Burning Ground

by D. A. Galloway

  The earth beneath the crater suddenly trembled and bellowed, blasting another round of mud and steam skyward through the mud cone. The accompanying noise reminded Graham of the report from his brother’s deer rifle he used when shooting at targets back in Pennsylvania. He turned and sprinted away from the mud spring, holding onto his hat while small chunks of wet earth rained down and sulfurous gases swirled in the breeze.

  Graham ran several hundred feet down the slope toward the area where the parking lot had been. He turned and looked back up the hill at the erupting mud spring and had a view of the surrounding landscape for the first time. As a testament to the power of these violent explosions, he could see all lodgepole pines within two hundred feet of the boiling mud spring were adorned with fresh mud.

  The confused young man sat at the bottom of the grassy slope near the river to collect his thoughts. He gulped from his canteen to slake his thirst. Then he dug into his pack and immediately devoured both apples, including their cores. But he left the Hershey bar for later, not knowing where or how he might have his next meal. Chewing on a piece of beef jerky, he tried to make sense of his plight. Calm yourself, he said aloud. Based on what I’ve seen, what do I know?

  He conceded the absence of civilization in the area. No cars, paved roads, parking area, signs, or boardwalks. The Dragon’s Mouth looked the same as he remembered it last evening under the full moon. But the Mud Volcano looked and sounded unmistakably different. Had these violent eruptions commenced within the last few hours? It seemed unlikely. The conical mud structure in the middle of the crater would have taken years to form.

  At that moment Graham remembered portions of the Mud Volcano description he read earlier written by a member of the Washburn Expedition in 1870:

  Dense volumes of steam . . . crater thirty feet in diameter . . . heard half a mile away . . . shook the ground . . . massive jets of vapor . . . like the smoke of gunpowder . . . limbs of trees encased in clay.

  By the time Yellowstone Park was created, the spring was a bubbling, muddy crater.

  The behavior of the Mud Volcano he just observed matched the 1870 description. Slowly a bizarre explanation materialized. Had Graham somehow traveled back in time? If so, how far back? It was 1971 when he petitioned the spirits last evening. What was the year now? The physical and geological evidence strongly suggested he was living some time before 1872, when the park was established. How many years earlier?

  He recalled the supernatural behavior of the moon the previous night, and how it traveled across the sky in the opposite direction from its normal arc. Multiple lunar cycles had been completed every minute. It was the dizzying acceleration of the celestial bodies in the night sky that ultimately caused him to lose consciousness. Is this what it looks and feels like to travel back in time?

  No! No! This is crazy! He shook his head, trying to clear his mind. Time travel? That’s pure science fiction. I’m not in an H.G. Wells novel, he thought. There must be a logical explanation for this freakish situation.

  He stood and paced along a trail near the river’s edge. A trail! Graham hadn’t noticed this before. He could see humans and horses had traveled this way frequently enough to wear a path that followed the Yellowstone River’s western bank. This primitive path duplicated the same route as the modern Grand Loop Road. The trail was proof people were somewhere in the region.

  Wait. There is another possibility, he told himself. What if I am simply dreaming? Yes. Of course. My twenty-four-hour fast must have affected my brain in some way. When I lost consciousness, I must have entered this fantasy world in my mind. Maybe this is simply a vivid nightmare, and the only way back to reality is to wake up.

  Satisfied he finally had an explanation that made sense, Graham looked for a safe place to sleep. A small grove of pines between the trail and the river looked like a good spot. It was a shaded area several hundred feet from the bison he met earlier, and the pine needles provided natural bedding. He spread his plastic poncho onto the ground, removed his hat, and clutched the pack around his chest while lying on his back. All his possessions were in this pack, and he didn’t want to risk losing it.

  Boom!

  The distant blast sounded like suppressed artillery fire as another load of steam and earth spewed into the air from the Mud Volcano. Graham was amazed the noise was so loud even though he was several hundred yards from the thermal feature. He sat up as an incredulous thought entered his mind. Was it possible he had regained hearing in his deaf ear?

  Graham placed his hand over his right ear, turned his uncovered deaf ear toward the Mud Volcano, and waited for the next eruption. A few minutes later he clearly heard the unmistakable distant blast. Somehow, he had normal hearing in both ears! This miraculous event was more tangible evidence he was indeed in a different world. What a wonderful fantasy! Graham’s joy quickly faded when he realized how disappointing it would be when he woke to find he was one-sided deaf again, but he decided to enjoy the marvelous gift of complete hearing while he was still in this dream world.

  Graham placed his cowboy hat over his eyes and willed himself to sleep. After fifteen minutes of fitful rest, his brain tuned out the cacophonous noise of the sporadic distant eruptions, his body relaxed, and he drifted to sleep.

  * * *

  Graham was awakened from a deep sleep when he felt someone shaking his shoulder. He lifted his hat to see a soldier with curly hair and a thin mustache leaning over him. The young man wore a dark-blue hat that featured a gold insignia with numeral 2 centered over crossed swords. Graham tried to shake the sleepiness from his brain and focus on what the man was saying.

  “Mr. Bean, kin ya’ hear me? You need to git up. The captain wants to talk to ya’.”

  Graham sat up quickly and asked, “What did you call me?”

  “Mr. Bean. That’s your name, right? It says so on yer pack,” he said, pointing to the pack Graham was holding.

  Graham glanced down at the day pack and saw the L.L. Bean monogram stitched on the Cordura canvas. “No, that’s the name of the company that made the pack. Who did you say wanted to talk to me?”

  “The captain. Just follow me. I’ll take ya’ to see him.”

  As Graham struggled to his feet and picked up his poncho, he gawked at the scene on the hillside above him. A long line of pack mules and men mounted on horses was strung along the trail. Some wore uniforms like the soldier who had awakened him, while others wore civilian clothes. The soldier led Graham up the slope, and the two men walked south on the trail toward the front of the procession.

  The young soldier saluted a man in his late thirties wearing a neatly trimmed black chevron mustache. He wore a black slouch hat adorned with a gold bullion cord. Graham noticed an identical insignia of crossed swords on the officer’s hat. He had dismounted and was looking at a map with a pair of reading glasses.

  “Sir, this here’s the man we saw sleepin’ by the trail.”

  “Thanks, private,” the officer responded, returning the soldier’s salute. “Captain George Tyler of Company F, Second Cavalry,” he announced as he removed his glasses and turned to Graham.

  “Graham Davidson,” the flummoxed park employee responded.

  “You and I need to have a conversation with either Doctor Hayden or James Stevenson. I thought we might occasionally run into a white man on this expedition. I need to find out if you know anything that might be of value to the US Army. And the doctor or Mr. Stevenson will want to see what you know about the Yellowstone territory that could be helpful.”

  “Sure. Glad to help out,” Graham replied, still not grasping who these people were.

  Boom!

  The Mud Volcano launched another volley of clay into the air. The captain instinctively put his hand on the grip of his .44-caliber Colt revolver and turned in the direction of the blast. “What’s that?” he asked anxiously.

  Graham heard the clarion call of the blast and smiled. He still had hearing in both ears!

  “Oh, just an active mud g
eyser,” Graham reassured him. “It’s on the other side of the rise partway up the hill. It throws up a lot of mud and steam.”

  “What a strange land! Okay. I must establish camp. Stay here. I’ll be back in a half hour or so.” Tyler mounted, pivoted his horse, and rode toward the rear of the column. His shout of “Lieutenant!” faded as he passed out of sight.

  Graham sat down under a tall pine tree and retrieved the remaining strip of jerky from his pack. While chewing on the salty beef, he watched the soldiers and other riders fan out toward the river looking for a suitable place to camp.

  He had to face reality. This was not a dream. It was not a nightmare he could escape by waking. Somehow, some way, he had been transported back in time at the Dragon’s Mouth to . . . when? The captain said he was going to speak with Dr. Hayden or James Stevenson. Hayden! Was this the same man who led the 1871 expedition of the future park? It had to be he. From what he heard during his park orientation, the army provided a large military escort for Hayden. That would explain the cavalrymen and officers.

  Graham’s immediate concern was survival. He was alone. He was without food, shelter, transportation, and a weapon. The Hayden group had all the essentials needed to survive in the wilderness. His life depended upon being able to persuade the expedition leaders to allow him to join the survey team.

  No one would believe he is from one hundred years in the future. Heck, he even found it hard to believe! If he mentioned traveling through time to anyone, he would be labeled a lunatic and left by the river to fend for himself. Graham had to come up with a plausible narrative, and it would need to explain what he was doing in northwestern Wyoming in 1871. He spent the next half hour putting his story together and anticipating the questions that may be asked.

  “Mr. Davidson,” Tyler said as he neared the tree where Graham was sitting. “I’d like to introduce Mr. James Stevenson. He is the manager of this expedition and Hayden’s right hand.”

  James Stevenson was born in Maysville, Kentucky, in 1840. He left home at sixteen and met Ferdinand Hayden when they were members of an expedition to Powder River country in 1856. Stevenson served in the Thirteenth New York Regiment during the Civil War. The two men worked together on various Western explorations for fifteen years. Because of his strong financial and organizational talents, Stevenson was a vital member of the expedition as Hayden’s survey manager.

  Graham stood and shook Stevenson’s hand. “I’m pleased to meet you.”

  Stevenson had a full beard and dark hair. He wore a black kepi-style hat, a short, single-breasted frock coat, and gray woolen pants.

  “Let’s talk, shall we?” the survey manager said as the three men sat under the pine tree. “Captain Tyler thought you may be able to share some information about this area. But before we get to that, it might be helpful to know what you are doing here by yourself—especially with no horse or provisions.”

  Here we go, Graham thought to himself. He hoped the yarn he was about to weave would hold up to scrutiny.

  The time traveler struck a morose tone while telling his story. “I’m so glad your party came along, because I’m in trouble. A few days ago, I was trying to ford the river. My horse’s leg got stuck between some rocks. She panicked, and I was thrown into the river. I tried to calm my horse, but she kept thrashing, snapped her leg, and fell. Before I could do anything, the river current washed her downstream with all my possessions. The only things I have left are the clothes I’m wearing and what’s in this pack. It’s been a rough couple of days.”

  “That’s too bad,” Tyler said. “So, what are you doing in Yellowstone, anyway?”

  Graham didn’t have confidence in this part of his fabricated story, but it was the best he could conjure up. He based his response on what he read about those who came to Montana and Wyoming in the mid-1800s. “I’m prospecting. Or at least I was until I lost everything in the river. I had a good pick and a pan I bought in Cheyenne. I even made a small rocker for sifting the gravel from streambeds. All were lost. I was hoping I could make some money to help pay for my schooling back in Pennsylvania.”

  Stevenson joined the conversation. “Where are you going to school?”

  Graham was ready for this question. He knew Penn State University was not the name of the school in 1871. On the other hand, he couldn’t remember exactly what the school was called that year. His alma mater was originally founded in 1855 as the Farmer’s High School, then renamed a decade or so later. “I am studying forestry at the Agricultural College of Pennsylvania. It was named a land-grant college a few years ago.”

  “Hmmm . . . interesting,” Stevenson said, as he raised an eyebrow. “That’s something Doctor Hayden might like to know. By the way, we have a Mr. Albert Peale on our team. He’s a geologist who received his medical degree from the University of Pennsylvania.”

  “Where were you born, son?” the captain asked.

  “Gettysburg, sir,” Graham answered truthfully.

  “How about that!” Tyler exclaimed. “I was at Gettysburg in ’63 with the Eightieth Regiment, New York Infantry. That was a hellish three days. We lost a lot of good men.”

  Tyler looked at his boots and reflected for a moment on the macabre scenes from the battlefield. Then he asked, “Did you serve in the Union Army?”

  Graham did some quick math to come up with a good answer. “No, I’m twenty-one. I was only thirteen when the two armies met. But I can still remember hearing all the cannon and gunfire from our farm several miles away.”

  Then he added, “My older brother, Frank, enlisted, but he was killed in action.” This was the first thing Graham said that was not a lie. It was a tremendously misleading statement, but it wasn’t an outright lie.

  Capt. Tyler nodded his head. “Sorry to hear that.” He brought the conversation back to Graham’s situation. “How long have you been in this part of Wyoming?”

  “I’ve been exploring the area all around the lake since I first arrived early in June,” Graham said truthfully. “By the way, can you tell me the date? I’ve lost track of time.” Another truthful statement. He was starting to figure out how to tell half-truths. Somehow these seemed less deceitful than blatant falsehoods.

  “It’s Thursday, July 27,” Stevenson said, as he took out his pocket watch and looked at the time. It was obvious he wanted to finish the interview.

  “May I ask a question?” Graham inquired.

  “Sure,” the survey manager responded.

  “Well, you know my situation. I could really use some help. Would you allow me to join your team? Before you answer, let me assure you I don’t expect to be paid, and I’m willing to work for my meals. I can do anything that requires an extra hand. I also have some knowledge of this area that may be helpful. What do you say?” Graham pleaded.

  Stevenson looked at the young man’s eyes and discerned his sincerity. Rather than answering him directly, he said, “I’ll talk to Doctor Hayden. It’s his decision, not mine. You look like you could use something to eat. Why don’t you take dinner with me?”

  “Thanks! I greatly appreciate it,” the time traveler said earnestly. “I’ll come and find you in the camp in a little while.”

  The conversation with Capt. Tyler and James Stevenson left Graham sanguine about the possibility of joining the Hayden Expedition. He had been a competent liar during their interrogation. Was he convincing enough to earn a place on the roster of this historical survey team? He hoped this was the case and anticipated meeting Stevenson for dinner to learn his fate.

  Ferdinand Vandeveer Hayden was a geologist who also held a medical degree. Hayden led numerous expeditions of the Missouri River Valley and the Rocky Mountains. During the Civil War, he served as an army surgeon in the Army of the Shenandoah. In 1867 he was appointed geologist-in-charge of the United States Geological and Geographical Survey of the Territories. Hayden was leader of the first federally funded geological survey into Yellowstone.

  Stevenson found Dr. Hayden sitting outside a wall
tent set up near the river. He was stroking his salt-and-pepper beard and reading a letter. The cooks had started a fire nearby. Three large iron kettles of water were suspended over the fire on a wooden crossbar supported by two forked sticks.

  “Doctor, I spoke with an interesting young man a short while ago,” Stevenson remarked as he sat on a log near the tent.

  “Oh? Is it the young fellow who was sleeping alongside the trail?”

  “Yes. The captain and I questioned him. Seems he’s in a bit of trouble. He came out here from back east to see if he could strike it rich. Lost his horse and all his belongings in the river. Says he goes to a small college in Pennsylvania and studies forestry. Did you ever hear of that curriculum?”

  “Can’t say I have. Perhaps it’s a specialized study of botany.”

  “Yes, it might be. Anyway, he asked to join our expedition,” Stevenson remarked.

  “I don’t have the budget to add anybody else,” Hayden asserted immediately. “You know how difficult it was to pare down the list of people who saw this expedition as a big sightseeing trip. Our group has already been burdened by a couple of apathetic political appointees and a lazy ornithologist. I want only men who can contribute to our success.” Hayden was clearly peeved about the possibility of adding to a survey team he already regarded as excessively large.

  “Yes, I agree.” Stevenson tried to assuage his boss’s concerns. “He doesn’t want to be paid. And he’s been all around the lake since early June. He may be able to give us some guidance as we traverse the lake region. I was thinking he could be an extra set of hands for Moran or Jackson. Maybe even Peale. We left seven men back at Bottler’s Ranch. Plus Dr. Allen remained at Fort Ellis, and he was our primary botanist. This fellow looks fit and seems bright. If we let him use a spare mule and the army lends him a few supplies, it would cost only a few extra biscuits, potatoes, and meat every day.”