Burning Ground

by D. A. Galloway

  Stevenson and the four men set to work assembling the boat frame. Before being disassembled at Fort Ellis, all segments had been marked so the builders would know how the pieces fit together. The boat frame was symmetrical; both ends had the same taper. Each side had six ribs spaced about two feet apart, which curved outward from the flat bottom to the gunwale. Burden boards were nailed to the bottom of the frame. An aft thwart was installed midway between the center of the boat and the stern. A mast thwart and forward thwart were nailed in place near the bow. Instead of nailing strakes to the frame, it was double-wrapped with thick canvas sheets to form a hull. The edges of the canvas were tacked to the inside of the gunwale to hold them in place. The assembled craft was about eleven feet long and a little over four feet wide.

  Stevenson told Graham to fetch the bucket being heated by the fire. He came back with a container of sweet-smelling, brown semiliquid.

  “What’s this?” Graham asked as he set the bucket down beside the canvas-draped hull. The odor was pleasant and familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it.

  “Pine tar,” Stevenson replied, handing horsehair brushes to Chester and Graham. “We need to coat the entire hull to make it waterproof.”

  It took over an hour for the young men to brush the duck canvas with the sticky substance. They stopped occasionally and reheated the bucket of tar on the fire, so it remained thin enough to spread with the brushes.

  While Chester and Graham were waterproofing the hull, others fabricated a square sail from a horse blanket and wood poles. The crude sail was attached to a short mast anchored between the forward thwart and mast thwart.

  Alec trudged to the boat carrying one of the handcrafted oars in one hand and a small drawknife in the other. “Dick wanted me ´ta see how this ’un looks ’fore we do more.”

  Stevenson took the oar and placed it into a rowlock. After moving it around in the pivot point and checking for balance, he said, “Tell Dick this will do fine, except the handle should be a bit smaller. Make the other oar just like this one. Nice work.”

  The sun was high in the midday sky, and it had turned surprisingly warm. Stevenson instructed the boat assemblers to set up their campsites and get something to eat.

  Graham checked with Aurelio to ask if he could share a fly with him for the night. The hostler agreed and asked about his first trail ride with Lindy.

  “She gave me no trouble at all,” Graham reported. “I really appreciate the pointers you gave me last night.”

  “Lindy listens most of the time, but every now and then she will surprise you,” he said as his voice trailed off.

  “What kind of surprise?” Graham asked with a little anxiety.

  “Can’t say, really. Just remember Lindy is a draft mule. She’s used to working alongside other mules pulling a wagon, not being ridden. Keep this in mind when she decides not to listen.”

  That’s great, Graham thought. This gentle mule might suddenly behave in a surprising way. Just what I need.

  He decided not to dwell on something that may or may not happen.

  After the midday meal, Graham sauntered down to the lake, where the newly assembled boat sat near the pebble-strewn shore. He gazed at the grassy bluff where a collection of tents and flies had been erected just beyond the water’s edge. In twenty years, the Yellowstone Lake Hotel would be constructed on this very site. He felt fortunate to see the park before it was a park. It gave him a whole new appreciation of the beauty of this land in advance of the massive tourism and commercialization that would follow.

  “She looks good!” Chester said as he walked to the canvas-covered boat with Stevenson.

  “Yes, she does.” Graham responded as he reverted from his thoughts of the future.

  Stevenson strode to the boat and lightly stroked the canvas with his fingers. “The pine tar is almost dry. We’ve got a warm sun and low humidity. I think we can test her on the water this afternoon.”

  The survey manager paused, rubbing his beard thoughtfully. “We need a name.”

  “For the boat?” Chester asked.

  “Sure. Every boat needs to be named. It’s bad luck to sail a boat without one. Most sailors prefer a woman’s name,” Stevenson asserted.

  Graham thought about this for a moment. Two of the three boats he operated out of Bridge Bay Marina had feminine names - the Lake Queen and the Miss Yellowstone. The third boat, the Absaroka, was the name of an entire people.

  “How about Anna?” Chester offered.

  “What made you think of that?” Stevenson asked, raising one eyebrow.

  “It’s my sister’s name,” Chester said with a shrug. “Actually, Anna is her given name. We call her Annie. She was excited for me to be a part of this expedition. I thought it would be a nice way to let her know I was thinking of her.”

  Graham immediately thought of his late sister and almost proposed Susan as a possible name but remained silent.

  Stevenson considered Chester’s suggestion and saw an advantage to using the namesake of an influential advocate. Henry Dawes was a key political figure in securing the funds for this expedition. Anna was not only Chester’s sister; she was Henry’s daughter.

  “I like it,” Stevenson pronounced. “Let’s use the name you call your sister at home—Annie. Chester, cut a small piece of canvas and look in the supply box for a bottle of ink. Also see Mr. Moran for a brush. I’m sure he has an extra one we can borrow. You have the honor of printing her name. Attach the canvas label on the bow with pine tar.

  “I must attend to some other things. Davidson, go check on the oars. We will test our boat’s seaworthiness at two o’clock. Find Mr. Jackson and tell him to be here in about an hour. We should take a photograph to commemorate the event.”

  As Stevenson headed toward the campsite, the newest member of the survey team turned to Chester and asked, “Who’s Mr. Jackson?”

  “The photographer. I think his first name is William. Just ask anybody in camp where you can find him or his assistant, George Dixon.”

  Chester and Graham headed toward the campsite to complete their assignments.

  Graham looked for Alec among the various flies and tents scattered on the grassy bluff. He found the amateur wood-carver sitting on a fallen log at the edge of the camp. A wet brush was perched on the rim of a pine-tar bucket between his legs. Two oars were glistening in the sun, the blades and handles resting on rocks.

  “Alec, I don’t think we officially met. I’m Graham Davidson from Pennsylvania. I just joined the team yesterday.”

  “Alec Sibley from Kentucky. I work wit’ ’da mules.”

  Sibley was a small man with a wiry frame in his mid-thirties. His scraggly, thin blond hair covered protruding ears, and he was missing a few teeth that accentuated his hillbilly grammar.

  “Mr. Stevenson wanted me to check on the oars.”

  “Me and Dick shaped ’em good. Jus’ got done puttin’ tar ev’rywheres but da’ han’le.”

  “They look good. Mr. Stevenson wants you and Dick to bring them to the boat by two o’clock so we can test them.”

  “Dad-blame it! I jes’ finished tarrin’. Can’t say if they be dry by then!”

  “I think they’ll be dry. We have a warm sun today. Besides, the handles don’t have any pine tar on them,” Graham said, reassuring the flustered man. “Oh, have you seen Mr. Jackson?”

  “Thataway,” Alec said, pointing his finger toward the outlet of the lake.

  “What’s he look like?”

  “Tall fella with a beard. Jus’ be lookin’ fer a bunch of boxes. He totes lotta boxes ’n’ poles ’n’ stuff ev’rywheres.”

  Graham walked in the direction Alec indicated. In a few minutes, he saw two men and a pair of mules in the distance. They were squatting by two large boxes sitting on the ground.

  “Hello!” Graham said as he approached the two men. “I’m Graham Davidson. We haven’t met, but I just joined the team yesterday. One of you Mr. Jackson?”

  “That’s me,” a bea
rded man with wavy dark hair responded as he looked up from a box that held glass plates, frames, cloths, and numerous bottles.

  William Henry Jackson was twenty-seven years old when he was invited to be the official photographer for Ferdinand Hayden’s series of expeditions. Jackson was a native of upstate New York and served in the Vermont Infantry during the Civil War. He opened a successful portrait studio in Omaha before joining Hayden’s survey of the Yellowstone region in the summer of 1871. Jackson’s photographs helped persuade Congress to vote for the Yellowstone National Park Protection Act in 1872.

  “Mr. Stevenson requested you bring your equipment over there at two o’clock,” Graham explained, pointing back toward the location on the shoreline where the Annie had been assembled. “We want to see if our boat is suitable to use on the lake, and he would like a photograph.”

  “This is my assistant, George Dixon,” Jackson said as he nodded to the man standing beside him. “We were just about to set up to take some photographs of the lake. We’ll be there.”

  Shortly before two o’clock, a small group gathered on the shore and stood around the small boat. Stevenson nodded approvingly as he stepped into the boat and checked the slim, sturdy mast and the blanket sail. He sat on the aft thwart, placed the oars in the rowlocks, and tested their balance.

  “Let’s push her in, boys,” he instructed. Four men lifted the small craft and carried it to the water’s edge.

  “Chester, come aboard,” Stevenson commanded.

  Young Dawes climbed in and sat toward the bow, while Stevenson followed and took the oars. The Annie was shoved onto the surface of the calm lake. The men clapped and whistled as they watched the little boat skim across the water, propelled by the oars and assisted with a light breeze that gently filled the horse-blanket sail. With a bit of effort, Stevenson turned the boat around and rowed back to shore.

  “Well, she’s a little hard to keep in a straight line without a keel, but she’s definitely watertight. Nice job, boys.

  “Mr. Jackson, can you get a photograph?” he asked. “Let me get her in position for you.”

  “Just be sure to hold the boat steady. I’ll let you know when you can move,” Jackson said as he fiddled with the camera mounted on his tripod. Stevenson and Dawes sat perfectly still in the Annie while the photographer removed the camera’s lens cap and exposed the wet collodion glass plate to light.

  Jackson measured the exposure time by counting aloud, “One, one thousand, two, one thousand, three, one thousand . . .” He replaced the lens cap after eight seconds.

  “All set!” the photographer shouted, before taking the exposed glass plate from the camera and disappearing into a portable darkroom set up on a tripod behind the camera.

  Graham was in awe. He had witnessed William Henry Jackson, a soon-to-be-famous photographer of the American West, capture an iconic image of the first boat to sail on Yellowstone Lake - the Annie. He vowed to find an opportunity to work with Jackson sometime during the expedition.

  Annie, first boat on Yellowstone Lake by William H. Jackson

  “It’s such a beautiful day and the lake is fairly calm. I’m tempted to make a quick trip over to the island,” Stevenson proclaimed as the two men disembarked.

  “Sir, I know a good place to land a boat,” Graham chimed in. “I’ve seen all sides of the island, and the east side has the best access because it has a long, sandy shoal. You should avoid the west side, because it has ten-to-fifteen-foot cliffs with a rocky base.”

  “Is that right?” Stevenson queried. “And how do you know this?”

  Oops! Graham thought. The real reason he knew was because he had navigated the Lake Queen around the island almost a hundred times that summer.

  “I had a small spyglass, but I lost it in the river when my horse drowned. As I traveled around the lake, I used it to get a closer look at all the islands,” Graham said, improvising. He hoped it was a tenable explanation.

  “I see. Anything else about the island or lake that might be helpful?”

  The time traveler gained confidence in sharing his thoughts. “Actually, the lake is unusually calm for this time of day. The winds tend to pick up and churn the waves in midafternoon. If you want to make a quick trip to the island, this might be a good time to do it.”

  Stevenson glanced toward the island two miles offshore, then returned his gaze to the Annie. “Let’s do a quick rendezvous today. It will save us time tomorrow when I bring Elliott with me to draw sketches of the entire island. Davidson, since you know this island better than any of us, I want you to come with me.”

  “Mr. Stevenson,” Chester objected. “I would like to assist with the boat trip.”

  “Maybe another time, son. Davidson knows this part of the lake. Besides, he’s taller and stronger. I need someone who can row against any winds that may pick up. Let’s go, Davidson,” the survey manager commanded as he stepped into the bow of the small canvas-covered craft.

  Graham didn’t hesitate. He pushed the boat onto the water, hopped into the stern, and placed the freshly tarred wooden oars in the oarlocks. The scenicruise operator dipped the oars into the water behind him and pulled both handles toward his chest. At the end of the stroke, Graham lowered the handles and lifted the blades from the water, pushed the handles away from him, lowered the blades into the water, and pulled again. The Annie slowly lurched toward the island with each long stroke. Every ten or twelve strokes Graham checked behind him to make sure his course was maintained toward the northeastern corner of the island. He was pleased with the tiny boat’s responsiveness. The crude sail caught a slight breeze, which helped propel the small craft toward their destination.

  Forty-five minutes later, the Annie rounded the north edge and was hugging the east side of the island. The island’s features were identical to those Graham remembered, but they seemed more detailed when viewed from a primitive rowboat as compared with what a person could see from a forty-two-foot, engine-powered tour boat.

  “A little farther down there’s a narrow inlet protected by a sandy shoal. I think that could be a good place to land,” Graham said, speaking over his right shoulder to Stevenson.

  “That’s fine. I’ll let you know when I see a place that looks suitable.” Stevenson was alternately glancing down at a map and looking up at the shoreline of the island as it slowly passed on their left side.

  “There!” the survey manager suddenly shouted, pointing to a shallow, sandy area protected by a small cove.

  Graham pulled on the right oar, then used faster strokes on both oars to accelerate the boat into the sand. Stevenson climbed out and pulled the bow onto the spongy ground.

  “That was a nice piece of rowing,” he said to the younger man.

  Graham nodded, smiling inwardly. “Thanks. It’s gonna be a little harder returning, since we’ll be rowing into a light wind.”

  The two men walked up the narrow, sandy beach, which was bordered by clusters of phlox with delicate ray-shaped flowers and patches of white yarrow with leaves resembling ferns. Dense stands of Engelmann spruce and lodgepole pine towered above the small cove and covered the entire island as far as they could see. The understory was thick with fallen timber uprooted or blown down by high winds.

  Graham stood at the edge of the virgin forest and looked back toward the lake. He recognized this part of the island. But a historical artifact was missing. Sixty years from now, the abandoned, rotting remains of the E. C. Waters would be burned here. One hundred years in the future, a young man from Pennsylvania would pilot a scenicruise boat through these waters and regale visitors with stories of the ill-fated steamship.

  He was standing on ground that would soon be named in honor of the first white man to set foot on the island - James Stevenson. Graham closed his eyes and cherished witnessing and (strangely) contributing to history, even though he could not comprehend how any of this was possible.

  “Davidson!” Stevenson shouted from several hundred feet away. “Come look at this!”r />
  The time traveler snapped from his reverie and trotted up the grainy, moist soil. As he approached, Graham could see the survey manager pointing at an area of sandy ground near the edge of the forest.

  “Looks like a bear, agree?”

  Graham felt a chill go up his spine as he squatted to get a closer look at the shallow paw print. The animal track had the same characteristics as the one he saw with Kevin on their hike to the Hayden Valley.

  “Yes. It’s a grizzly.” Graham explained how toes close together in a straight line coupled with elongated claw marks were features of a grizzly track. The survey manager listened intently, just as Graham had done when Kevin shared this knowledge.

  Stevenson bent down and used his fingers to trace the outline of the bear’s rear foot. The length and width of the print indicated this was an exceptionally large animal. He whistled in admiration. “One of our hunters shot a black bear and two cubs north of the canyon a few days ago, but we haven’t seen a bear this big.”

  Graham recoiled when he heard this. They shot a mother bear and her two cubs! Why would they do this? It was a stark reminder he was in a frontier wilderness, not a national park in the 1970s.

  He regained his composure and commented, “Bears are good swimmers, but it doesn’t make any sense for a bear to expend his energy swimming two miles to this island when there are plenty of food sources around the lake in the summer. Since the lake is frozen until late May, I’m guessing this bear walked over here on the ice after coming out of hibernation in March.”

  Stevenson appeared unconvinced by Graham’s explanation and was anxious to depart. “Elliott and I will explore the island more tomorrow. I’ll be sure to bring a rifle when we return. Now we know where to safely land the boat. Let’s head back.”