Letters from Yellowstone

by Diane Smith

  Dear Jessie,

  I know I warned you and my parents that my correspondence would be erratic once we left our camp adjoining the Lake Hotel, but I still feel the need to open this letter with an apology. I must admit in all truthfulness that I have had ample time to write, too much time given the Professor’s extended absences, but so far there has been no opportunity to get mail to the hotel for posting. I was told this morning, however, that the two students and the driver will be going to the hotel for mail and supplies, so I am packaging my specimens and field notes for posting to Lester (I can only assume that he will continue to care for them until my return in the fall), and thought I should take the opportunity to write to let you know of my situation here.

  We have established a camp of operations next to a small mountain lake. The lake shoreline is rocky and devoid of trees, making it ill suited for a campsite, so Professor Merriam, following Dr. Peacock’s lead, chose instead a grassy meadow not far from where the lake is fed by a high mountain creek. Joseph, who accompanied us with his wife, Sara, and their two children, selected a site on even higher ground, their tipi standing like a solitary sentinel above and beyond our camp. The mountain man, still as contrary as ever, made his own solitary encampment further along the shore of the lake, next to a make-shift cabin used during the winter months by cavalrymen patrolling on snowshoes for poachers in the Park.

  Not that we need a cavalry cabin to remind us of the impending change of the weather. Although winter is still months away, just this morning we woke to a thin layer of frost as we emerged from our tents, groggy and cold. But we were invigorated, too, as we sipped hot coffee and made plans for the day, all of us wrapped in blankets and buffalo robes, our breath punctuating the chilly air in soft white clouds.

  I cannot tell you what a relief it is to report that we are making plans, and working again as a party. When we first arrived at this site, after leaving our camp near the Lake Hotel, the news of Philip Aber’s death still weighed heavily on Professor Merriam’s heart. Dr. Aber was considered an expert in the diminutive high-elevation adaptation of the flora of the world, so the Professor, in his grief, seemed almost obsessed with the need to contribute to Dr. Aber’s Smithsonian collection and to continue the man’s work, as if the Professor had a role in his demise or could have somehow anticipated and, thus, prevented his death.

  Professor Merriam and Joseph would disappear for days at a time, the Professor either unable or unwilling to accept the assistance or companionship of others in our party. Both the distances to be travelled and the dangers posed were too great to share, he maintained. This may or may not have been true. Regardless, I felt compelled to be quite forthright with the Professor, concerned that he did not understand the risks he was taking with his person and, by extension, with his party. But no matter what I said, or how I pleaded with him to think of the others if not himself, he was deaf to my protestations. I think he longed for and, quite honestly, needed the time away, just as Dr. Rutherford required a few days of silence before finally consenting to fully rejoin our group.

  With the Professor absent from camp, and with no specific demands placed upon his time, Dr. Rutherford has found his own peace here in the backcountry. Since his near run in with death and subsequent purgation at the count’s camp, Dr. Rutherford has given up all form of alcoholic beverages and has, instead, substituted other venues of entertainment. When we first set up our new camp, and the Professor had, by default, left us to our own devices, Dr. Rutherford started reciting, with much drama and intonation I should add, the poetry of Edgar Allan Poe. Although he has not said as much, it is clear that Dr. Rutherford hopes to teach his Corvus corax to say “never more” in addition to “pretty bird,” an undertaking to which Dr. Rutherford is most dedicated, in spite of the Professor’s obvious disdain. So far, however, the only sign that the pet Corvie appreciates Dr. Rutherford’s dramatic readings is that it hops around, flaps its wings, and gobbles like a turkey at every chance it gets.

  The two students seem to enjoy Dr. Rutherford’s recitations of Poe as much as, if not more so than, the raven and, since the mishap at the count’s camp, have proven themselves to be Dr. Rutherford’s most devoted assistants. The boys have helped Dr. Rutherford re-establish his weather station at our new camp, and one day surprised him with a primitive atrium for the bird. Not that the raven needs a cage to restrain it. It seems quite content to stay in camp close by Dr. Rutherford’s side, at least when it is not poking around in our tents in search of shiny objects to steal and cache in his new home.

  One night at dinner, when the Professor and Joseph were back from the field, Joseph told Dr. Rutherford a story, probably based more on Indian myth than on reality, about ravens travelling with wolves, living on the remains of pack kills. According to Joseph, who tells these stories in all seriousness, ravens have what he refers to as a keen sense of humor. He even claims to have seen the birds tease and torment the wolves until they give futile chase, which Joseph refers to, again with a great earnestness accentuated by his simple, straight-forward English, as a raven’s version of play. Even if this reported behavior is true, there must be a more logical explanation. Perhaps its quizzical nature is tied to its survival.

  Whatever the scientific explanation behind the Indian’s tales, Dr. Rutherford now keeps a close look out for wolves, and when he does leave camp, even for short periods of time, he locks the bird in its new home. If nothing else, he feels better knowing that the raven is safe from predation—although I cannot imagine what creature would be interested in killing or eating a raven. But who am I to say what is a reasonable precaution for Dr. Rutherford to take? The bird means the world to him.

  As for me, I have tried to take advantage of the Professor’s absence and the new-found freedom it has provided, but for the first time since arriving in the Park, I have felt uneasy wandering too far from camp on my own. Part of my underlying discomfort has been, I am certain, a feeling of being set adrift with Lester’s abrupt departure. I have no regrets. I made the correct choice in that regard. But just because a decision is right for all concerned does not make the consequences of that decision any more palatable. Suddenly my future seems so uncertain. Of course, that uncertainty is ripe with a universe of new possibilities!

  But there is more to my uneasiness than regret, and the loss of someone I have held so dear. I have always believed that my companions, with the odd exception of the driver, have acted with the best intentions towards me as a woman, and I have never feared for my personal integrity or safety in their company. And yet, without the routine the Professor brings to each day, I have found myself cautious in a way that I have never been before. I am ashamed to admit that this primitive and illogical fear sometimes renders me powerless. I rage against it but to no avail.

  This discomfort is caused, I am most certain, by the mountain man driver’s hostility towards me. I have always felt wary in his presence, knowing that he never welcomed me into the party. If his reticence had been based on my abilities, I simply would have worked harder to demonstrate my worth, as I hope I have proven myself to Professor Merriam and his friends. But as I have gained the acceptance of the others in our party, I seem to have alienated the driver even more. Since his animosity is based solely upon my sex, there is nothing whatsoever that I can do but keep my distance from him, as he has done from me. But now, in such a remote location, where we are thrown together in all but the most intimate activities, I can sense his aggression at all hours of the day. He is clearly one of those men who resent the company of women in any form of society outside their own beds.

  One night after dinner, when Professor Merriam was gone from camp, and I was illustrating a specimen of what I believe to be, by Coulter’s description, a Dryas octopetala, I overheard the driver tell Dr. Rutherford the most gruesome and graphic story of a young woman who had been killed by a bear. Although the story was clearly intended for my benefit, and the driver told the tale in a voice loud enough to ensure I would hear
every detail, it was Dr. Rutherford who was transfixed.

  “What happened?” he wanted to know.

  “Hard to tell,” the driver replied flatly. “Out where she shouldn’t a been, I guess. Pickin’ berries or some such thing. Women don’t belong in this kinda country, and that’s a fact.”

  The driver spat into the fire and stared in my direction as if awaiting a response. I refused to even acknowledge him. There was no point in giving him even that small bit of satisfaction. But Dr. Rutherford, already worried about wolves, could not let the story drop.

  “So then what? What did you do?” he asked.

  “Not much I could do,” he said. “Dug a hole and put what was left of her in it. Couldn’t tell no one. There was no one ’round to tell.”

  Again the driver spat and waited for a response.

  Dr. Rutherford let out a mild groan, and looked around for his raven, which was scavenging in the dirt under the table. Without another word, Dr. Rutherford scooped up the bird, tucked it safely under his arm, and retreated to his tent, while the driver casually poured himself another cup of coffee. When still I said nothing, the driver sullenly retreated to his tent on the shore of the lake.

  Jessie, why is it that some men in this world so despise women? What have we ever done to them as a sex that makes them feel they must dominate and suppress our good natures and willingness to contribute equally to the world? Why do they feel the need to demean us, belittle us, make us fear for our lives?

  These questions haunt me but, not being the questions of science, I fear they will never be answered by the likes of me. The best I can do is ignore the blunt ignorance of these men when they are minor irritants, and do my best to circumvent them when and if they try to pose a significant threat.

  But given these conditions, you can imagine how relieved I was when Mr. Wylloe and Miss Zwinger and her charges arrived unannounced in camp, seeking what they referred to as a more primitive base for the duration of their stay. I more than welcomed their company, and urged Professor Merriam upon his return from the field to let them remain. After the driver’s cowardly attempt to terrorize me, I found even the giddy laughter of the young women splashing in the creekbeds a welcomed relief. An additional benefit of their female presence is that it has forced the mountain man to withdraw even further from our camp, since he appears unable to enjoy anything other than his own bad-tempered company. And that of his dog, which doesn’t talk, much less talk back.

  Miss Zwinger’s arrival has had an even more significant result. With his new responsibility for visitors, Professor Merriam has returned to camp full time, reasserting his leadership and direction. With little ceremony or explanation, last night he requested that Dr. Rutherford and I join him and Joseph tomorrow morning in the field. I cannot tell you how relieved his request made me feel. Not only am I anxious to be truly productive again, but I must admit that I have missed the Professor’s good nature and companionship.

  I am most relieved to report that no harm has come to the Professor during his solitary pursuits. But even I must admit that his imprudent behavior has resulted in ample rewards. He has returned to camp from his most recent extended outing with multiple specimens, including one unknown to Coulter, an alpine variation of Lewisia rediviva. Instead of twelve brightly colored petals, with no visible basal leaves, this specimen has seven pale-colored petals growing concurrently with multiple fleshy leaves. It is a rare beauty indeed and, when I said as much to the Professor, he generously offered to add it to my personal collection if I would share with him my documentation. This was such an unexpected gesture that I leaned over and kissed him, right on the cheek. He, in turn, was so startled by my own imprudent behavior that he removed his glasses and commenced polishing, muttering something about finding another specimen at his earliest opportunity.

  Jessie, he is such a sweet colleague and companion. I am so pleased that he is back with us, and is ready to resume our collective work. I cannot tell you how fortunate it was for all of us that he put together this Yellowstone Park expedition. And how lucky I feel that he has chosen me to be a member of it. Even if he did so at first under a gross misunderstanding.

  Please tell my parents that I am well, and miss them both more than I can say. I miss you, too. You are such a good friend to me. I am lucky indeed to have someone like you with whom I can share all of my confidential stories and concerns. And, in time, I hope all my successes.

  Yours most sincerely,

  Alex

  Howard Merriam

  c/o Lake Hotel

  Yellowstone National Park

  August 14, 1898

  Dr. William Gleick

  Smithsonian Institution

  Washington, D.C.

  Dear Bill,

  The boys are riding down to the hotel this morning for supplies, so I thought I should use this opportunity to assure you that all is well with the expedition, and that our work is proceeding not as planned—I do not seem to be able to “plan” anything—but at least it is proceeding with good results. Because we now are keeping such long, hard-working days, Rutherford sulks, and calls these the dogged days of summer. I prefer Miss Bartram’s classification. She looks around our high country camp with just the slightest hint of a smile on her lips and refers to our time here as the days of heaven.

  We have made significant progress in spite of the weather which has been cool, sometimes even icy in the early morning hours, and oppressively hot as the day wears on. Insects, particularly mosquitoes, are a constant bother. We battle them day and night. Most days, the sky turns cloudy and the air cools by midday. Storms roll in from the south and west, first blackening the horizon and then advancing overhead with strong winds, heavy rain, and sometimes even hail.

  More than once Miss Bartram and I have found ourselves huddled under a tree, seeking protection from these meteorological outbursts, concerned not so much for our persons, but for our specimens, the rain is so sudden and threatening. Miss Bartram has often used these occasions to politely point out what she considers to be the inadequate methods I employ to transport and store my specimens. She says this, I should add, without a hint of personal criticism. While she efficiently carries her specimens in layers of blotting paper in a metal vasculum, I prefer to wrap mine in paper, securing them with string, with the intention of preparing them for proper storage upon my return. She is correct, of course, when she notes that the conditions of the Park demand the greatest diligence when it comes to caring for our collection. I owe it to both you and the memory of Philip Aber, she maintains. Perhaps she is correct about that as well.

  That I can listen to and learn from Miss Bartram in areas of scientific protocol should suggest to you that our relationship has indeed matured. So it was with great interest and not a little concern that I noted the arrival of the rancher, Ralph Clancy, to our dinner table the other evening. He came, as has been his habit all along, with a supply of fresh beef for our cook. He also carried beaded hatbands for the boys, sweet-smelling tobacco for Andy Rutherford, a heavy compass for me, and a hand-forged trowel marked with his ranch’s Flying-C brand and a bouquet of flowers for Miss Bartram. The flowers themselves were of little botanical interest, but you could tell she was pleased by the gifts none the less. As for me, I felt I had been transported back to the Crow reservation where wives are exchanged for what appear to be mere trifles. I was so upset I could not even savor my steak, which Kim Li, after all these months, is finally learning how to prepare.

  Clancy spent that evening in camp telling stories about his land near Helena, of his family who not only survived but prospered after the winter of 1887 when most cattlemen lost everything they had, and of the freshwater streams which crisscross his land, creating ideal landscapes for cultivating both animals and plants. And for raising strong and healthy families, he added, looking directly at Miss Bartram, who did not even attempt to avert her eyes.

  Clancy is a gregarious and talented storyteller, blessed with both an intelligent wit a
nd a fine appreciation of nature. Having fought in the U.S. Army, he is a man of the world. Having spent most of his life on his ranch in Montana, he is also a man of the land. I could not help but suffer a growing resentment at his continued presence at my party’s table.

  When he took Miss Bartram aside under the guise of showing her something he had stored in his wagon, I withdrew to my tent with an underlying feeling of dread. I lit a lantern and tried to read, but my mind kept returning to one of the many campfire battles Rutherford and Miss Bartram had waged over the contributions of Meriwether Lewis and his western expedition. On the evening in question, Miss Bartram had argued that Lewis was the father of descriptive flora in the West. I remembered listening intently as she presented her point of view. She is an eloquent speaker, in spite of her great passion for the subject, which, in a lesser mind, might inhibit her ability to logically debate her position. Rutherford, on the other hand, countered that Lewis could never have led a mule across the street much less survived the journey to and from the West without the constancy and good counsel of Captain Clark, who was the real leader of men. And, as a maker of maps, it was Clark who had set the direction of the journey, Rutherford had added.

  As I remembered their passionate sparring, both of them refusing to give an inch, I could not help but notice that I was much like the Meriwether Lewis that Rutherford was so fond of describing. I, too, have failed miserably at so many steps along the way while you, my dear friend, are so much like the valiant William Clark. You have been the real leader this summer, have helped set the sights, have mapped our course of action, and have secured our expedition’s survival and success. I cannot tell you how grateful I am.

  Now, however, I find myself in the unique position of no longer needing a leader, or a map. After all, thanks to the generosity of the rancher, I now have my own compass! Our journey, thanks to your generiosity, vision, and leadership when it was most needed, is well charted and secure. What I now need is someone to help me accomplish our expedition’s goals. I absolutely must be certain I have all that I need to return to campus and prepare a definitive volume of Rocky Mountain Botany.