Jackson and Moran dismantled the tent while Dixon tightened the ropes on Silver.
“That’s a lot of photographic equipment,” Graham observed.
“It sure is,” Dixon agreed. “I figure each mule is carrying about a hundred fifty pounds. It was much easier to transport these things before we entered the Yellow Stone. We stored everything in an ambulance wagon and pulled out what we needed. But we couldn’t pull wagons through parts of the wilderness. Now we pack and unpack the mules every time we camp or take a photograph.”
Graham marveled at the challenge in taking photographs of nature scenes in 1871. He was eager to see how Jackson completed this complex task using the wet-plate process in a harsh, outdoor environment.
After the mules were packed and the loads secured, each member of the artist-photographer group mounted his equine. Moran placed a pillow on his saddle. The artist was so skinny he needed additional cushioning to ride a horse comfortably.
Two soldiers accompanied Jackson, Dixon, Moran, and Graham as the small pack train rode west for a half mile to the Firehole River, where they turned south and followed the river upstream. Within thirty minutes, the group came to a quartet of steaming springs scattered on the western slope of the Firehole.
The party dismounted and led the animals from the river up a steep slope to an immense spring over three hundred feet in diameter and one hundred feet deep. Graham didn’t need to consult his modern-day map to recognize Grand Prismatic Spring. It was breathtakingly beautiful in 1871—just as it would be a century later, when millions of visitors would make this spring one of the most photographed thermal features in the park.
The center of the pool was a deep azure blue. The color transitioned to green closer to the edges, while the shallow part of the spring’s outer edges were shades of yellow and orange. Numerous outflow channels from the spring on all sides were tinged with reddish-brown hues.
Geologists on the Hayden survey team speculated the spectrum of colors was attributed to different minerals. Scientists in the twentieth century would later discover a range of thermophilic organisms living in the concentric temperature zones determined the colors within the spring. This multihued hot spring would be officially named seven years after the Hayden Expedition. Its name was derived from a prism used to refract white light into a spectrum of colors.
Immediately below Grand Prismatic Spring was another large, clear blue depressed spring. Steam obscured the surface until an occasional swirling breeze would sweep the vapors away. The runoff from the boiling pool cascaded into the Firehole River. This thermal feature would be named Excelsior Geyser a decade later by a park superintendent.
As the small group stood in awe at the edge of the massive spring bedecked in rainbow colors, Moran turned and spoke to his photographer friend. “I’m ready to get to work. How about you?”
Jackson shook himself from the trance of gazing at the dreamlike pool of water. “Yeah. I want to check a couple of potential viewing angles first.”
Would you like me to help with your photography equipment?” Graham asked.
“No need. I’m not yet sure where I might set up. George can give me a hand if I need to unpack anything. You can stay with Mr. Moran. I’ll take one soldier with me and leave the other fellow with you.”
Jackson and Dixon mounted their horses and led the mules slowly around the perimeter of the spring with one of the soldiers following close behind. They headed toward a partially forested hill guarding the western edge of the geyser basin.
Graham tried to disguise his disappointment. He would much rather assist the photographer. There was so much to see and learn from Jackson. What could he possibly learn watching Moran sketch and paint? He had seen Henry Elliott’s sketches of Stevenson Island. They were good illustrations—certainly much better than anything he could ever draw. But he couldn’t get excited about the process of producing artwork.
“Yes, sir,” the time traveler responded, trying to strike a grateful tone.
“Can you find a place to tie up our mounts?” Moran asked.
Graham took the reins of Moran’s horse while the artist removed a sketchbook and pencils from the saddlebags and laid them on the ground. Then he untied a folding camp chair stowed behind the saddle. Tucking the chair and his pillow under one arm, he collected his sketchbook and pencils and retreated from the spring to get a wider perspective of the landscape.
Graham spotted the other young soldier standing with his horse about a hundred feet away from the spring.
“What’s your name?” Graham asked as he walked over to greet him.
“Lewis Byrch, sir.”
“You can address me as Graham or Mr. Davidson, whichever makes you more comfortable. Where do you call home?”
“Missouri.”
“I’m from Pennsylvania,” Graham said. “Walk with me to the river. I saw a place we can picket the horses and my mule in the shade.”
“Kin I ask a question?” Byrch inquired as they started down the hill with three equines in tow.
“Sure.”
“I hear tell you was with Foley when he fell in the hot water?”
Graham stopped walking and turned toward the soldier before answering.
“Yes. Why do you ask?”
“Jes’ don’t wanna muster out by bein’ boiled alive,” the private said as he glanced sideways at Graham.
“Foley didn’t do anything wrong. He was just unlucky.” As Graham spoke, he realized this comment was as much for his benefit as it was for the nervous soldier. Was it really a matter of bad luck?
“Cap’n Tyler gave orders. Stay fifty feet back from anything steamin’ or bubblin’.”
“Good advice,” Graham replied. After yesterday’s horrific event, he shared the soldier’s concern. He expected the other survey members would be more cautious as they explored areas with intriguing but dangerous thermal features.
Graham instructed Private Byrch to picket the equines in a small pine grove near the river and wait there. Based on their conversation, he was certain the soldier would rather be more than fifty feet from the enormous thermal pool. Looking back up the hill, he could see the artist setting up to start his sketch.
By the time Graham returned to the spring, Moran was sitting in his portable cushioned chair with an open sketchbook. The landscape artist was fully engrossed in his work.
The time traveler removed the modern map of the geyser basin from his backpack and compared the live scene with the future landscape. He noted the absence of a parking area and a footbridge across the river. The map displayed a boardwalk that started at the end of the bridge, skirted the north side of Excelsior Geyser, extended past two smaller thermal pools, and followed a large loop that allowed visitors a close-up view of Grand Prismatic Spring before reconnecting at Excelsior Geyser. As in other areas of the geyser basin, the wooden boardwalks designed to keep park visitors on a safe path were absent. Graham folded the map and placed it in the back pocket of his jeans.
Looking across the surface of the spring, Graham saw Jackson’s small mule train making its way up the hill. The photographer was seeking a higher vantage point of this magnificent landscape.
The erstwhile park employee sat down on the gray-white sinter about ten feet from Moran and adjusted his hat to shield the sun from his eyes. If Graham were assisting Jackson, he would be busy. And he would be asking plenty of questions about wet-plate photography. But what could he ask a painter? Graham decided to simply enjoy the view. With steam from Excelsior Geyser and Grand Prismatic Spring dancing and swirling in a light breeze, the kaleidoscopic scene was mesmerizing.
“Do you sketch?” Moran asked abruptly, breaking Graham from his reverie. “I would think a botanist would find such a skill useful for taking field notes.”
“No, sir,” the faux botanist responded. “I’ve never received any training.”
“You are welcome to observe,” Moran offered without looking up from his sketchbook.
Grah
am rose and stood behind Moran, looking over the artist’s shoulder while he used a pencil to transpose the landscape onto a page of his large sketchbook. An outline of the spring and surrounding landscape was already captured on paper. The time traveler was quickly pulled into an artistic realm that moments earlier he had dismissed as uninteresting. He was awed at the graceful movement of the artist’s pencil as he alternately switched his focus between the bubbling heated prismatic pool and the sketchbook.
Graham appreciated how Moran’s style differed from Elliott’s landscape sketches. Henry Elliott meticulously reproduced drawings that were topographical representations. Thomas Moran was creating a sense of the landscape that elicited the feeling of being in the scene he was sketching.
Graham broke the silence after fifteen minutes of observation. “May I ask a question?”
“Go ahead.”
“Frankly, I don’t know much about art, so please don’t be offended. But the spring and the outflow patterns in your sketch don’t match what I see. Is that intentional?”
Moran stopped sketching and laid his pencil between the facing pages in the book. He twisted his narrow shoulders and looked up at the young man standing behind him.
“Would you not agree we are looking at something strange and wonderful?”
“Absolutely.”
Moran’s eyes sparkled as he offered an explanation. “A trained draftsman can render a drawing that depicts accurate geological features. Henry Elliott does this quite well. However, my purpose is not to replicate a scene. I am an artist, not a topographer. As such, I have a higher calling. My intent is to create the essence of a scene—to pull the viewer into this divine world so he may appreciate its grandeur.”
Graham did not doubt the bearded man’s sincerity, even though his comments had a snobbish tone. He also noted the subtle jab at Elliott’s artistic skills and wondered if there was a simmering rivalry between the guest artist and the survey’s official artist.
Nevertheless, there was no denying Moran’s immense talent. When Graham considered the artist’s classic depiction of The Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone, it was clear he had indeed captured the essence of the spectacular gorge. He had initially painted the famous scene plein air as a field sketch watercolor. Moran used this broadly painted sketch and William Henry Jackson’s photograph of the canyon as a reference to produce an exquisitely detailed oil painting in his studio.
“Ah, I understand. Thank you,” Graham replied, not wishing to alienate the soon-to-be-famous painter.
“You are most welcome,” Moran said, turning back to face the colorful spring and picking up his pencil.
Graham was silent for the next fifteen minutes. He became more interested in seeing the landscape take shape on paper through the eyes and skilled hands of the artist. A distant rumble of thunder caused both men to look skyward where a dark-gray cloud had formed on the southwest horizon. The light wind transitioned to a collection of swirling zephyrs of sinter particles.
Looks like I better finish up before the rain catches us,” Moran observed.
The landscape artist made a series of notations on his page. At the top of the sketch where he would eventually draw clouds, he penciled in:
The basins graduate from white to yellow to brown to orange to reds to gray. Water in the great spring pure blue. Water lines intense cyan, magenta, & vermillion.
Moran added other shorthand descriptions as references in areas of the drawing where they would be helpful to complete the sketch. These were single words or phrases such as stumps, steam, edge of spring, and yellow streams.
“Will you finish the sketch later?” Graham inquired.
“Yes, of course,” Moran responded. “I’ll complete the pencil sketch in camp and use watercolors to render a colored landscape that is true to what we see.”
“We won’t be coming back to this spring. We’re camping six or seven miles away. How will you accurately reproduce all the colors of the spring and the surrounding landscape if you can’t return here?” Graham asked.
“I use my memory and my notes. I have trained to do this from the time I was a youth. Whenever I’m sketching in the field, I impress indelibly upon my mind the features of the landscape and the combinations of coloring. When I paint, I select colors that vividly represent all the striking peculiarities of the scene,” the self-assured artist explained.
Great Springs of the Firehole River by Thomas Moran
Moran was extremely confident in his ability, but Graham was skeptical. He was eager to see the finished watercolor field sketch. Could the artist accurately portray the colorful scene by relying on his memory and a few notes jotted in his sketchbook?
A second and louder clap of thunder indicated the storm was moving their way. As the artist closed the sketchbook and folded up his chair, Jackson’s group appeared on the upper side of the spring. They had also seen and heard the approaching storm. Jackson reported he was unsuccessful in getting a photograph from the hill because the wind made it difficult to steady the camera on the tripod. The only exposure he attempted was blurry, and the swirling breezes caused particles of dust to stick on the plate.
Graham and Moran walked down the hill toward the river and retrieved their mounts from Private Byrch. The artist carefully wrapped his sketchbook in a tightly woven linen cloth before placing it in a leather saddlebag. After securing his folding chair behind the saddle, he mounted the horse and placed the pillow under his seat. He noticed Graham observing the special handling of the bound sketchbook.
“Don’t want rain to ruin my work. Those watercolor sketches wouldn’t look so good if they got wet,” Moran emphasized.
Graham considered donning his plastic poncho in anticipation of the rainstorm but knew the style and fabric of his outerwear would be impossible to explain to the others in his group. He was resigned to being soaked by the thick bands of rapidly approaching rain.
The combined group of expedition members and soldiers followed the river south and soon rode through a brief but heavy downpour. Shortly after one o’clock, they arrived at camp near Grand Geyser and had another meal of biscuits and tea.
Moran reported his intent to finish his watercolor sketch of the prismatic spring in the afternoon while the light was still good. Jackson indicated he would scout the area for potential scenes to photograph tomorrow, as the rain and wind today were not amenable to his process. Since Hayden and Peale had not yet returned, the photographer told Graham he did not have any obligations for the remainder of the day.
This was welcome news for the time traveler. He decided this was the perfect opportunity to seek out Makawee and continue their earlier conversation. Rides Alone was hunting. The young Crow woman would be alone at the wickiup. He just needed to find out where the temporary shelter was located.
* * *
The original builders of the temporary hunting shelter had constructed it on a site where it could be used during any season. The wickiup stood in a grove of pines near a bend in the Firehole River at the base of Geyser Hill. The lodgepole pines afforded shade during the brief but hot summer months. The river attracted bison and other large game in the cooler months, while the numerous hot springs provided a more temperate miniclimate during the harsh winters.
Aurelio told Graham he would find the wickiup a few minutes’ ride upriver. The hostler had recently visited the Crows’ camp when he delivered a spare pack mule to Rides Alone. The warrior planned to use the mule to carry any large game killed on a hunting foray.
As Graham approached the river bend, he noticed smoke rising from a small fire burning at the edge of a cluster of pines. He could see the distinctive shape of a wickiup standing in the shade of several stately lodgepoles. The Crows had repaired the conical lodge from the previous hunting season by standing additional deadfall logs against the outside walls and inserting thin pine branches in the open slats to provide protection against the elements.
Makawee was tending to a small animal skewered and cook
ing over the fire. She stood when he approached, acknowledging him with a nod.
“Good afternoon, Makawee” Graham said, greeting her as he dismounted and walked over to the nearest pine tree to picket the mule. “I thought I would visit, if that’s okay with you.”
“You are welcome. Please sit,” she offered.
Graham was pleased she was willing to talk and sat on a log near the fire. The Pennsylvanian was eager for their conversation. He wanted to get to know this intriguing young woman. Equally important, he had decided to share the traumatic experience at the hot spring yesterday and probe her thoughts.
“What are you cooking?” Graham asked as he nodded toward the fire.
“Jackrabbit.”
The juices in Graham’s stomach started churning. A diet of biscuits and slapjacks was getting tiresome.
“How did you get it?”
“I set a snare near a rabbit path. Long Horse showed me how.”
Graham grinned. Rides Alone was charged with hunting big game for the large group. He had been unsuccessful so far. But his stepsister was able to supply meat for both occupants of the wickiup using skills she had acquired from her adoptive father. The young Crow woman was attractive and resourceful.
Your shirt is wet. Did you get caught in the storm?” she asked.
Graham put his hand on his chest and felt the damp cloth. “Yeah. We sure did.”
“Take it off and hang it by the fire to dry,” she said as she rose and handed him a Y-shaped stick.
Graham hesitated, then realized she was trying to be helpful. He pushed the stick into the ground near the fire, shed his shirt, and draped it over the stick.
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