Letters from Yellowstone

by Diane Smith

  As we re-entered camp, Kim Li stirred large pots of fragrant foods and coached along a cast iron oven of real bread, rather than his usual skillet biscuits, infusing the pine-scented woods with its soft, warm perfume. Dr. Rutherford, in the meantime, was orchestrating his portraits at a makeshift studio he and the photographer had arranged down by the lake. Anxious to take advantage of the late afternoon light, Dr. Rutherford made sure the students hurried us along.

  After riding and climbing for miles through dirt and dust and creekbeds, we all protested, feeling filthy as well as weary. Dr. Rutherford told us we could each have 20 minutes, maximum he said, to prepare ourselves. Miss Zwinger made a quick visit to the hotel, Joseph returned to his camp, and John Wylloe carried a towel and a clean shirt down to the lake, while I decided to take one of the horses to a nearby hotsprings where Dr. Rutherford and the students had arranged logs into yet another makeshift bath. I could at least wash my face and weary legs in the warm water if not enjoy a real soak which, I admit, I could have used after the ride and hike and the excitement of the day. But, I was expected back in camp for Dr. Rutherford’s photography sessions and celebration, so I quickly washed and dried myself, slipped into my one clean shirtwaist, squeezed out my hair, and hurried back to the lake. I could always soak in warm water when I was once again back home.

  Professor Merriam was standing next to the photographer, his hair slicked back making it appear almost brown in spite of its naturally golden color. Even his clothes were cleaned and pressed. In his arms he held a small bundle tied with string. I left the horse in the shade of the trees, and walked out across the rocky shoreline to greet him and Dr. Rutherford, who also looked well-combed and tidy in his freshly pressed suit. Joseph and Sara were both wearing a full set of beaded buckskins, and their distant but all-knowing smiles. Dr. Peacock, who had already had his photograph taken, sat off to one side on a rock, blinking in the late afternoon sun.

  Miss Zwinger, having sat for her portrait, too, was now wading barefoot along the lakeshore, laughing with John Wylloe who had his photograph taken with his fishing pole in hand. He now crept along the lakeshore in Miss Zwinger’s wake, casting a diminutive fly upon the surface of the water, looking revived in spite of the long day. In fact, he seemed to be thoroughly enjoying himself, even though Miss Zwinger’s enthusiastic splashing almost guaranteed that he would catch no fish.

  As I walked towards my friends and colleagues, I pushed at my clothes, trying to bring them into some semblance of order, and hastily pulled back my hair which was falling damp and loose around my shoulders. With one more tug on my jacket, and a last-minute smoothing of my skirt, I presented myself, with some hesitation, to my friends.

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” I said to them as I walked forward. Both the Professor and Dr. Rutherford turned and smiled in my direction. In spite of myself, I started fussing with my hair. I could not help it, the two of them looked so polished in the late afternoon light.

  “I hope I look good enough,” I said, again apologizing. Now I was nervously playing with a button on my jacket, like an insecure school girl, smoothing and straightening my clothes. Jessie, you would have laughed if you could have seen me, I was so flustered.

  Dr. Rutherford strode forward, confident and smelling of soap.

  “Nonsense,” he cried, taking me by the arm. “You look lovely. Now sit here,” he said, leading me to a log bench that he had set up lakeside in front of the camera.

  I did the best that I could to ready myself, sitting where I was told, straightening my clothes, pinning back some loose strands of still damp hair, when Professor Merriam walked over to me with his bundle.

  “I thought you might like this,” he said, handing me the package.

  Afraid I might upset his schedule even more, I looked to Dr. Rutherford for instructions. He smiled, beamed really, in approval. I untied the string and opened the folds of paper across my lap. Inside, wrapped in a wet cloth and chips of ice, was a fresh bouquet of Gentiana detonsa, pure white, just as it had been described to me. And, the plants had been removed with most of the root structure still intact!

  I looked again to Dr. Rutherford, but he nodded in the direction of the Professor, who was busy wiping some dirt or dust from his boot.

  “Ready?” the photographer asked from under his cloth hood.

  “In a minute,” Dr. Rutherford replied, taking away the damp wrappings, but leaving the flowers in my lap. With the sun casting long shadows across the water, John Wylloe swirling long loops of fishing line above his head, Miss Zwinger splashing like a child in the late afternoon light, Dr. Peacock squinting at a bug which had just entered into his line of vision, and Professor Merriam thoughtfully kicking at the water-worn stones at his feet, and while Dr. Rutherford, Joseph, and Sara stood watching to one side, smiling as if they knew more than the rest of us combined, and with me cradling the bouquet of white gentian like a child in my arms, I could hear the photographer’s shutter slowly open and close, capturing my image, our summer, all of us, permanently, like magic, within his light-sensitive box.

  Later, we all sat at the long camp table—the Professor, Dr. Rutherford, Dr. Peacock, Joseph Not-afraid and his family, the two students, Rocky and Stony, Mrs. Eversman, Miss Zwinger, John Wylloe, Ralph Clancy who donated steaks for the occasion, all my colleagues and good and kind friends, joined together for the fla vorful dinner stirred up for the occasion by Kim Li, who sat with us at the table for the first time as well. Even the surly mountain man driver, washed and combed, joined us briefly, his dog sitting quietly at his feet. He seemed to relish the good food if not out right enjoy our good company.

  With the night sky growing black and starry, the moon rippling a ribbon of light across the wind-whipped surface of the lake, and the lanterns, hanging from the trees around our camp, flickering in the breeze, our campsite was transformed into a special, fantas tical place. I cannot remember enjoying a meal or celebration, as Dr. Rutherford likes to call it, more than I did that evening.

  And then, as if to make a perfect evening even more wonderful, transforming the occasion into something I am certain none of us will ever forget for as long as we live, Dr. Rutherford’s raven jumped onto the table, looked this way and that at all the sumptuous food laid out before it, and said, as clearly as I can write it here on the page, “never more.” Then it uttered a couple of odd-sounding quorks, gobbled like a turkey, and stood there, its head turning from side to side, waiting for its greasy reward.

  We laughed and laughed, all of us, friends. Joseph was laughing so hard he slapped his palms on the table, and Kim Li, in spite of the fact that he was forever shooing the bird away from his cooking, was so amused he kept dabbing with a rag at the corners of his eyes. He then cut a chunk of fat from one of the steaks and held it out to the raven, which hopped right up to him without fear and carried the prize off without hesitation.

  It was an amazing performance. Dr. Rutherford was at first so shocked that he kept looking to the rest of us for confirmation. When he was satisfied that he had indeed heard what he thought he had heard, and that we had all heard it, too, the man smiled and laughed and smiled again, until tears flooded his eyes and he had to excuse himself from the table.

  If that was the happiest I have ever seen Dr. Rutherford, it was beyond a doubt the most perplexed that I have ever seen the Professor. He, too, shook his head and acted as if he did not believe his own ears. But if he had his doubts, he, too, was laughing.

  Jessie, I will miss them and this wonderful place, this Wonderland, with all my heart. I am happy that I will soon be able to see you and my dear family, but my colleagues here have become a family of sorts for me, too. I cannot tell you how sorry I am that it is time for me to leave them all behind.

  I will see you soon.

  In the meantime,

  All my love,

  Alex

  A. E. Bartram

  c/o Lake Hotel

  Yellowstone National Park

  August 30, 189
8

  Jessie:

  I am writing to you rather than to my parents to let you know that I may not be coming home yet as planned. Something terrible has happened, and I do not yet know how it will affect my return. Or my stay.

  Just the other night, after the party orchestrated by Dr. Rutherford and Kim Li, we all took to our beds with great humor. With the possible exception of Dr. Rutherford, who no longer imbibes, I think we were all looking forward to a good night’s sleep to wear off the deleterious effects of Miss Zwinger’s excellent wine as well as our long day of sightseeing.

  The following morning, Dr. Rutherford’s raven awoke early as is its habit and, finding no one up yet to feed it, hopped off in search of food. It did not have to venture far, for in the next clearing the count has established his own camp where he has amassed a malodorous pile of coyote, wolf, and big cat carcasses. Eyeing the carrion, the raven, which has grown accustomed to human interaction and is fearless in situations most wild birds would avoid, started to tear at the decaying flesh. One of the young men in the camp was making coffee, saw the bird, and pitched a handful of rocks in its direction, but since Kim Li is forever throwing something at the raven while it eats, the bird apparently hopped back, waited a moment, and then resumed feeding without any reserve.

  It was then that the count entered the camp to prepare his men for another day of exploration, as he insists on calling his slaughter. Seeing the raven pecking away at his plunder, the count did not hesitate. He pulled a gun from his saddle, took aim at the bird, which had a hunk of putrid coyote flesh hanging from its beak, and killed it in a single shot. In actual fact the count did not shoot the bird so much as explode it, since he used so much firepower there was not much left except for some gore and a handful of feathers which fluttered here and there in the wind. The count could have killed an elephant with that gun.

  Dr. Rutherford learned of the raven’s death at breakfast, after the Professor and Joseph Not-afraid had already left camp for the day. He was numbed by the news, sitting at the fire, tears streaming down his ruddy face. Except for a shudder which racked his body from time to time and the occasional cloud of smoke which burst from his pipe, he sat there motionless, showing little sign of life.

  The mountain man driver, in what can only be viewed as an act of compassion, joined him and offered a swig from his bottle. At first, Dr. Rutherford ignored him, preferring to stare into the fire, but as the driver finally shrugged and stood to take his leave, Dr. Rutherford changed his mind and took a long pull from the jug. Then he took another.

  The mountain man reached down and, with a gentle flutter of his hand, patted Dr. Rutherford on the shoulder. He left him there with the bottle, as if he understood the depth of Dr. Rutherford’s despair. Then the driver and his dog, which he had tied to a rope to save his pet from a similar fate, walked back to the edge of the trees to his own tent, which is located apart from the rest of ours. The mountain man tied the dog firmly to the tent’s central post and disappeared inside.

  In the meantime, Dr. Rutherford got up, staggered around, and removed himself to the trees. When he returned to the fire, he stumbled, sat back down, added another stack of logs to the fire in spite of the fact that the morning was already quite warm, and commenced sobbing and drinking again. Jessie, I wished so badly that I could help him but there was little that I could do. I sat with him for a while, thinking he might like to talk about the bird, remember it somehow, acknowledge all the wonderful things he had done in training it, but my presence only seemed to heighten Dr. Rutherford’s grief. He did not seem to be able to do anything other than drink and throw more and more logs onto the fire. When I was sure he could not cry another tear, he silently sobbed and drank some more. It broke my heart to see him in such a state.

  I took my sketch pad and field journal and set out for the lake, telling the students where they could find me if the Professor and Joseph should return before lunch, or if they needed my help with Dr. Rutherford. Then, like in a dream, I retraced our steps along the well-worn path down to the water, where only hours before we had walked with such joy. Then I, too, started crying. I cried for Dr. Rutherford, for his clever and, yes, intelligent Corvus corax, for the Professor who takes such pains to look out for us all, and for the ill-humored mountain man driver who had shown that even he had an ounce if not a pound of compassion. And I cried for myself, I loved them all so.

  I sat there on a bluff overlooking the water as the passenger boat made its way slowly back to shore and the wind churned the surface of the water, whipping at my hair, my clothes, my tears. I cannot tell you how long I sat there, I was so lost in my grief. But suddenly, one of the students was running down the hill, a bucket in each hand, warning me of a fire. Soon others were shouting, running down from the hotel carrying buckets and bottles and anything else that could be dipped into the lake and carried back up the hill into the woods. Then the driver rushed out of the woods with a large metal basin, which he carried waist deep into the lake and pulled back up the hill, slopping water as he hurried past.

  The wind was now fierce and unruly. I stood up, shaking free of my reverie, and saw that the wind was blowing large gusts of smoke into the sky. I picked up my journal and sketch pad and joined the rush of cavalrymen and hotel guests all hurrying along the trail with water in hand. When I reached our clearing I found our entire campsite was ablaze. My tent, my books, my blankets—they were all gone. Kim Li’s tent was also destroyed, burned to the ground, with pots and pans standing next to piles of smoldering rubble strewn here and there on the now scorched earth.

  The large white tent which Dr. Rutherford and the Professor had called home for the summer was burning wildly, in spite of the ineffective shower being sprayed at it from all directions by the volunteers. The more water they threw onto the blaze, the more fiercely the wind seemed to blow, whipping the fire into the nearby brush and up and into the forest canopy, spreading the inferno overhead and up the hill in the direction of the mountain man’s tent.

  Over the shouts and clamor of those trying to contain the fire, I could hear the dog howling after its master, who was at the lake retrieving more water. I look back on my actions now, and am certain that if the Professor hears of how I behaved he will never forgive me, for as the large white tent he shared with Dr. Rutherford and the collection were being ravaged in the gusty wind, I did nothing to try and stop it. Instead, without any thought or hesitation, I ran up the hill to where the trees circled the clearing and pulled loose the mountain man’s dog. I was not thinking clearly but I knew I could not bear the thought of another creature being killed, or another man’s spirit being broken.

  Once untied, the dog ran yapping down the hill, narrowly escaping a fiery branch which momentarily caught my skirt ablaze. I unblushingly tore it off and beat it on the ground and then turned to a small fire that was burning off to the left of me, and beat at that, too. This was no time to be worried about convention.

  As I turned down the hill, the wind picked up the last shreds of the Professor’s tent and lifted it, like a flaming flag, into the branches of a tree where it sizzled and sparked, starting yet another fire in the branches overhead. The smooth piece of ground where the tent had been pitched now burned freely without the tent to enclose it, the two cots no more than charred remains. In the center stood a stack of boxes—our summer’s work ready and awaiting the trip back home.

  The volunteers, having retreated from the flaming tent as it burst past them into the sky, ran forward again with a solitary bucket of water. But it was too late. The boxes sizzled and smoked and then they, too, exploded into flame, just as the branches from the tree above fell smoking and blazing, adding even more fuel to the fire.

  With my skirt in hand, I rushed forward and tried beating at the flames which were consuming the boxes. I was so close to the fire that I could smell Dr. Peacock’s preservative, mixed with the smoke and the sour smell of burning wool. I think I could even smell burning hair. Others grabbed blankets
and buffalo robes, while more volunteers rushed forward with buckets from the lake. But in spite of their valiant attempts, the fire only seemed to sizzle momentarily before the wind set fire to more branches, which fell flaming from overhead, turning back the volunteers and re-fueling the fire.

  The cavalrymen, having dealt with emergencies like this in the past, methodically moved past our camp, and up the hill to the road, where they worked their way back down again, dousing or beating out each small burst of flame before it could spread. By the time they reached the remains of our camp, they had the fire well under control. We had lost our battle at the campsite, but the cavalrymen, it was clear, had won the war.

  It was then that my thoughts turned to Dr. Rutherford. What if he had been in the tent? I cried out at my stupidity, having freed a dog when a human life could have been at risk. But Rocky, who stood surveying the wreckage, assured me that Dr. Rutherford was gone. Unable to walk very well, he told me, Dr. Rutherford had taken the wagon, just as Kim Li’s tent had burst into flame.

  “He told me that all was lost,” the student informed me with a sad shake of his head. “He said he could not help it. There was too much wind. I tried to enlist his assistance fighting the fire, but he just kept crying. He was pretty drunk.”

  The student did not know where Dr. Rutherford was headed, but thinking of Dr. Aber’s demise, I knew that given his condition it was critical that I find him before it got dark. And then there was the Professor who had yet to return to camp. Who would tell him? I wondered. Although I was still not thinking clearly, it seemed to make the most sense to deal with Dr. Rutherford first. He would be in the gravest danger.

  I took one of the cavalry horses, which were still tied up down by the lake, and headed out on the road to the upper geyser basin. This section of the road is new and, thus, easy to travel, and the horse, having been tied up over night and, no doubt agitated by the fire, was more than willing to hurry right along. After a long, hard ride, of which I can remember very little, I entered the geyser basin clearing, dismounted, and led my horse along the indicated path. I know Park visitors walk around and even right up to the geysers, but I also know that they fall in, too.