Letters from Yellowstone

by Diane Smith

  District of Columbia

  My dearest love,

  How happy I was to find your letter waiting for me upon my arrival, the sweetness of your hand bringing you so close to me here, even though I am so far from you and our dear, dear children. Imagine, then, my disappointment that not a word was written about joining me here. How I do hope, my darling, that you have not reconsidered. I think you will find the destination well worth the journey, and not too overwhelming, even for the children, if your mother and dear, sweet sister agree to accompany you. Of course, I shall accommodate them here as if they were my own family, which, of course, I consider them to be.

  I have rented for a month a suite of rooms at the Lake Hotel, commencing the first of June. Although the hotel is not officially open for commerce until then, my instruments are being unpacked there as I write. Our rooms overlook Yellowstone Lake, a wide placid expanse over which the sun rises each morning and sets at the end of the day. With my laboratory situated next to our living areas, I will never have to leave your side and we can watch the sun and moon circle us without a care in the world. The children can play on the shore of the lake, and when the weather is particularly fair, we can spend the afternoon touring the Park’s thermal wonders. The children will marvel, as I have, at the geysers and deep, boiling pools. But marvel as I do, I cannot enjoy them without you, my better half, my eyes on the world, my life, my love. I do hope you are proceeding as planned for I so need you by my side.

  I am quite certain you will enjoy your stay here. The fellowship and civility of the Park hotels will remind you of our years in Europe and of the many world travellers we have met on our own journeys before the blessed arrival of the children. Since my own arrival here I have met an Englishman about to embark on a walking tour of the Park; a group of lady naturalists who, I must admit, would no doubt bore you with their incessant chatter at dinner about a world far in excess of their naturalizing abilities; an accountant from Wyoming who is cycling through the Park with a club of like-minded individuals; a Chicago journalist who is in the Park to write about the planned rail expansion, travelling, I might add, at the expense of the railroad!; and an aging poet and naturalist by the name of John Wylloe, of whom you may have heard. The ladies inform me he is a close friend of T. Roosevelt, and much admired by nature lovers from around the world.

  Yesterday morning I breakfasted with an engineer from Helena, Mont. who is negotiating a U.S. Government lease to develop a commercial elevator to carry visitors from the top of the Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone River to the Canyon floor some 1,000 feet below. This awe-inspiring engineering feat, it is widely believed, will prevent the more foolish of the world from descending the canyon walls on their own volition, an act which has resulted in more than one body tumbling to an untimely death on the rocky crags below.

  Just this morning I accompanied my mealtime companion to witness for myself the power of the gorge which, even I must admit, does present the viewer with a powerful attraction. Without thinking, I found myself clambering out onto a rock outcropping to better witness the river at the falls, since a light but persistent rain was obscuring my view. As I ventured to my desired outpost, a dreadful wind whirled around me, transforming each drop of rain into a small pellet which flailed against my face. I stood there stunned, by the wind, the rain, the vastness of the chasm stretched out before me, fully and calmly understanding how easy it would be to hurl myself into the crevice below. You see the effect even a short separation has on me. I am not myself without you.

  My dear, dear, darling, you must join me at the earliest possible moment. I have a professional commitment to remain here long enough to set up operations and yet I cannot face another day here without you. Please send word that you are on your way or I really shall hurl myself into the next rocky abyss.

  My love to your mother, your sister, and our dear children. And most of all, my love to you, my darling, my pet.

  Your devoted servant, Philip

  Andrew Rutherford, Ph.D.

  Mammoth Hot Springs

  Yellowstone National Park

  56° noon; .19” precip 24 hrs.

  May 28, 1898

  Robert Healey

  President

  The Agricultural College

  of the State of Montana

  Bozeman, Mont.

  President Healey:

  Exciting a.m. in camp. Dr. M & our Miss B leave camp for pts unknown. She in search of flower growing on rocky slope, he allegedly to protect her. Neither returned by end of day.

  Can’t find drunken driver to bring them back, no sign of Peacock for days, & cyclists in residence already off to beat weather. Have enlisted help of rancher who sent her on quest to begin with.

  Two nights ago, bearing steaks for layabout louts, rancher claims to have seen emerging bitterroot, flower of great interest to our Miss B. Rancher offers transport & expert guiding. Miss B smiles, asks a few questions, declines. Next morning before breakfast both she & field bag gone. Weather from north. Rain imminent.

  Prof. in real fury over breakfast. Sets out to find her. Now both gone. When rancher arrives this a.m. with more beef for camp, raining steadily. Learns of our Miss B’s departure. Gallops to rescue. Capt. arrives with government-sanctioned rain gear minutes later. Learns of our missing Miss B. Now U.S. Cavalry in act. No doubt two arguing at this minute in pouring rain who will sweep Miss B off feet & onto trusty steed. Both read too many poems by that philosophical grey-beard who hangs around hotel bar. Still, good to have more than one on look out just in case. Weather could turn for worse in less than moment’s &c. This is spring, I remind both rescuers as they gallop out of sight.

  Scheduled to move camp later in week. Entire Cody, Wyo., bicycling club now camped in our clearing. Englishman determined to walk grand loop through Park in record time threatening to join us as well. Lady naturalists in daily attendance. Not to mention mealtime visitors, like Capt., for coffee in morning, and rancher with Montana steaks at night. Philip Aber, from Smithsonian, lurking around camp asking lots of irritating questions, day & night.

  Too many interruptions to suit the Prof. Too much attention for our Miss B.

  Yours,

  A.R.

  p.s. Brandy supplies running low. Replenish c/o hotel in Mammoth. Will send louts to retrieve & to forward new address when have one.

  A. E. Bartram

  Mammoth Hot Springs

  Yellowstone National Park

  May 31, 1898

  My dear, dear Jess,

  I have just returned from my first, genuine Yellowstone field experience and can honestly say that these are the days for which I have been living. Not that they have gone as planned, of course, but then one should almost plan for the unexpected upon entering the field. There are so many things that can go wrong. But, oh, there is so much that can go right!

  First the right. Knowing of my interest, a local rancher who was dining with us mentioned a south-facing slope where I would find L. rediviva beginning to flower. It seemed too good to be true, particularly with the weather being as it has been, but just in case I took note of the location, and decided the next morning to set out on foot to see if I could find the place he described, if not the plant in question.

  As I have mentioned before, Professor Merriam may be resistant to my presence in his group but he accommodates me because I do not ask anything of him nor do I bother him with the details of my comings and goings. So on this particular morning, I set out unannounced at daybreak, with a small provision for my day’s meals kindly provided by the Chinese cook, Kim Li. I also carried my field journal, a handbook, my field lens, pencils, paints and brushes, and a small jar of water. And, even though the weather was particularly fine that morning, I took the simple precaution of packing a coat. I did not want to offend Dr. Rutherford who had warned at dinner of an imminent change in the weather, and this time he seemed convinced that he was right. Had I known I was not to be alone on my quest, perhaps I would have been better pre
pared.

  By the time I reached the head of the trail leaving our camp’s clearing, the sun was beginning to warm the sky into the truest, palest blue, not unlike the first spring blooms of Myosotis. I shall never forget it, not the blue, not the warmth, not the feeling of freedom of being out on my own, and certainly not what followed.

  As I headed up the mountainous incline, a dozen large white handkerchiefs or flags ascended over the horizon, glistening in the early morning sun. Then, just as miraculously, they descended, like a signal of distress or a sacred ceremony which employs scarves with great finesse. I stood spellbound as the flags rose again, in total rehearsed uniformity, flickered for a moment, and then collapsed upon themselves behind the ridge. I watched from the trail as the strange morning ritual fluttered again and again against the high horizon, the white of the flags iridescent in the morning light.

  Thinking I might catch the performers, or at least witness the activity at closer range, I hurried up the trail toward the spectacle, just as the handkerchiefs or flags or scarves waved at me one final time, retreated behind the ridge, and then were released in unison into the wakening sky, where they fluttered, rose, and formed a perfect V shape directly over my head. They circled once, bright white, then grey, then white again in the sun, and were gone.

  Jessie, in all of my admittedly limited work in the field, I have never experienced anything like this. I can say, quite truthfully, that coupled with my hurried ascent up the trail, and the genuine confusion as to the nature of what I was witnessing, the sight took my breath away. But more importantly, it filled me with a sense of wonder which, as a naturalist, I had yet to experience. In his Voyage of the Beagle, Darwin wrote that “the day passed delightfully” but then he goes on to say that delight is a weak term to express the feelings of a naturalist who, for the first time, has been wandering by himself (or herself!) in a forest. Darwin’s forest was in Brazil. Mine is closer to home. But that overwhelming feeling must be very similar, and not unlike what primitive believers must experience when overcome with what they believe to be God, but which, at least for me, is the first and full appreciation of the wonders of the real, physical, living, breathing world. It is that moment in a naturalist’s life, and we are all naturalists if we open our eyes, when the curtain lifts around us, and it is good, so good, to be alive.

  Of course, you know, with your extensive knowledge of these things, that what I saw was not made by man nor God, but exquisitely made by natural selection: Pelecanus erythrorhynchos. Lewis encountered five thousand of these birds clustered together on a sandbank in the Missouri River and he shot one to take home as a specimen. Can you imagine the sight alongside the river when his shot rang out and 4,999 white pelicans rose in unison overhead? It must have been rapture. Pure rapture.

  I have since learned from Dr. Peacock that pelicans soar on the warm, rising air which carries them over the mountain ridges as they migrate into the Nation’s Park. But this is one time, at least for me, when the ability to identify and classify the experience is simply not enough. Understanding the science enhances but does not replace what I witnessed that morning. Finally, I have internalized what I have sensed all along but did not fully understand: that I need to experience the natural world in its context, not in a book, not in a laboratory, not under a microscope. That is not science, but mere learning.

  With my “pelican epiphany” behind me, I climbed easily past the first rocky ridge and, with a lightness of heart and step, maneuvered over, through, and around pockets of crusty snow which still obscured parts of the trail, particularly in the sheltered areas. At the crest, I walked out onto a mountainous basin, which was surprisingly like our dinnertime visitor had described it. I confess that I have ignored this rancher for most of my stay here, thinking he had little to contribute to my work. I cannot even tell you his name. Yet in spite of the fact that he makes his living raising and slaughtering meat for Park visitors, he clearly has the time and inclination to be an excellent observer—even in these backcountry environments where there is nothing financial to be gained. I will listen more intently to his stories in the future.

  The sky overhead was clear, the air cool but warming, and there was no wind, so I assumed I had plenty of time before the heavy, grey clouds threatening to the west and north would become a problem. I climbed to a ledge where a large boulder provided an expansive view and as I settled myself onto my rocky throne, there, at my foot where I could have easily crushed it, was a solitary L. rediviva just beginning to open to the morning sun. At first glance it was, as Nuttall described it, low-growing and cactus-like. On closer examination, however, the L. rediviva revealed itself to be so much more—a perfect and quite unique 1½ inches of pale blush of rose, borne atop a leafless scape.

  Without hesitation or deference to scientific protocol, I unsheathed my knife, cut the plant from the ground—easy to do given the gravelly conditions—and removed a thin, two-inch root, not at all the thick, fleshy tuber I was expecting. Of course, even in its premature state, I had to sample what the Indians consider a sacred and sustaining food. Just like Lewis before me, I found it “quite nauseous to my palate.” I fear I would have to be near starvation before I would resort to any such sustenance. But then Indians collect the root before the plant flowers, when the roots of mature plants are thick and starchy, and the periderm reportedly easy to remove. Perhaps then the plant is more palatable and “reviving.”

  Regardless, the very same plant was there in my hand, full of potential life, just as it had been in the hand of Meriwether Lewis on his journey and, after shipping said specimen east, just as it had been in the hand of the seed merchant McMahon who had detected signs of new growth on the fully dried specimen, the same specimen which had been tipped more than once into the river and stored in its cross-country journey in less than ideal conditions (Lewis was a fine naturalist but having worked with his collection in Philadelphia, I can assure you he was not well equipped to preserve botanical specimens).

  McMahon, sensing life in what should have been a long-ago dead and stored specimen, planted the root, and watched as it proceeded to grow—thus, rediviva or coming back to life. The plant grew but never flowered, and eventually perished in the hot-house climate of Philadelphia, which lacks the dry, inhospitable conditions this highly specialized plant needs to survive. I was so overcome by the richness of the story resonating in that slip of a plant in my hand that I was tempted to hold it high over my head, an offering to the sun, to somehow appease the gods of botany for taking a lone specimen in the field. You can see what is happening to me here. I am losing all sense of scientific protocol.

  I then recalled that Professor Merriam mentioned at dinner that it is native custom to place a small bead or token in the hole of the first root taken each season, so I cut a button from my sleeve and planted it like a pearly seed into the ground where the plant had once been. I may not have found the root to be palatable sustenance, but with it there in my hand I was feeling quite revived.

  Until, that is, I saw someone ascending the trail down below me.

  At the time, I could not tell who it was, only that he was clearly headed in my direction. I quickly slipped the plant, root and all, into my field journal and climbed higher yet onto the ledge, slipping myself behind a large outcropping of rock. It was not until the visitor crossed into the basin that I recognized Professor Merriam. I know now, as I am the first to admit that I knew then, that I should have declared my presence, but I was not yet ready to surrender the day to another’s company, nor was I ready to return to camp with the possibility of more L. rediviva awaiting. So I did something very foolish. I simply watched as the Professor crossed the basin and entered a forested area to the south of me, and then I skirted the ridge above him, travelling across another open basin to the west. Considering the consequences of my selfish actions, I can make no excuses, but it seemed to me at the time that if Professor Merriam insisted on leaving me to my own devices, then I should leave the Professor to his
.

  On the next ridge I discovered a cluster of six more L. rediviva, which I decided to illustrate in their relationship to each other and their surroundings before removing specimens. This was my second mistake because, as I sketched, I was so concentrated on my work that I lost both sense of time and all sense of the weather. The sky blackened, but it only intensified the pale rose color of the flowers against the grey rock. The temperature dropped dramatically, and yet that, too, only served to heighten the seeming frailty of the plant and challenge my limited ability to adequately illustrate what I saw before me. I pulled on my coat and tried again to fully capture the delicate stamens which, even without my hand lens, were visibly quivering in the wind.

  And then the snow started, light flakes which at first just fluttered through the sky and melted, but soon fell heavier and wetter in my hair and face and eyes and onto my journal where each wet flake pooled and then puckered the porous paper. I pulled my journal closer to me on my lap and gathered my coat around it, trying to position myself between the plants, the journal, and the snow and the wind, but still the snow fell whiter, colder, soon obscuring the plants in a heavy, wet blanket.

  Knowing I could not delay my return to camp any longer, I brushed the snow away from one flower and, with my knife, proceeded to dig out the root. The soil here was also gravelly, and surprisingly dry, but the plant was well established, and I scraped and scraped at the rocks until the knuckles on my right hand began to bleed. I remember thinking as I dug that you would have to be starving indeed to work so hard for a plant which tasted so foul. But then maybe the natives are as determined in their pursuit of survival as I was at that moment in the pursuit of my science.

  In fact, I was so focused on my task that even though my name was being spoken, it was as if it were coming to me from far away, or from somewhere else altogether. I did not really hear it.