by Diane Smith
The afternoon was waning and there were only a handful of visitors waiting for Old Faithful. One man walked from tourist to tourist with a logbook in hand, indicating how long they would have to wait for the geyser’s next display. Upon hearing the news, one young woman shrugged and walked back to a crudely constructed log building with a rickety front porch, aptly known as the Shack Hotel.
Dr. Rutherford was a more dedicated observer. He had tied the horses to a log bench off to one side of the geyser’s cone, where he patiently waited, hunched over, his head in his hands. I tied my horse to the opposite end, and joined him on the bench.
We sat there, the two of us, neither knowing what to say to the other, until, finally, the man with the journal stepped forward and cried, “It’s time.”
As predicted, within a minute a small puff of watery steam was exhaled from the ground, disappeared, and then was followed by another gasp, and then another. When I began to think that there was nothing more to the famous geyser than a predictable wisp or two of steam, a large blast of water burst from the cone, retreated, and then re-emerged, strewing water and steam 200 or so feet into the air. The wind carried the water in drifts across the clearing.
Dr. Rutherford, his face softened by drink and despair, looked up at the spectacle with dispassion. When the water finally retreated after three or four minutes with a last gasp or two of steam, he took the unlit pipe from his mouth and stared into its bowl.
“I never was that reliable, you know,” he said. “I always wanted to be, but I never could stay with any one project long enough. Or maybe I was not meant to be the kind of person anyone would ever want to depend on to accomplish anything in life.”
I wanted to protest, to reassure him somehow, but I knew, too, that Dr. Rutherford needed to have his say about whatever it was that was on his mind.
“My family always said I was not to be trusted,” he finally said. “I have spent my entire adult life proving them right. I failed miserably when I farmed the family land. Then I had this idea that I could redeem myself by teaching others how to successfully ranch and farm. There is so much land, so much opportunity in the West. Maybe if I helped others to succeed . . .”
His voice trailed off, and he shook his head sadly. Then he laughed.
“Only thing I ever proved was that they were right. All of them. I can’t succeed. Not at anything. Couldn’t even get Merriam back to agriculture except by mistake. One big mistake.” He stared into the bowl of his pipe. “That’s my life all right. One giant mistake.”
He laughed softly, emptied the pipe at his feet, and methodically began refilling it. Steam and water rose and fell along the horizon as other geysers erupted in the distance. The air smelled faintly of sulphur.
“Well,” he finally said. “Looks like President Healey will get what he wants out of life.” He relit his pipe and stood up, sighing. Then he looked at me.
“What happened to your skirts?” he asked.
I looked down at my ragged, filthy petticoat and shrugged.
“The fire,” I explained.
“Was there anything left?”
“No,” I had to tell him. “Most everything is gone.”
He looked at me once more, his eyes red and weary, and then he, too, shrugged and went to untie his horses.
“I guess we should get back then.”
I nodded.
As he stood there next to the wagon, he pointed out a glass building adjoining the rickety hotel.
“They use the water from the geysers to heat that greenhouse. Grow vegetables for the tourists. Right here in the Park. Amazing how ingenious people can be when they put their minds to it, isn’t it?”
Tears welled up again in his eyes. His face was flushed.
“Miss Bartram, it’s all been a terrible mistake. A terrible, terrible mistake.”
“I know,” I tried to assure him. “I know.”
By the time we returned to what was left of our campsite, the Professor had withdrawn to the hotel and would not speak to any of us about what we should be doing. He knows we cannot stay. We no longer have a camp. On the other hand, I cannot imagine leaving, when we could still salvage at least a week or two of work.
Until we hear from the Professor, Kim Li and I have joined Joseph Not-afraid and his family, who have graciously opened their camp to us. We are a sad sight indeed, with nothing but the ragged clothes on our back, but they have been more than accommodating. They refer to us as their science clan.
Dr. Rutherford is so devastated by his loss and his guilt, that he refused to join us, and has instead taken one of the driver’s buffalo robes down to the lake. I think he plans to spend the night on the lakeshore alone, and leave for Bozeman in the morning.
As we left the geyser basin, I told Dr. Rutherford that I understood how all of this could have happened. That I understood how much he loved his bird, and understood his grief, and understood that this was all a terrible mistake. But the truth is that I do not understand any of it at all. I wish that I did.
As soon as I know what our situation is here, I will write to you again. Please do not tell my parents any more than you think prudent for them to know. On second thought, you might tactfully ask them to forward some money—it looks like I might need it to get home.
Love,
Alex
5. ROSA WOODSII
WESTERN UNION TELEGRAM
SEPTEMBER 1, 1898
DEAR SIR APPRECIATE NEWS OF SENATOR ALIGNING WITH RAILROADS BATTLE LINES DRAWN AM MORE DEDICATED THAN EVER TO PARKS PROTECTION BOTANY EXPEDITION DRAWING TO CLOSE AFTER MAJOR SETBACK HAVE INVITED THEM TO RETURN NEXT SUMMER FOR EXTENDED STAY HAVE EXPELLED FOREIGN COUNT AND BANNED FROM PARK FOR LIFE CAPT ALEXANDER CRAIGHEAD
Howard Merriam
Yellowstone National Park
September 1, 1898
My dearest Mother,
I can only hope that I have written to you with at least some good news while I have been here in the Park, otherwise I fear you will think me permanently afflicted with melancholia and be disinclined to believe what I am about to write. I must inform you of the saddest news, but I want to first assure you that we may yet be able to rise, phoenix-like, from our ashes. At least that is my sin cerest desire.
We have had a horrendous accident, which has brought our work to a sad and untimely end. Our camp, our collection, our work—all have been destroyed by an unexpected fire. Joseph and I were away from camp for the morning, and by the time we returned there was nothing left. Even the principal members of our party were gone. Only the cook and driver had stayed, busy cleaning up the charred remains of the tents and the other gear for which they would no doubt be held responsible once they return to Butte. I did notice, however, that the driver had taken the time to clean up what remained of our books and other personal effects, including Miss Bartram’s field bag, which had miraculously escaped the fate of the fire.
Neither Li nor Packard spoke to me when I entered the camp, which was just as well because they would have found that I was speechless. I looked at the smoldering rubble but I could not see. I knew that I should stay and help and be there when Miss Bartram and Rutherford and the others returned, but I could not do it. Ironically, I had just written to Bill Gleick about what a great leader I was becoming as a result of our time here in the Park. The sad reality is that, when faced with this loss, I was so devastated I could barely lead myself away from the charred remains of our camp.
Without thinking, I retreated to the hotel and sat by myself in a rented room staring out across the lake. That evening I saw Rutherford return and stagger down to the lakeshore, clutching his journal to his chest. He, too, just sat and stared, perched on the same log bench we had used for our portraits only a day before. It now seemed as if those smiling, happy people were from somewhere months, if not years, ago in our collective past.
As darkness fell, I could also see Joseph’s small western-style campfire on the clearing above the lake, but I could not tell at such a
distance if any of the others were with him. I knew I should join them, help them somehow, provide them with some guidance or assurances, but I could not at that moment even help myself.
I took out my field journal, which I carry with me everywhere (thank your God it was not destroyed!), and blindly thumbed through its weathered pages. I did not have the heart to read it, but instead let my eye wander across a word or a phrase or a simple field sketch until I was carried back through the summer. There was the day we found the fragile forget-me-nots growing high above the timberline. I had roughly sketched them there in my journal, next to my notes, but in my mind’s eye I could still see Miss Bartram’s eloquent pen and ink illustration, which captured even the minute hairs on the tightly matted leaves.
Then there was the time we encountered the gentians flowering in the snow next to the thermal pools and, later, those elusive white gentians Joseph discovered, and was good enough to show me where I could find them for myself. I will always remember how beautiful Miss Bartram looked there on the lake, the white flowers in her lap, and how gracious she was to leave behind the orchid, against her better judgment, so as not to offend. She is a scientist clearly committed to her discipline, but she is also, it now appears, a woman with a heart.
It was only after looking back through my field notes that I began to fully appreciate how much we had accomplished in such a short period of time. I may not be good at understanding the human element, but I must give myself at least some credit for adequately managing the logistics of a difficult and trying scientific expedition in the field.
If only I had developed similar skills to anticipate and prevent the fire! And oh, how I wished that there was something I could do for my friends and colleagues so that they, too, might see and appreciate the small but significant gains we all had made in such a fleeting period of time.
It was then that my thoughts turned to my dear friend, Andy Rutherford. When I first learned of the fire, and Rutherford’s role in it, I was absolutely certain that I could never forgive him, accident or not. But he, too, must be suffering. Rutherford had finally learned, first hand, the joys of science and research, only to have that pest of a bird of his destroyed by a predatory European.
And our dear Miss Bartram. I wondered how she was faring. I thought of all her hard work and dedication, and the courage she demonstrated travelling so far on her own. She, too, must be feeling the loss of it all. She is young, I tried to assure myself, but, like the rest of us, she has lost so much. How can she ever fully recover? There was always the slight chance that Bill Gleick might be able to provide her with some opportunity at the Smithsonian. And, if she managed to salvage her field notes, she might, perhaps, be able to prepare a publication for the scientific press. These possibilities might sustain her. Rutherford, too, for that matter. He had, after all, saved his journal. He was sitting at the lake with it clutched to his chest.
I realized then that there was, in fact, something I could give to them both. There was still so much work to be done and, as I have always told them, where there is work, there is hope. With that hope I, too, had the courage to face them and, if not lead them, to at least lead myself from the safe confines of my room and down to the lake.
I found Rutherford still on his bench, slumped under a buffalo blanket, sucking on his unlit pipe. I joined him, and without any ceremony asked him matter of factly for his field notes.
“It was an accident,” he said without looking up. “You must believe me. There was just too much wind.”
“It may very well have been an accident,” I replied, “but that does not make it excusable. I must tell you, Andy, that when I learned about the fire this afternoon, I did not think I could ever forgive you. We have all worked too hard to have everything destroyed like this.”
I waited a moment, the two of us sitting there in the dark looking out over the lake, and then continued. “But we have had enough loss already, without losing friendships. So now I think I will forgive you, but only under one condition.”
Rutherford looked at me briefly.
“I will forgive you,” I told him, “but only if you managed to save your journal.”
“It’s here,” he said pulling the logbook out from under the blanket.
“And the maps?” I asked, still speaking with as little emotion as I could manage given his condition. He looked terrible.
“They’re in there,” he replied. “You know, they’re not much.” At this he grimaced, and handed me the battered book. “Just an idea I had, really.”
As he self-consciously focused on refilling his pipe, I flipped through the pages of his journal. Not only had Rutherford documented the day-to-day details of our collecting along with his thrice-daily weather reports, he had also kept hour-by-hour descriptions of his bird’s vocalizing, making minute distinctions between each quork, quack, queek, and, of course, each gobble. He had also taken to sketching and describing the bird’s different behaviors as well. I must admit, the sketches were good. Excellent likenesses of the bird in a variety of poses—dominated by the act of begging for food.
“An idea?” I asked as he commenced puffing.
Rutherford turned toward me on the bench. Even in the darkness, he looked beaten, his face ravaged by grief. He took the pipe from his mouth and sighed at the futility of his ever having a worthwhile idea in his life.
“Well, yes,” he said finally. “I had this idea that I would use those maps and our collection to document plant life combined with temperature, climate, altitude, and the like. And then, using that information, I would be able to predict what would grow in various regions of the state. You know, from an agricultural perspective,” he added.
I could sense a dampened excitement in his voice. It was as if just the thought of his idea was enough to rekindle his enthusiasm. Or at least bring it to a flicker.
“So that was your idea?” I queried.
“I know, it’s foolish, but that’s what I was thinking at the time.” He sighed again and turned away. “Everything seems so hopeless now.”
“Well,” I finally said, handing him back the journal. “I think it’s a wonderful idea. A sound scientific idea. One that you should plan on developing when we get back to campus.”
He looked at me, the faint light of enthusiasm still flickering in his eyes, eager and ready to be re-ignited, but he was terrified, too, that my encouragement was offered in jest. He managed a weak smile.
“Are you serious?” he asked.
I assured him I was very serious. We needed to have something concrete to show for our work here. Rutherford’s idea, if he thought he could realize it, was more than enough to justify our trip. Not to mention the fact that President Healey would, no doubt, be enthusiastic about such a practical, economic application. Even Healey might be appeased. Now that really would be an accomplishment.
Rutherford sucked on his pipe and looked out over the lake for the longest time. The wind had blown the night sky free of clouds, and I could clearly make out Goose Above flying south for the winter. It was time for all of us to get ready to head back home.
“And what about the raven? Edgar?” I had to ask. “Do you have any ideas about that work?”
Rutherford shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said flatly. “I don’t know.”
“Well, think about it,” I advised. “You have done too much work to drop it now. You had an idea once. Something about teaching a wild bird to talk as I recall. You proved me wrong, that’s for sure. Let’s not forget that.”
As I stood to leave, I reached out and instinctively patted Rutherford on the back. He turned, and in an emotional display that made me feel at first uncomfortable but also relieved, Rutherford embraced me and thanked me for all that I had done.
“I will make it up to you, I promise,” he said, his voice raspy with emotion. “I promise you I will. I owe you that much at least.”
I turned then to look for Miss Bartram. I owed her much more than a pat on the back. Or an
embrace. But I did not know how to offer it. I could only hope, as I walked up the hill that she, too, had an idea. But before I could reach Joseph’s camp, I encountered Mrs. Eversman, sitting on a fallen tree trunk, surveying the damage at our fire-scarred camp.
“Professor Merriam,” she said, with an apologetic dip of the head. “I do not mean to intrude, but I was hoping I could return these to Miss Bartram.” She indicated a small bundle in her lap.
“She was kind enough to share these specimens with me the other night at dinner. I thought perhaps she might want them back now.” She smiled and shrugged. “They are no longer duplicates, right? So I was thinking . . .” Again she paused, her attention focused inwardly as if trying to discover the right words. “There are only a dozen or so samples, but maybe she could use them to start again?”
I assured her, for assurances were what she seemed to be needing, that Miss Bartram would be most grateful to receive the specimens. I then asked Mrs. Eversman if she would like to accompany me so that she might personally return them.
“Oh, no, I really do not wish to disturb her. Or you,” she added quickly. “I would not know what to say to her, except that I am so sorry that this has happened. Please, would you give these to her?”
She crept towards me, the package held before her like a shield. “I would be most grateful if you would do this for me.”
I took the package and, as if this simple act had set her free, Mrs. Eversman nodded, smiled, shrugged, and promptly disappeared down the trail like a timid, wild bird. I looked at the small, neat bundle in my hand, and could not help but smile. Perhaps this was the “idea” I needed.
Joseph had re-established his camp on a secluded bluff overlooking the lake. When I arrived, the inhabitants all looked weary and battle worn, but they were all sitting together, a family of sorts, going about their day-to-day lives. Except for the large tipi, it could have been any other domestic campsite in the Park. Miss Bartram was sitting by the campfire, looking through a ledger book that sat open on her blanket-covered lap. On one side sat Joseph’s two small children, leaning towards her to get a better look at the book. On her other side sat Joseph’s wife, Sara, straight backed and beautiful, keeping a wary eye on the fire.