly, there are a handful of them which have been grouped by a common name and that grouping helps us to conveniently identify them. For example, over there, where the Greeks saw a crown, Miss Bartram, the Crow people see a campsite, and when it is directly overhead they know it is time to meet all the families of their tribe. It really doesn’t matter, does it, what we call them, or how we use them to measure distance or time. It is that we gather them in some meaningful pattern, give them a name upon which we can all agree, and with that common understanding, we can converse intelligently about the world.”

  Miss Zwinger, who seemed to be wool-gathering by the side of the fire, now leaned forward, the light and shadows of the fire dancing across her face.

  “Well, then I would say that you are describing all of science. For isn’t that what you do? Gather bits of information in the universe you are studying and classify them for the purposes of identification and scientific discourse?”

  “Oh,” Miss Bartram cried out as if in pain. “Not you, too. Miss Zwinger, please. Don’t encourage him.”

  Now it was Miss Zwinger who laughed. “And to think this all started by my noting a cross of stars rising on the horizon. I can’t thank you enough, both of you, for inviting me along on this trip. It has been a wonderful, but long and tiring day. I fear I do not have your youthful stamina, so I think it’s time for me to call it a day.”

  With that, Miss Zwinger unrolled her bedding to one side of the fire and bid us all a good night.

  “The world is filled with such wonder and uncertainty,” I said to Miss Bartram as she, too, busied herself with her bed roll. “If we can bring some order to it through science or even religion or myth, all of our lives can be equally full of wonder.”

  She looked up at me then and, with great seriousness, said, “I will not argue with any of what I have heard you say tonight, Professor, if you will agree that when Miss Zwinger calls a grouping of stars the Northern Cross, it might be confusing to Mr. Wylloe who knows it as Cygnus the Swan. And it would be even more confusing to Joseph who calls it Goose Above. Can you agree to that?”

  “Of course, of course,” I agreed, blind to the trap she was setting. “It would be very confusing if the three of them wanted to discuss a grouping of stars. Particularly if they could not point them out to one another in the nighttime sky as we have done here tonight.”

  “Then would you also agree that it is very confusing to me when you insist on calling Epilobium angustifolium by its common name which could be referring to any number of plants? You must understand that I often do not have a clue what you are talking about.”

  At this John Wylloe laughed heartily, stood, and excused himself. We could hear his good-natured chuckles as he busied himself laying out his buffalo skins at a discreet distance from the fire.

  I looked at Miss Bartram, who returned my gaze with that same intense, serious, passionate look of hers. I could not help but smile.

  “Of course,” I said to her. “I would be most happy to give you your scientific nomenclature. What is more, I would happily use it from now on whenever I speak to you about our work here.”

  That should have been the end of it but, blame it on the wine, I could not leave it at that. I had to make one slight correction to my declaration.

  “I would use your terminology on a daily basis,” I said, pausing for effect, “if, that is, I could pronounce it.”

  With both Miss Zwinger and Mr. Wylloe chuckling in their beds, and Miss Bartram nodding with a resigned smile, we all retired for the evening, each of us in our own good humor, sleeping under a canopy of stars which we named and brought order to in our own individual ways.

  Bill, I have to tell you that in spite of all the difficulties and the very tragic loss of Philip Aber, this has been a most successful and rewarding summer for me here on both a personal and professional level. I hope it turns out equally successful and rewarding for you there.

  My best regards,

  Howard

  A. E. Bartram

  c/o Lake Hotel

  Yellowstone National Park

  August 28, 1898

  Dear Jessie,

  Our days in our Nation’s Park are slowly drawing to a close. I can sense it in the land, which is turning golden as it readies itself for fall, in the air, which has grown cool as it promises winter, and in the spirit of our group, which grows warmer by the day as we learn, each and every one of us, to become more accepting of the strengths and weaknesses and strange passions of our colleagues and friends.

  We have re-established our old camp near the hotel, as we busy ourselves for the return trip home. There is a sadness in these preparations, but a gentle joyousness, too, as we acknowledge our friendships and all the kindnesses we have received from one another. That I must say goodbye to this wondrous place, and all the wonderful people I have been associated with here, almost breaks my heart. But Professor Merriam has assured me that he will attempt another expedition in the spring, perhaps in an unexplored northern part of the state. If successful in raising the necessary funds, he will invite me back as a contributor. So, even though my field work in the Park mu
st end, it appears that my career as a botanist is just now beginning. This means, of course, that I no longer have a reason to return to Cornell. Given the awkwardness of my parting from Lester, perhaps it is just as well. I need to move forward with my career—and my life—and not return to where I have already been.

  Before leaving, Miss Zwinger, John Wylloe, Joseph Not-afraid, and I left camp for one last grand view of the Park before going our separate ways. The early morning weather was cool and windy but cloudless, so it was with great anticipation that we set out at dawn for our last mountain hike. Fortunately for Mr. Wylloe, we were able to hitch our horses to the back of a coach for most of the journey. It is a long ride and Mr. Wylloe’s thin, bony frame is ill-suited to spending a day in the saddle, even with a strategically placed pillow. So when I asked if we might leave the horses behind for the final ascent up the trail, he was the first to eagerly agree.

  We tied our horses next to an open marshy area with the most spectacular display of Mimulus Lewisii I have seen since entering the Park. These bright pink flowers were intermixed with Ortho-carpus tenuifolius, Achillea lanulosa, Aster conspicuus, and some species of Haplopappus, bright and beautiful in a ravine on the side of the road. Of course I could not pass up the opportunity to collect, even if for just a moment or two. Joseph also indicated an interest in the Achillea, which he proceeded to harvest with great precision. Miss Zwinger, sympathetic to us both, offered to hike ahead with John Wylloe, who was in desperate need of stretching his legs. The two of them suggested we meet again further on the trail at our convenience. This was an arrangement to which Joseph and I both eagerly agreed.

  A small hawk circled overhead and then vanished as our two companions slowly disappeared over the first clearing. Joseph, too, soon disappeared waist deep and then deeper into the green. From time to time I could hear the horses settle from one foot to another as they nuzzled in the grass, but otherwise the only sound was a slight breeze which stirred the tree branches overhead, and the trickle of water at the unseen center of this flowery bog.

  I waded through the marsh until the ground underfoot became too soft to comfortably travel, at which point I commenced collecting, heading uphill so that I would eventually be reunited with my companions. I must have lost track of time, for it seemed like only after a moment or two that I was distracted by a noise a little further up the hill.

  Thinking it was Joseph, I advanced in the direction of the sound, which was louder now, followed by a splash and a crashing sound as if a tree had fallen or had been thrown into the swampy ground. I know I should have been more cautious, but in reality, I was simply curious. I wondered what Joseph was doing or, if it was not Joseph, who or what it could be. Rather than return to the trail, which in retrospect would have been the more prudent course, I ventured along the waterway in the direction of the sound.

  Then I saw it, an adult U. horribilis, not more than 100 feet away. It was, in all honesty, not horrible at all, but beautiful, digging with its claws and rooting with its snout in the mud, the silver tips of its fur wavering back and forth in a dappled wash of sunlight and shadow. Because I was standing across the water and upwind from the beast, it did not hear or see me, so I watched with what I assumed to be immunity. Of course, I was foolish not to retreat. But at the time, I was simply transfixed, completely unaware of any danger. I stood my ground until the wind shifted slightly, and the bear lifted its head.

  Because its chest and front legs were wet from digging in the mud, I could see its thick muscles ripple and stretch under its fur as the beast probed the air with its nose, first away from the creek, swooping with its head and grunting, and then, with another swoop, nosing downstream in my direction. I suppose then that I really should have been frightened, because it was pointing its nose in my direction, but before I even had time to comprehend what was happening, the bear was gone. It abruptly turned, charged up the hill—and was gone.

  From up the hill I could hear Joseph singing as he collected, unaware of the danger to himself and to the others. Now I really was frightened, because the direction the bear was headed, as far as I could tell, was towards Joseph and the path being followed by Miss Zwinger and Mr. Wylloe.

  I scrambled up the boggy bank to alert Joseph.

  “Grizzly,” I called to him. He smiled but kept singing. “We need to alert the others,” I said, now panicked at the thought of the bear charging directly into the path of Miss Zwinger and Mr. Wylloe. Joseph smiled and nodded again.

  “Now,” I shouted.

  “Hmmm,” he said, without much conviction, but he did follow me back up the trail.

  My heart was pounding, not from having seen the bear, but at the prospect of inadvertently seeing it again. Joseph’s loud, insistent droning, which seemed to keep him calm, only served to heighten my own sense of uneasiness and dread. What if it was his death song, I could not help but wonder.

  I realized then how Professor Merriam must have felt time and again when I disappeared from the group or went off in the foolish pursuit of bears or elusive white flowers. He takes our safety and wellbeing so personally. What a burden I have been to him.

  We hurried up the trail, Joseph much less hurried in the ascent than I was, until we encountered our companions, who were sitting, side by side, silently watching a family of Ovis canadensis. My calling out to alert the pair and, I dare say, Joseph’s unusually loud singing, sent the bighorns skittering across the rocks, and over the side of the mountain, much to our friends’ consternation.

  When I tried to explain that we were concerned about a bear, a grizzly, they were both, still, unimpressed. They had not seen it, they both informed me flatly. Again, Joseph smiled and nodded, having finished his song.

  “Well, Miss Bartram,” John Wylloe said to me, still weary from the long ride and perturbed that I had scared off the sheep. “I hope that your curiosity about bears is satisfied?”

  I could not help but laugh at the comment, recalling that Meriwether Lewis had said something very similar to his troops, although it took several life-threatening encounters to satiate their curiosity. Joseph laughed, too, right out loud, which for him is unusual.

  As we followed the trail to the summit, I tried to tell Miss Zwinger and Mr. Wylloe about the bear, how it had looked, what it was doing, how I had surprised it there (or it had surprised me), and how under no circumstances should any of them tell the Professor of my encounter, but neither Mr. Wylloe nor Miss Zwinger was at all interested in what I had to say. They were much more fascinated by the bighorn sheep they had encountered, and the animals’ apparent lack of fear. The sheep just stood there, close enough to touch, they kept repeating, until I scared them off with all my commotion.

  Joseph was in an unusually good humor, singing again, but this time contentedly to himself. His pleasure with the day, or maybe he was pleased with his own collecting, helped smooth our personal rough edges and buoy us beyond the timberline and onto the summit. We stood there, the four of us, all so different and yet all so very much the same, for a long, silent time, the gusty wind whipping our hair and clothes and the wisps of clouds overhead. It was as if we were at the top of the world, or at the center of the universe, surveying all that we had created. Or, in Professor Merriam’s way of viewing the world, all that we had named.

  I missed the Professor then, knowing that I would miss him when I had to leave for home, and wished with all my heart that he could have seen the vista that stretched out around us: the canyons, the rivers, the lakes, the steaming geysers, even the Teton Mountains miles and miles to the south. It is our Nation’s greatest wonder and through some miracle of selflessness in a country too often built on greed, the Yellowstone Park will be preserved for generations to come. Even someone like Capt. Craighead, who has little or no interest in the natural world, has dedicated himself and his career in opposition to those interested in exploiting rather than protecting this national treasure.

  Someone who had visited this same spot years before had construct
ed a monument of rocks piled from the rubble on the summit. Joseph took a small pebble and, circling the pile once, placed it near the top, careful not to disturb the others. It seemed such a fitting tribute, that I, too, added a small stone to the pile before following the others down the trail. Funny how these rituals seem to make more sense to me now.

  By the time we finally reached our campsite at the end of the day, we learned that Dr. Rutherford had postponed his own sightseeing so that he could host a farewell party. While we had been gone, Dr. Rutherford and the students had spent the morning in the hotel purchasing food, drink, and souvenirs for us all, including spoons and little weathered stones which had been painted yellow and hand lettered with the word Wonderland. He had even commissioned a photographer to take our portraits down by the lake.

  In addition, he had enlisted the assistance of Kim Li who, up to this point, had maintained a healthy distance from, if not respect for, Dr. Rutherford. The two of them worked together in the afternoon to, in Dr. Rutherford’s words, “spruce up” the campsite with Kim Li’s bright red and gold Chinese cloths and paper lanterns from China and Butte, candles, paper and fabric garlands which were strewn throughout the trees, and large bouquets of the ubiquitous family Compositae which now blooms in golden profusion everywhere you look. Dr. Rutherford even went so far as to fill a lovely porcelain vase, also from Kim Li’s collection, with the bright yellow sprays of Mimulus guttatus which, he informed me with great pride, he had found (and I quote!) “just like the Prof said I would, lilting with their little monkey faces down by the creek where it spills into the lake.” We may make a scientist of Dr. Rutherford yet, even if he insists on following the Professor’s misguided path of common nomenclature.