Letters from Yellowstone

by Diane Smith

  Dr. Rutherford, in the meantime, issues his royal mandates from the back of the wagon which he has converted into a virtual throne, complete with tarp canopy. It is while seated thus that he logs the student’s findings and plots each specimen collected on his hand-made maps.

  Down the road they proceed, the driver snuffling in his sleep, Stony or Rocky scurrying here and there, the driver’s dog barking at their heels, and Dr. Rutherford scanning the roadsides like they were indeed his private reserve. They proceed until they reach a hot pool or stream at which point they have an agreed upon arrangement that they will stop for refreshments and, if water temperature allows, partake in a long, hot soak. Depending on the direction they head out, and the number of specimens and thermal features they encounter along the way, the three return to camp quite pickled from the day-long combination of hot water and lukewarm liquor. You can understand why such an assignment would be an agreeable one to a young college student, and why said assignment is hotly contested each morning by the flip of a coin.

  As you can also imagine, it is a situation destined to drive Professor Merriam to distraction. Just the other day, Dr. Rutherford and his coterie pulled into camp after dark, the horse being smart enough or at least hungry enough to find its way home without the benefit of human guidance, since all three were sleeping soundly in the wagon. I would have laughed right out loud to see them in such a state, if Dr. Aber from the Smithsonian had not been visiting camp at that particular moment. His presence made the sight of the drunken crew even worse for the Professor who was clearly not amused by Dr. Rutherford dozing on his throne, the student curled peacefully at his feet, and the driver, stretched out in front of the wagon across his own royal seat, his hair and beard and skins dangling every which way as the horse trotted into camp. Even the dog was asleep. All four snored so loudly that they drowned out the Baptists’ joyous hallelujahs which drifted into our camp through the trees.

  And yet, in spite of all the grief Dr. Rutherford causes him, even Professor Merriam must begrudgingly acknowledge that Dr. Rutherford’s collecting technique is producing quality results, with his elaborate system of mapping leading to some engaging evening discussions and scientific speculations about plant variety and distributions. Why is it, for example, that Coulter identifies Pentstemon caeruleus as a plant of the plains of Dakota, and yet Dr. Rutherford has clearly mapped clusters of the species growing alongside the mountain roads he travels? Could it be that the act of road building creates new and welcoming conditions for the spread of these plants? Or perhaps those who visit the Park carry the seeds like wayward birds, depositing them at random as they travel along the roads.

  These are the kinds of questions Dr. Rutherford’s maps raise, as they provide us with a broader perspective of the Park than any of us could individually obtain in the field. I hesitate to make the allusion, but it is as if Dr. Rutherford’s maps illustrate the Park’s flora in concert, as opposed to simply logging in each individual note.

  Dr. Rutherford has also been the first to collect and identify specimens of Castilleja miniata, which Professor Merriam refers to as “Indian paintbrush.” This is not the same species of plant I have heard referred to as Indian paintbrush in the Northeast, nor is there any mention I can find of an Indian paintbrush in Coulter. When I told the Professor as much, we proceeded to have an animated conversation (notice I avoid the word argument) about the obvious limitations of common names.

  But conversing as eloquently as I could, I was unable to persuade Professor Merriam, who steadfastly believes that nonscien tific names portray the “genius of the people.” According to him, names like Indian potato, bitterroot, fireweed, golden eye, and death camas describe how plants are used, consumed, or propagated, how they look, or, in his exact words, “are to be avoided because of their unfortunate habit of lying in wait for some unsuspecting herbivore—man or beast.” It is through embracing these names, the Professor maintains, that scientists can develop and encourage botanical awareness in amateurs and, through such awareness, enlist their help in protecting and preserving our natural history and national treasures like Yellowstone National Park.

  This engaging discussion has continued sporadically on our own outings into the field, since the three of us (the Professor, the student whose luck fails him in the coin toss, and I) have been recently joined by a Crow Indian and his family. How this particular Indian came to join our camp may be of particular interest to you, Father, for you are right as always: the government is indeed forcing these people off the land and away from their traditional sources of food and livelihood.

  From what I understand, it happened something like this. A woman traveller, accompanying a coupon tour viewing backcountry geysers, had wandered into the woods where she was momentarily separated from her party. She was never at risk, but she was disoriented enough so that she began to worry and probably even fear for her safety. Hearing someone approach on horseback, she was greatly relieved and hurried with much abandon toward her supposed rescuer, only to discover that said rescuer was none other than the Crow Indian. The Indian, it turns out, was hurrying himself, trying to avoid contact with the woman’s party, who were waiting in a wagon parked on the road directly below them. Having missed their companion, they were calling out for their missing member.

  Upon seeing the Indian, the woman automatically assumed that she was about to be attacked or worse and, thus, spontaneously regained her sense of direction and ran frantically down the hill, out of the woods, and onto the wagon road screaming for help. The Indian, no doubt as terrified as the woman, galloped silently away in the opposite direction. The woman and her friends hurried back to the military headquarters in Mammoth, hysterically informing each and every traveller they encountered along the way about the Indian war party which had invaded the Park.

  Now I have met Capt. Craighead from cavalry headquarters on a number of occasions, and can vouch for his good nature and sensibility, but what could he do but head out and search for the so-called warring party? If he did not act, he would have soon had a warring band of vigilante tourists on his hands. There exists a strong sense of rightful ownership of our Nation’s Park, and those claims do not include the Indians.

  Two days later, Capt. Craighead and his men did indeed discover a meagre Indian encampment, consisting of a tipi and campfire high on the ridge above Mammoth Hot Springs where the young Indian, his wife, and two small children were living. The family apparently entered the Park through the northeast, in search of obsidian, a volcanic glass which is still used by natives for making traditional tools and knives and is in abundance here. By entering through the back door as it were, the family had evaded the cavalry and other Park authorities who probably would have otherwise denied them entrance. The family could have easily spent months undetected if the Indian had not had the misfortune of unexpectedly running into the lost female traveller.

  As I may have mentioned to you before, Professor Merriam taught for two or three years while botanizing on the Crow Indian reservation. Knowing this, Capt. Craighead called upon the Professor to translate for the Indian who speaks little English, in spite of having received a full “Christian” education at the Unitarian mission on the reservation. From what I have since learned from Professor Merriam, it was the captain’s goal to prosecute or, at minimum, expel the young man and his family from the Park since they discovered a small bundle of obsidian in his possession. But as the Professor explained, although it is illegal to remove any physical feature from the Park, and there are no exceptions, the obsidian found with the Indian was still inside the Park and, thus, technically not illegal for him to have in his possession. Besides, the Indian insisted this was his own personal obsidian, which he had carried with him into the Park, but this would have been more difficult to prove.

  To make the story even more interesting, Montana is so much like a small town that Professor Merriam knew the Indian’s father, a tribal leader, who had assisted the Professor in his early botanizin
g on the reservation. Like his father, the son, with the curiously Americanized name of Joseph Not-afraid, is extremely knowledgeable about native plants and their traditional uses, so Professor Merriam has vouched for the young man, and has enlisted the Indian’s help in identifying the specimens we collect. Capt. Craighead, to his credit, has agreed to this arrangement, claiming to be dedicated to the expedition’s success.

  So now Joseph accompanies us on our day-long ventures into the backcountry, with his wife, Sara, and their two small children, one of whom the woman still carries on her back. You can imagine the reaction as wagons of travellers pass us on the road. Most are thrilled at the opportunity to see real, live “Injuns,” but a few, perhaps having heard of the alleged warring party which had invaded the Park, have complained to authorities. I must say that I now have nothing but respect for Capt. Craighead, who has proven to be firm in his support of Professor Merriam and his work. I only wish I could say I had similar respect for the medical botany and common names that Professor Merriam appears to be championing with this Indian.

  Still, their work together has created a unique opportunity of sorts for me and my own studies. While Professor Merriam and Joseph discuss at length (and often at great difficulty given the language differences) the nutritional or medical or spiritual properties of a particular plant, I have time to illustrate flora in its natural environment. I am finding this particular task to be one of the greatest learning experiences of the time I have spent here so far. I am beginning to look at which plants grow in relation to others and in what kind of physical setting. I am also keenly interested in the different conditions under which they are growing and the dates they are in flower at different elevations.

  It is clear to me now that if I could adequately document just one area of the Nation’s Park throughout an entire season, I would be a long way toward understanding the development of plant life and all of its complexity. I may enlist Dr. Rutherford’s novel approach to documenting our collection to help with such a project.

  Unfortunately, my expanding interests and the non-scientific botanical pursuits of the Professor and his Indian friend have done little to win the confidence of the expedition’s supporter, Dr. Philip Aber. He is a fine scientist and extremely intelligent and well read, but very much a traditionalist when it comes to what—and whom—should be considered “scientific.” I still wonder at his apparent acceptance of me. Perhaps he has yet to notice that I am a woman. Maybe he is more interested in the fact that I am a Bartram. In either case, I can tell he is not impressed with my new work, referring to my illustrations as “group portraits.” And he only speaks of Professor Merriam with contempt. Even to his face.

  Sadly, Dr. Aber appears to be under some sort of personal stress, since his wife and family have yet to join him here as planned. I can only hope that his displeasure with life in general does not affect his support of the Professor and our work. While I sympathize with Dr. Aber’s lack of appreciation for the Professor’s interests, I believe I am making much progress, and would hate to have that interrupted.

  To give you an idea of how well I am doing, I received a letter from Lester complimenting me on the quality and overall condition of my Yellowstone Park collection, if you can believe it. He thinks I may even have discovered a new genus. He is sending a sample to a contact he has at Harvard to be sure. If he is right, it could be my first genus Bartramii to match the B. family of mosses!

  Lest you think it is all work and no play, tomorrow is the summer solstice and Dr. Rutherford and friends have planned a “summer festival,” complete with music, song, and recitations to celebrate the longest day of the year. It will be our turn to blast out the Baptists with our own pagan hymns. And this is just a prelude to a long weekend of fun planned at the hotel for the 4th of July.

  I will be thinking fondly of you both during the festivities, as I think of you daily, and as I hope you are thinking of me.

  All my love,

  Alexandria

  Philip Aber

  Lake Hotel

  Yellowstone Park, Wyo.

  June 20, 1898

  William Gleick

  Smithsonian Institution

  Washington, District of Columbia

  Dear Bill,

  I write to you as a friend, for a friend I hope you are, since there is no one else to whom I can confide my situation. I am embarrassed to report that I have found myself in a bit of a personal and professional difficulty with which I am hoping you can assist.

  I have had the opportunity to spend a considerable time with your colleagues in the Park and now fully understand why you chose to journey on your own to the capital rather than to venture here with your friends. Merriam has opted to ignore the ample luxuries of the Park hotels, and has instead set up a camp of operations near the Lake Hotel. He and his assistants live in the most primitive of conditions, eating poorly cured beef and game, and generally risking their health and wellbeing—not to mention my significant investment—in the name of economy, for it certainly is not in the name of science. The camp, with its worn out tents, ramshackle tables, and make-shift equipment, might be barely tolerable for a weekend camping holiday for college boys, but it is certainly not conducive to serious research.

  Instead of establishing himself in some respectable fashion, and hiring underlings to venture into the field on his behalf, the underlings often stay in camp, sleeping all hours of the day, I might add, while Merriam sets off each morning with only Miss Bartram, a student, and some Indian he has picked up along the way to assist him. It is bad enough that this strange entourage brings discredit upon Merriam, who seems oblivious to the fact that he has become yet another of the Park’s wonders—tourists go out of their way to view the party as it makes its way on foot along the wagon roads. But I will not tolerate the fact that such a spectacle casts aspersions on my own reputation, for supporting such canaille. And that is not to mention the questions Merriam’s lack of respectability raises about the integrity of the Smithsonian Institution itself.

  Worse yet, while still at Mammoth, Merriam left camp in a pouring rain to explore some remote location with only Miss Bartram to assist him. I am very open minded when it comes to science, but this is hardly a decorous situation, much less a sensible one, and was ripe for a serious mishap. Which is exactly what happened. After foolishly putting himself and Miss Bartram in unnecessary danger, Merriam apparently lost his way and, when searching for the proper path to return them safely, proceeded to fall off a cliff. It was only through the dedication of an off-duty cavalryman and some Montana cowboy, who located Merriam and brought him back to camp, that the fool managed to survive at all. As it is, Merriam now limps noticeably and carries his arm around in a sling. Not much science will result under his feeble leadership, that is clear.

  Which brings me to my difficulty. I have made arrangements for my wife and family to join me here at the Yellowstone Lake Hotel. Would you call upon her and assist her in whatever way possible to ensure that she has the strength and commitment to make the journey? She is not in the best of health, with two small children to care for but, as you can imagine, I must stay here, at minimum, for the month that I had planned to ensure the expedition’s success. To leave now would doom the entire enterprise, and could possibly put my own fledgling career at the Smithsonian at risk.

  Thus, my dilemma. I admit to you in all honesty that I cannot face a summer apart from my family, particularly under these conditions. If you would call upon my wife on my behalf, discreetly as you must understand, it would be a great service indeed. And please, do not trouble my wife with these details. Just ensure her that she will thoroughly enjoy the accommodations of the hotels and the other wonders here in the Park.

  I hope your studies are proceeding as planned and that you are not discovering your own personal or professional difficulties while in our Nation’s Capital. However, should you ever encounter any problems at all while in the District or while working at the Smithsonian I hope you will
feel free to call upon me as I have, without any sense of pride whatsoever, felt free to call upon you.

  Yours sincerely and most faithfully,

  Philip Aber

  Howard Merriam

  c/o Yellowstone Lake Hotel

  Yellowstone National Park

  June 22, 1898

  William Gleick

  Smithsonian Institution

  Washington, D.C.

  Bill:

  I am writing again to try my utmost to convince you to join us here in the Park at your earliest convenience. As you can well imagine, with such a small group of men, I can use the help in the field now that it is warming. More importantly, it is the time spent outside of the field where I am at a real loss, particularly as I try to deal with my benefactor, Philip Aber. For some reason, Aber has become convinced that I am most unsuited to manage this enterprise, and so has taken to supervising and instructing me and my activities as closely as he might his youngest child. I feel like I am under the microscope here, and it detracts mightily from my work.

  And work, at last, I am doing. Thanks to the excellent care provided by the medical staff at the cavalry hospital in Mammoth and, I am told, thanks to the preliminary measures taken by Miss Bartram, my arm is healing and I am more mobile than anyone would have the right to expect given the fall I took. So I am back in the field again, busily gathering samples and doing my utmost to develop in-depth knowledge of the flora in these lower elevations.

  I have, by chance, encountered a native from the Crow Indian reservation who has much knowledge about traditional plant names and uses and I am taking advantage of his brief stay in the Park to learn as much as I can about plants considered useful or poisonous. It is critical that information concerning the properties of these native plants be collected now from those who have for generations needed to rely on them for food, medicine, and other purposes, since these people are being weaned from their traditional way of life and, as a result, generations of tribal knowledge will not last long. Sadly, it is not only their knowledge that is at risk. They have been herded like animals onto reserves, and I fear it is only a matter of time before they disappear from the human scene altogether.