Beaman suggested how they could work together. “Starting at sixty feet, we tie a marked strip of cloth to the rope every other fathom. The hemp is pliable and easy to coil because it was soaked in linseed oil. I have twelve feet marked off between two sticks in the ground. If you stretch the rope between the sticks, I can tie the cloth strips on the line.”
Graham nodded. It didn’t take long for the two men to get into a rhythm of locating and tagging a cloth strip at regular intervals.
“How long is the rope?” Graham asked the meteorologist as he coiled another section.
“Three hundred feet. The lake may be deeper in some places, but we can’t confirm this until we take our measurements. If we find an area deeper than the rope is long, we’ll have to extend it.”
When they had finished placing fathom markers along the entire length of rope, Beaman attached a seven-pound plummet shaped like an elongated, truncated cone to the end of the line.
“Okay, I think we’re ready. Let’s head to the lake,” Beaman said.
Graham placed the coiled lead line over his shoulder and cradled the heavy plummet in his hands as they plodded down to the lake. Stevenson was standing on the shoreline marking potential sounding sites on the map.
“Right on time,” Stevenson said as he looked up from his map. “Graham, I need you on the lakeshore. John and I will be in the boat. I will signal by waving when we are ready to take a sounding. You will take a bearing to the boat. At the same time, I will take a bearing to the fixed point where you are standing. With these two bearings, we will be able to determine precisely where each sounding is located on the map.”
Stevenson handed the young man a pair of leather-wrapped bronze binoculars. “Here are some field glasses to help you see the boat as we venture farther from shore. I have my own field glasses. Do you have a compass?”
“Yes, sir. It’s in my pack.”
“Good. Fetch it after we push off. How about paper and a writing instrument?”
“No.”
The survey manager reached into his haversack and pulled out a small notepad and removed two sheets of paper. He handed the paper and a cedar pencil to Graham.
“I will signal the number of each sounding before it is taken. They will be numbered consecutively. Write down the bearings for each one.”
Stevenson and Beaman loaded the coiled lead line into the boat and climbed aboard. Beaman manned the oars as Graham pushed the Annie on the lake. Graham hurried back to his campsite and retrieved his Silva orienteering compass.
By the time Graham returned, the two men in the boat were positioned to take the first sounding. Stevenson waved and held up one finger. Graham waved back, used his compass to take a bearing, and recorded the initial reading. He saw Beaman cast the lead line into the lake and slowly let the heavy plummet carry the treated hemp rope to the bottom. When the lead line stopped uncoiling, Beaman looked at the fathom marker and said something to Stevenson, who recorded the depth in his notebook.
The trio used the same procedure all morning. Graham walked along the shoreline following the boat as it moved over random locations on the north and west sides of the lake. By one o’clock, the three-man crew had taken forty-two soundings, and Stevenson directed Beaman to row the boat to shore.
“Good work, fellas,” the survey manager said, complimenting them as he collected the papers and binoculars from Graham. “The lead line worked well. We found one place where it was nearly three hundred feet deep. I’m going to teach Henry Elliott and Cam Carrington how to take soundings using this method. Elliott can also sketch the shoreline while they traverse around the lake in the Annie.”
Edward Campbell “Cam” Carrington was recruited as a zoologist for the survey and was close friends with Henry Elliott. The affable native of Virginia was only twenty when he participated in the Hayden Expedition. Carrington Island, a diminutive U-shaped island in the West Thumb of Yellowstone Lake, was named for him.
“Will I take bearings for Elliott and Carrington?” Graham inquired.
“No. I’ll have someone else take bearings from shore. You will assist with other survey work. We won’t take more soundings until we return from the geyser basins.”
Graham wondered what Stevenson had in mind. He felt fortunate he was not permanently assigned to the sounding party. It would be disappointing to miss the opportunity to assist photographer William Henry Jackson. More importantly, Graham wanted to get to know Makawee. It would be nearly impossible to do so if he had to follow Elliott and Carrington as they sailed the Annie while Makawee and Rides Alone guided the pack train around the lake.
A small group of men was chatting by a fire as the trio walked into camp. Graham recognized Capt. Tyler, Lt. Grugan, and Dr. Hayden, but he didn’t know the army officer who was speaking.
It was Capt. Barlow.
John W. Barlow was a Civil War veteran and chief engineer of the Military Division of the Missouri. Barlow had orders from General Philip Sheridan to explore and map the Yellowstone region. His eleven-man party included a photographer and a topographer. They shared the military escort with the Hayden Expedition. Although the Hayden and Barlow groups followed essentially the same route, they often explored independently.
“Jim, you should probably hear this,” Hayden said to Stevenson as the sounding party approached the group. “Captain Barlow has news from Bottler’s Ranch about an Indian attack.”
“As I was saying,” Barlow continued, “one of our men had started toward Fort Ellis to procure additional provisions when we received news some Indians had attacked and killed two ranchers outside Bozeman. They also ran off two hundred head of cattle and horses. Several companies from Fort Ellis were sent after them. Some folks think these Indians belong to a band of Sioux under Sitting Bull, but I don’t think the Sioux would travel into the Gallatin Valley. It seems more likely the attackers are Blackfeet. At any rate, these Indians don’t seem to be a part of any treaty. I’m sure the boys from Fort Ellis will sort it out.” Barlow spoke dispassionately as he shared the story.
“Yes, they will,” Capt. Tyler reaffirmed. “That’s why these expeditions have a military escort. Doctor Hayden, I can assure you the survey members are protected from this kind of hostile activity.”
“I’m not concerned. But it would seem prudent to have a few soldiers accompany anyone who travels back and forth to Bottler’s Ranch for supplies,” the survey manager responded.
“Certainly. I also recommend any survey-team member who ventures away from the main group have an armed escort.”
“I will pass that along. Thank you.”
As the group disbanded, Stevenson took Graham aside.
“Graham, you have guard duty tonight from eleven o’clock until two o’clock. Talk with Mr. Hovey about where he wants you posted. He coordinates when each survey-team member is assigned this duty. You have the rest of the day to yourself. Better rise early tomorrow, because we are making our way to the lower geyser basin.”
Graham headed back to Aurelio’s fly. He wanted to check out his Spencer carbine to make ensure it was ready for tonight. After today’s news about the hostile Indian attack, the entire camp would be on high alert. He hoped his marksmanship skills would not be tested while he was on guard duty. Shooting a wild animal was one thing, but the thought of killing another man filled him with dread.
* * *
Daybreak came early for Graham. It was an uneventful first night on guard duty, but he had not been relieved of his post until two thirty, and it was nearly three o’clock before he got to sleep. He sat up and used his fingers to massage his eyes while he shook himself from the fog of a brief night’s rest. Aurelio was not in the fly. He and the other hostlers were busy packing the mules and preparing the horses.
Graham pulled on his boots, grabbed his mess plate, and hurried out of the tent. He strode briskly to the cooking fire to get some breakfast. When he arrived, Hayden and Stevenson were standing to the side conversing with two men dressed in
worn, fringed buckskin. The time traveler went directly to the fire, where the chief cook, a man everyone called Potato John, gave him a large biscuit and three strips of bacon. As Graham walked past the group, Stevenson stopped him.
“We are splitting into several teams. You will be traveling with Doctor Hayden’s group and take direction from him. I will be working with the other team members to move our base camp farther south along the lake. Captain Barlow will take his group to the geyser basin later today. I need you to stay close to Goodfellow, since he will be pulling the odometer wagon and will need help. Your group will be leaving in about twenty minutes.”
Munching on his biscuit, Graham hurried back to the campsite, packed his personal items, and used the chewing stick to quickly brush his teeth. The amateur horseman found Lindy picketed with a group of mules. After saddling her, he mounted the scabbard on the pommel and placed his Spencer carbine in the leather boot.
Graham led Lindy to an open area west of camp, where a group of eight survey-team members and two soldiers had gathered. He had not met some of the survey group but was pleased to see Makawee and Rides Alone among them. It was easy to figure out which individual was Goodfellow. The lanky man was mounted on a mule pulling an odometer. It was a two-wheeled cart assembled from forty-eight-inch wagon wheels.
The wheels were connected to long poles lashed to the mule’s tack. The poles reached all the way to the animal’s neck and extended behind the wagon wheels, which created a pair of handles used to lift the cart if it became stuck. The odometer was a series of interlocking wooden gears attached to one wheel that spun with each revolution. The distance traveled could be determined by marking each gear at its starting point and recording the gear locations at the conclusion of the journey.
Graham introduced himself to Goodfellow and informed the odometer driver he would provide assistance.
“Much obliged, young man,” Goodfellow responded. The wagon does fine till we have ta’ ride up a rocky slope or through fallen trees. Then she ’kin be a bastard.”
Hayden rode by to check on the men in his group.
“The trappers we met yesterday say the shortest way to the geyser basin is due west. We follow several small creeks in that general direction until we come across the East Fork of the Madison. Once we get to the river, it will take us to the geysers. They’ve traveled this route before, so we will let them show us the way. They will be here in a few minutes.”
Makawee nudged her brown-and-white mustang closer to Hayden. “Doctor, this is not a good idea,” she said confidently.
“Why do you say that?” Hayden asked as he raised an eyebrow.
“The trees are thick. There is no path. It will be hard to pull the cart. I know another way. It is longer, but easier riding.”
Hayden pulled out and studied the Washburn map from the previous year. There were few topographical details. The map showed the major mountain ranges, principal rivers, and minor tributaries. However, there were no markings depicting the terrain on the proposed route. The Washburn group had not explored the region immediately west of the lake. The ink drawing clearly indicated the trappers’ route was the shortest distance between the northern lakeshore and the lower geyser basin.
Graham discreetly removed his pack and retrieved his modern, detailed topographic map of Yellowstone. He traced the direct route with his finger and noted the steep slopes and heavily forested terrain. They would travel through the current Bridge Bay area before heading toward Beech Lake and into the Spruce Creek drainage. Graham was familiar with Bridge Creek, and he knew it was thick with deadfall. He had seen places near the marina where three or four trees had fallen on top of one another. Indeed, it would be tough going for everyone. He folded the topo map and put it into his pack before speaking.
“Sir, I agree with Makawee,” Graham said, hoping not to sound argumentative. “I know some of the area we will be riding through, and there’s a lot of blowdown and fallen timber. We could go north toward the broad valley that intersects the Yellowstone River. Then we could turn west. Although it’s a longer route, it would be easier to pull the odometer wagon, and it would take less time.”
Makawee looked his way and nodded slightly to acknowledge his support for her opinion. Graham found it ironic the expedition leader had to decide whether to send the group through a dense forest or order them on a longer ride via Hayden Valley—a park landmark that would soon bear his name.
Two horses cantered to the waiting group. “Ready to go?” asked one of the trappers with a bushy ginger beard.
“Some of our team think your route has hard riding,” Hayden answered.
“It’ll be a bit tough some places. But it’s the quickest way to the geysers,” ginger beard replied.
Hayden rubbed the back of his neck as he pondered the choice. “We will take the short route,” he declared.
The two trappers rode to the front. Makawee and Rides Alone were next in line. Hayden and the rest of the group followed. Goodfellow was near the back. Graham followed the odometer wagon. The two soldiers brought up the rear.
The first few miles along the lakeshore were mostly open, and the riding was easy. As the small group approached Bridge Bay and started up the creek, the forest quickly became dense. Graham marveled at the small inlet where the marina would be constructed. This was the base for the Lake Queen and her sister vessels. It was also the place where the guides began their fishing excursions.
He wondered how his supervisor, Jeff; roommate, Kevin; and the other park employees reacted when Graham had not shown up after his day off. What would they think happened to him? Had he taken a hike and become lost? Had he fallen into the river or canyon and drowned? Had he been attacked by a bear and been mauled to death? No one in a search party could imagine the key to explaining his disappearance was not to consider where but rather during what year he was lost.
Graham also thought about Helen and Leroy. By now his parents would have been contacted by law-enforcement authorities, who would have thoroughly questioned them about anything their son might have written or said that could be helpful in their search. His travel through time had a huge, unintended consequence. At their modest home in rural Pennsylvania, his bereaved parents were faced with the possibility of losing the last of their four children. His heart ached to think they would be going through the grieving process once again.
“Tarnation! Whoa!” Goodfellow yelled and commanded his mule to stop.
The sudden shout rattled Graham from his thoughts. He looked ahead and saw one of the wheels of the odometer wagon wedged between two fallen logs. The pack train had been weaving through the fallen timber trying to find the least obstructed path. But the two-wheeled cart could not be pulled over more than one log at a time. Goodfellow’s wagon was stuck.
Graham dismounted Lindy and grabbed one of the handles behind the wheel. One of the soldiers grabbed the other handle. Graham motioned for Goodfellow to start pulling, and they lifted the cart over the logs. The wagon lurched ahead unevenly, nearly upsetting when one wheel landed before the other. Goodfellow waved his arm in thanks while urging his mule forward.
It was slow going all morning. The group’s pace was limited by its ability to find a path for Goodfellow to navigate the odometer wagon through the thick timber. Every few minutes, Graham and a soldier would have to lift the back end of the cart over logs or pull it backward when it became wedged between two trees. It was tedious and exhausting work. His assistance was required so frequently Graham found it easier to walk and lead Lindy behind the odometer wagon rather than constantly mount and dismount.
The group stopped for something to eat at noon. Graham’s shirt was soaked with sweat when he sat down to eat a biscuit and have a drink from his canteen.
“This is the cussedest forest I was ever in!” Goodfellow bemoaned.
Graham nodded but did not say anything. He was wondering whether Hayden had any regrets about following the trappers’ advice on taking this route.
A few minutes later, the doctor walked over to Graham. “We need to get out of this fallen timber. If you have a suggestion, come see me and we can discuss it.”
“Yes, sir. Let me get my bearings and consider possible options.” Graham was pleased the expedition leader was asking for his advice.
He picked up his pack and walked to a place where he could privately study his map. They had just passed Beech Lake and would soon reach Spruce Creek. He located Nez Perce Creek on the map and concluded this is what Hayden had called the East Fork of the Madison. It looked as if they had two options. They could follow Spruce Creek west to Nez Perce Creek, where they would have to traverse a steep, narrow canyon. Or they could strike a path northwest across a plateau toward Mary Lake and follow a route west down the Nez Perce. This route seemed more promising, because there was a modern-day pack trail that ran all the way from the Yellowstone River through the Hayden Valley to the Lower Geyser Basin. Although there were no guarantees what this route looked like one hundred years earlier, it seemed likely a pack trail would have little fallen timber. The time traveler folded his map and strode toward the front of the group to find Hayden.
“Doctor Hayden, I think we can free ourselves of this deadfall in another hour or so,” Graham estimated. He described the new route without explaining how he knew this was the best choice.
The expedition leader nodded, then said, “Wait here.”
Hayden returned a minute later with the Crow Indian guide. “Tell Makawee what you have proposed,” he instructed.
After Graham described the alternative route a second time, Hayden turned to Makawee and asked, “What do you think?”
“It is a good plan. The horses and wheeled cart will travel better this way.”
“Okay. That’s what we’ll do,” Hayden asserted.
Ten minutes later, the Hayden group parted ways with the trappers, who ventured west along Spruce Creek toward the narrow canyon. Makawee and Rides Alone led the group up a steep slope and over a plateau. Immediately the forest thinned, and there were fewer fallen trees. By early afternoon, they were moving west at a good pace on Nez Perce Creek.
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