Letters from Yellowstone

I apologize for not staying in touch but I have been so involved with my day-to-day routine that there seems little time to reflect upon and report my work’s progress. And yet, as I commit those words to paper, I realize there is much to reflect upon, as well as to report, now that the weather has warmed and the earth is beginning to respond in kind.

We are camped in a grassy meadow above Yellowstone Lake, up the road from the Yellowstone Lake Hotel. Professor Merriam had originally selected a site directly on the lake, but when the wind was not blowing full speed, the mosquitoes were, as Lewis once wrote, “quite troublesome” even this early in the season. So the Professor wisely transferred the camp to this alternate location.

It is an ideal situation. In essence, we have all the benefits of the hotel, including medical and other assistance should we ever be in need of them, without all the expense and bother of being in residence there. We are strategically located, as well, on the Grand Loop, the wagon road which circles the Park’s main attractions, so most of our desired destinations are within a short walk or wagon ride. Of course, such a centralized location leaves us open to regular visits by travellers exploring the Park on their own, separate from the coupon tours. I must admit, I find the constant interruptions trying, but Dr. Rutherford and Rocky and Stony, the two students, all seem to relish the extra company in the evenings, particularly when that company includes Miss Zwinger and her lady friends from the hotel.

That is not to say that Dr. Rutherford and the boys welcome all visitors equally. Just this last week, a group of travelling Baptists set up camp immediately adjacent to our site, parking their wagons directly next to the road where their hand-painted signs proclaim, JESUS SAVES, warning all who pass by that it is time to REPENT!, and warning, too, BEWARE OF THE DEMON RUM.

Dr. Rutherford, who was raised in a strict Baptist family and is given to strong beliefs of his own no matter what the subject matter, has been in a real lather over their presence, claiming it was the Baptists who stole his childhood and, more importantly, his formative adolescence, with their anti-smoking, anti-drinking, anti-dancing, anti-card-playing, and anti-everything-fun approach to life.

He is right, of course. Children do suffer mightily at the hands of their parents, who too often refuse their offspring an opportunity to find their own meaning in life and, instead, indoctrinate them at an early age. I bless you both for not imposing any organized religion on my life, leaving me to find my own way. I am finding that path here, as the world and all its glories open before me. The natural world is my religion. I worship the random and wondrous beauty of it all.

With such a belief system I should be grateful that Dr. Rutherford has strictly forbidden the Baptists to venture, much less proselytize, anywhere near our camp, a mandate to which they have no choice but to reluctantly agree. But even if the Baptists are limited to preaching the ugliness of hell, damnation, and demon rum outside of our encampment, even Dr. Rutherford cannot stop the sweet sounds of their hymns from reaching us through the trees at night. They are not unlike lullabies, and I have learned to relish the melodies as I drift off to sleep. We all need to find joy and meaning in the world. Even the Baptists.

Our location above the hotel also allows for an ideal separation of labor, with Professor Merriam, one of the students, and I systematically collecting off the road along nearby creekbeds and meadows, while Dr. Rutherford, the other student (whomever is lucky enough to “win the toss” for the day), and the expedition driver and his dog, travel the main wagon roads in their search for specimens.

Dr. Rutherford, as I may have told you, has come late to science, being a farmer by birth and inclination, and yet he has developed an admirable collecting technique, one which I would like to incorporate into my own field work at the earliest opportunity. When Professor Merriam first proposed this expedition, he invited a cartographer to help document our collecting. Said cartographer ran off and got married instead, but he did provide the Professor with a detailed elevation map first charted by Hayden and the government surveyors. This map of Yellowstone National Park has served as a guide of sorts for Professor Merriam as he has planned his work, but it is Dr. Rutherford who has made the best—or at the least most scientific—use of it.

As I may have mentioned when I first arrived, Dr. Rutherford spent his first month here nursing the camp’s fire. But he also, it turns out, spent at least some of his time, he claims out of boredom, copying to scale large sections of the Hayden map. To this grid he added known thermal features, mountain passes, major roadways, &c. At the time, this seemed a harmless diversion but he has now taken to riding with the mountain man driver on these major thoroughfares, collecting specimens, and adding them specimen by specimen to his grid, along with dates and time of day coupled with detailed weather information.

He and his assistants make quite the sight. After a late breakfast, the threesome pack their day’s supplies, including a large jug of brandy or some other foul-smelling alcohol, and head off down the road. They travel in their wagon at a leisurely pace, the buckskinned driver dozing off as the horse moseys along the roadway, the student, following behind on foot, gathering samples from the areas alongside the road and the adjacent hillsides at Dr. Rutherford’s command.

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 botanizing 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 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.

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.

I can tell Miss Bartram does not appreciate my interest in preserving this information, since she is very traditional in her approach to science. Except for an occasional spirited discussion, however, she leaves me to my studies as long as I leave her to hers. Rocky and Stony, the two students who are accompanying us, have also been remarkably cooperative, given the long hours and number of miles we cover each day, and have demonstrated a curiosity if not an interest in our work.

So, surprisingly, has Rutherford, who has reluctantly but dependably followed instructions and returned to camp each night with more specimens than I could have ever hoped for, even if he does follow Miss Bartram’s wasteful example of preserving only one specimen per sheet. Miss Bartram, understanding the financial limitations of the expedition, has been gracious enough to furnish her own specimen sheets which are mailed to her along with other supplies from New York. Rutherford, on the other hand, dips daily into my own personal supply as he catalogues and preserves the expedition’s collection. His is an extravagance we cannot afford and I have told him so.

But these minor financial worries pale when compared to the people problems I am encountering. This is work for which I have no training or natural inclination, and one which I would just as soon ignore as long as the overall goals of the expedition are being met. Aber, on the other hand, is obsessed by his need to control the every breathing moment of the expedition and insists on visiting our camp at the most inopportune times, allegedly to check on our progress but more likely to catch us with our collective pants down if you know what I mean.

Just the other night, for example, Aber wandered into camp unannounced, only to find every vagabond travelling the Grand Loop, not to mention the young, foot-loose and fancy-free staff employed at the Lake Hotel, settled in for a long spontaneous night of music and merriment in celebration of the Summer Solstice. Aber was no doubt attracted by our campfire which had grown from a few logs fed hourly, to a bonfire large enough to burn down the entire encampment given even the slightest breeze.

I assured Aber it was a spontaneous event, Rutherford being too exhausted by day’s end to organize such revelry, but I was not the only one to observe that the participants all seemed to have spontaneously brought food and drink to share (there was much drink including a potent home-brew) and that each of the 50 or so merrymakers (or trouble makers depending on your point of view) had spontaneously prepared a skit, recitation, or song in celebration of summer.

Miss Zwinger, a woman who has taken great interest in our expedition and who regularly calls upon our camp, prepared a dramatic reading of Shelley’s poem “The Sensitive Plant”: “It loves, even like Love, its deep heart is full; it desires what it has not, the beautiful!”—a poem guaranteed to raise more than one set of eyebrows I can assure you. If hers was the limit of provocative presentations, I could have endured it, but there was more. Much more.

Another visitor, an accountant on his way by bicycle through the Park, told, in much detail, of the first discovery of Yellowstone Park. We all had a good laugh at the early reports of a bubbling hell where entire forests were “putrefied,” stories so far fetched that it took years before anyone even bothered to investigate the veracity of them. And yet, who amongst us would have believed the stories if we had not seen this bubbling hell with our own eyes?

Not to be undone, a young woman travelling with Miss Zwinger advanced to the fire with her copy of Chittenden’s book on Yellowstone National Park, from which she proceeded to read a hair-raising tale of massacres and pursuits of renegade Indians in the early days of the Park. Now if the young lady had continued to read to the end of Chittenden’s tale, she would have revealed that even Chittenden was sympathetic to the plight of the Nez Percé who were, in the author’s words, “intelligent, brave, and humane.” He was also wise enough to predict that history would prove that the Indians were in the right. As Chittenden noted, the Nez Percé were making a last, desperate stand against their inevitable destiny, refusing to give up everything, including their land and their dignity, both of which had been theirs for centuries before the arrival of the paleface.

Fortunately, by this time the lone fiddle and guitar had been joined by a small band of instruments played by the boys from the hotel, supplemented by a foot-tapping and hand-clapping tempo led by Rutherford beating a wooden spoon and a ladle on one of the cook’s large stew kettles. The resulting noise (I am hard-pressed to describe it as music) drowned out our argument so the party-goers were oblivious to our confrontation. Still, I felt embarrassed that not only my credibility but my ability to lead a scientific expedition had come under attack. And by someone who has not a clue how to collect specimens in the field, preferring the comforts and daily luxuries of the hotel. I fought back. What else could I do?

“Who are you to tell me who I can or cannot have helping me?” I shouted over the clamor. “You who sit in your hotel room all day, never even venturing into the field? You have no right to tell me how to do my work, and with whom. You have no right.” And then to be sure he understood my point of view, I added, “You have not earned it.”

If the music had not ended at that exact moment, I am quite certain our exchange of insults would have escalated into an exchange of blows. As it was, the merriment subsided to much hand clapping, hoots and whistles, after which the noise quieted long enough for another performer to step forward into the light of the fire.

Out of the darkness, our horseman and driver, Jake Packard, emerged. Packard is not the most social of creatures, preferring to keep his distance from the lot of us, although he has taken a liking to Rutherford and his regular liquor shipments, which he had obviously been sampling throughout the day. He held a book tightly to his chest as if it alone were providing the sense of balance he needed as he staggered toward the fire. His dog sat and waited at a safe distance.

“Flowers open when all parts of the plant are mature,” he hesitantly started. “Sumtimes,” he continued, and then he stumbled, “the and-roe-eek-cum, or sumpen like that,” he did the best he could with the terminology, tripping over each letter in attempt to make it sound official, but we knew what he meant, “matures earlier than the cum-and-roe-cee-um,” he stuttered and spit, “soes not to inner fear with the pollen and pissels of the same flower.”

The driver drunkenly tripped over the scientific descriptions, but the overall meaning was not lost on the crowd, which stared collectively into the fire rather than look at the matted mass of hair and shabby buckskins that wove back and forth and blasphemed in front of them. He then went on to read in much the same way how the tip of the pollen tube pushes its way into the ovule in the ovary where it makes contact with the female. Cells rupture, the sperm is released, and it merges with the egg. Standard textbook fare. Certainly nothing unusual about it.

Before the driver could continue, Rutherford was beating again on his make-shift drum calling for music, more music. The boys from the hotel jumped at the chance to perform their number, a western campfire song about the trees and breeze and the whispering pines. The driver stumbled back to where he came from, his dog following closely behind.

So, Bill, what should I do? I can forbid the use of alcohol in the camp, and will, of course, do that. But I also know that Rutherford and his friends will simply limit their consumption to when they are either on the road (most of the daylight hours) or visiting the hotel (which would probably be most of the rest of the time if they are not allowed to drink here). They will probably also drink in greater abandon, knowing they will have to make it through the night once they are back in camp.

As you can see, it is the human dilemmas, not the field work or science, which puts me at a real disadvantage here. People are not my strength. If you could join us, even temporarily, I feel that a level of respectability would be restored to our group. You met Aber in the Capital. He speaks highly of you and your abilities. I think in cases like these, your age and stature would be a real benefit, providing Aber with a sense of confidence that he clearly lacks when dealing with me. If you simply wanted to visit the Park and not even worry about the field work, your presence and authority alone, I am convinced, could make a real difference.

Happy to report Merriam’s research career fast coming to close. Has alienated Philip Aber, who threatens to withdraw Smithsonian funding. Ruckus & near fistfight over Indians camped in clearing & reproduction of plants. Merriam will soon have no choice but to re-join ranks of economic botanists & agriculturists. Wish I could say was my doing, but result the same. You owe me that new building as promised.

In other news, railroad active in negotiating lease of land through Park. Planning dams, power generation, large lakes. Much excitement with many swells, black coats, high hats in residence at hotel. Merriam meeting daily to talk about herbarium. Has their attention, in spite of his own dismal situation. You should be here to counter with own ideas. This is big money looking for home. Why not build them one in Bozeman?

I will not bore you with my day-to-day activities, which have settled into a gentle routine. But now that we have moved to the lake and the “season” is upon us, I have had some interesting backcountry encounters and experiences which illustrate how far I have come on my journey—or how far I have fallen behind, depending upon your point of view.

First, I should point out, as I should have made clear to my parents, that Professor Merriam plans each day’s outing to the minute to ensure that we are always back in camp before the first signs of nightfall. He has become almost obsessive about this, probably because he fears the wrath of Philip Aber from the Smithsonian. He not only sponsors our work, but monitors our activities closely. Should we ever be even a few minutes late, I am quite convinced that Dr. Aber would call the entire U.S. Cavalry out to prove his point that the Professor is not to be trusted.

Professor Merriam’s commitment to being back in camp before dark does limit our destinations since we can, after all, only cover so many miles and still return by the light of day. But knowing exactly where we are headed and when we will return does bring a certainty to each outing which the Professor apparently finds comforting. After spending a night in a spring blizzard, I suppose I should take some comfort from it as well, although I question how we will ever manage to collect alpine species once it warms in the higher backcountry if we are confined to our camp on the lake. But those are the kinds of logistical problems that Professor Merriam must work out on our behalf. As Dr. Rutherford is fond of saying, “The Prof doesn’t pay us to worry about the details. That’s his job.”

The other day, while on one of our well-planned excursions, Professor Merriam was collecting along a streambed with the Indian, who is his constant companion now, while I chose to climb to a shady forested area above and to the right of them. As I pushed through the trees to a clearing on the other side, I came across a small, green tent-like structure sitting just on the edge of the clearing. Curious, I silently crept toward it, not exactly sure what I was looking for, but not at all prepared for what I found.

As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I could now also see the woman in the tent quite clearly. She smiled and, although she was at least forty, maybe even fifty, she, too, seemed young, birdlike, with tiny, wide-set eyes which darted with pleasure as I handed back the glasses. She held them in her lap and shrugged, her small head dipping into her shoulders, her eyes crinkling.

“Oh, a scientist,” she sighed, now clasping her hands as if to quiet them. “How I do admire you. I have always wanted to be a scientist, but,” she added with an apologetic dip of her head, “I’m really just a dabbler. What you might refer to as a nature lover, I suppose. And now, ever since my husband died, I guess I’m also a bit of an adventuress,” she confided.

“If I were a real scientist,” she said, closing the book and placing the glasses atop it, “I’ve been told that I would stay home and pay more attention to that which is around me. Instead, I prefer to travel. Looking,” she added, and motioned with her quick, birdlike hand around the expanse outside her small enclosure. As she did so, a bird in flight caught her eye.

She was certainly not dressed for the scientific life, nor for ad venturing for that matter. Compared to me, with my now ragged and filthy field clothes, she looked positively radiant, with her suit of pale blue serge, not unlike the color of a bird’s egg in spring. Her shirtwaist was starched and prim, her thick brown hair, softened by threads of grey, neatly pinned. Another smile crinkled her face, her head dipped into her shoulders, and she returned her gaze to the trees.

I would have enjoyed sitting there all day with Mrs. Eversman, but I could now hear Professor Merriam calling me from down the hill. Since our near tragedy in the snow, I have come to understand that I really must be more responsible and responsive to the needs of my entire party. And from the Professor’s perspective, right or wrong, that means knowing where I am at all times. It is not the kind of arrangement to which I would normally agree, but Professor Merriam is still so clearly uncomfortable with my presence here that I need to do all that I can to make him think of me as an asset, as opposed to a constant liability.

I could hear the Professor and now the student, too, calling again, closer this time, so I started to take my leave, regretting my departure from Mrs. Eversman and the tight confines of her blind, but fearing that their calls would disturb the birds. I felt uncomfortable, too, abandoning her there, all alone, in the woods. So, in leaving, I offered to help Mrs. Eversman back to the hotel with her things when my party and I headed back down the trail later in the afternoon.

Funny, the notion people have of science. I can think of nothing more tedious than sitting for literally all hours of the day in a stuffy, dark bird blind not much bigger than a wide-brimmed hat covered with a heavy piece of canvas. And yet, there that woman sits, day in and day out, fighting off flies, mosquitoes, and the stifling heat of day, meticulously observing and documenting the nesting habits and life cycles of birds. If that is not science, I do not know what is.

I have since learned from Miss Zwinger that Mrs. Eversman has led a national campaign amongst amateur birdwatchers like herself to replace the use of shotguns with opera glasses, and to discourage the growing popularity of collecting bird eggs and nests. She has even waged war against the use of feathers in hats and has travelled extensively on behalf of her cause. This is, no doubt, from where the “nature lover” classification has come. Scientists who write for professional publication, and who prefer to tramp through the fields with guns, can be extremely cold-hearted toward those who do not pursue their own brand of science. Particularly old women who sit alone in the woods with opera glasses for hours on end.

I, for one, can certainly sympathize with Mrs. Eversman’s perspective. A dead bird, no matter how beautiful and informative it appears neatly laid to rest in a drawer, is still nothing more than a stuffed museum specimen. To understand the true nature and classification of birds, you must, like Mrs. Eversman herself is doing, spend hours on end observing the living, breathing—and I might add messy and unpredictable—creatures in the field. That, at least to my mind, is real science, no matter what the other so-called scientists say.

Jessie, I know I am sounding quite didactic, but there is so much bad science or non-science wrapped in the guise of science that I cannot tell you how refreshing it is to meet this watcher in the woods. She may be sentimental about her subject, but she relies entirely on patient observation for her understanding. We need more of these so-called nature lovers in the world.

As I hurried around Mrs. Eversman’s clearing, careful not to disturb her birds, and down the hill toward the creekbed where I could still hear the Professor searching for me, I saw John Wylloe, another of my new Park acquaintances if you can believe it, heading up the trail a half a mile or so below me. He waved, having seen me, too, and hurried up the path in my direction.

Mr. Wylloe is the writer my mother most admires, much to my father’s scientific and literary consternation. I think my mother has read every book John Wylloe has ever written, both his nature essays and his poetry. He was kind enough to share a few of his volumes when I first arrived in the Park, but I must admit I find his work too sweet for my palate. However, considering all the inferior so-called nature writing—and I use the term lightly—in the world today, at least Mr. Wylloe’s is based upon sound observation of the natural world. In fact, he has used his name and reputation to effectively argue against this ubiquitous kind of writing which makes for entertaining and humorous reading but is not, contrary to the authors’ insistences, based on the real world. As Mr. Wylloe passionately argues (and I assume Mrs. Eversman would agree), song birds do not conduct singing schools in the woods for their young, nor do they set their broken legs with mud casts bound with grass, twigs, and horse hair. I do not care one fig for what has been “documented” in the likes of Harper’s and Forest and Stream.

It is against such nonsense and the magazines that publish it that Mr. Wylloe rigorously campaigns. In fact, he has publicly taken to task George Bird Grinnell, the editor of Forest and Stream, arguing, quite rightly I might add, that a man in his position should know better than to print such foolishness. Mr. Grinnell considers himself a hunter naturalist, an oxymoron if ever I heard one. He is also one of the founders of the Boone and Crockett Club and established the Audubon Society, both dedicated in their way to an appreciation and preservation of the natural world. Surely these organizations cannot possibly believe that you can only appreciate and preserve that which is somehow human. That is like the Baptists maintaining that true believers can only celebrate that in which they see God.

But I must give Mr. Grinnell credit. He is wily when it comes to Wylloe. In his editorial wisdom, Mr. Grinnell has hired Mr. Wylloe to contribute to Forest and Stream, and is sponsoring his summer-long stay in the Park. Mr. Wylloe claims not to need the money, apparently even nature writing based on science is a lucrative profession these days, but he has taken the assignment, he says, to demonstrate to Mr. Grinnell and the rest of the popular press that the truth of the natural world, in all its interesting and unpredictable diversity, can be as entertaining as that which is based on some urban writer’s imagination. What a stroke of editorial genius to send him, then, to Yellowstone National Park where the scientific “truth” is as far-fetched and fiction-like as anything the average reader would encounter anywhere in the world! I am curious indeed to learn how Mr. Wylloe will handle his dispatches.

Since Professor Merriam could rest easy knowing of my location, I waited for Mr. Wylloe to ascend the final few feet to where I stood. He was visibly out of breath, struggling as he advanced. Dressed as he was, you would need a good deal of that urban writer’s imagination to see him as the Nation’s leading naturalist and outdoors-man. With his long white hair and beard, black suit, wide-brimmed hat, and fishing creel, he looked more like an ancient scribe, perhaps someone from the Bible assigned to carry bad news, or one who has travelled for miles to worship at some holy shrine.

Balancing himself with his hands on his knees, he lowered his head. Although I hated to see him so distressed, it was reassuring to note that even the greatest minds and talents are limited by the same physical rules of nature as the rest of us. Mr. Wylloe waited thus for a moment or two, his head bowed as if in deep concentration, took two deep breaths which he exhaled as deeply, and then raised his head slowly, like a snake uncoiling its face to the sun.

I told him he would be welcome to join our daily expeditions at his convenience. However, I warned him, he must keep Professor Merriam informed of his desire to join us on any particular outing. It would be presumptuous for Mr. Wylloe to inform me of his intentions in this regard. It would place me in an awkward position within my group.

As Professor Merriam and I talked, John Wylloe removed his boots and socks with great ceremony, rolled his pant legs to just below the knees, and sat gingerly upon a large rock, slowly easing his feet into the icy creek. Even from where I was standing, I could see them lying low in the water like two albino Salvelinus. He took off his hat and, again, unfurled his spine, vertebrae by vertebrae, so that his face was fully oriented toward the sun, his long white hair and beard almost translucent in the fierce light.

“It is a slipper of Venus,” Mr. Wylloe said to me once the three of them had woven their way out of sight. “Or a fairy slipper. I have heard it called different things associated with footwear on the rare occasions I have seen them near my cabin. But the Indian is right. From my limited experience, they are rare. He may be right, too, about them being sacred, but that is beyond my ken.”

I opened my journal and started to write a physical description but then hesitated, removing my colors from my case instead. Perhaps the process of observation and reflection needed to illustrate the specimen would help me come to better know it and, thus, identify it. At least that was my thinking.

The flower itself was easy enough to capture on paper, its bilaterally symmetrical petals and prominent lip all easily translated for my visual record. It was not the flower’s form which gave me pause, but rather the color, a shocking pinkish purple with tiger-like stripes tinged along its edges with a golden brown. Sensuous, succulent in the non-botanical sense, if the plant were indeed a slipper, it would be something worn by Titania rather than Puck, if I dare make such a pedestrian literary comparison to you, my dear friend, who is so much better read.

Now I was the impatient one. Again I sighed, but this time I fear it came out sounding more like a snort. Mr. Wylloe had been most generous in his interest in my work, and in his quiet observation, never once interrupting me, focusing his attention instead on the sun, the water, a book of verse he carried in his creel. He appeared to take little interest in what I was doing—or at least he did not interrupt me to learn more about it. In fact, he was such an unobtrusive companion that for that hour or two I thought Mr. Wylloe might prove to be a pleasant addition to my day. Someone I could ignore when it suited me, but still talk to once on the trail headed home. Someone I could write home about, perhaps providing my mother with a reason to be pleased or even proud of my experiences here. In the company of such a man, she would certainly have no reason for concern. But my mother’s concerns aside, I would have to discourage Mr. Wylloe’s interest in my work and decline his offer of companionship if he was going to turn into a bother. From the look on my face he must have understood my concerns.

“You are young, and probably unaware of the academic life,” he said, leaning softly against a tree. “I, on the other hand, am experienced when it comes to these sorts of things. You will find that the academic life is a closed world. If you plan to succeed within it, you must play by its rules.”

Now I admit that I knew he was referring to the orchid, Professor Merriam, and the rest, but at the same time I did not have a clue what he really meant. The academic world, even the world of our expedition, is one of science, not sentiment, in spite of the Professor’s foolishness at times. And, yes, science and the academy have their rules, but those are the rules of dispassionate reason. If he meant that I should not remove a specimen because of some Indian’s idea of the sacred—well, you know me, I could not hold my tongue forever.

“Now it is you who must forgive me, Mr. Wylloe, for I wish to acknowledge and respect both your experience and your age. However, like the notion of what is sacred, this is simply outside your ken. There is room for sentiment in things like poetry,” I motioned to the slim volume he carried with him, “but not science. And the academy, with all its acknowledged limitations, does not thrive on sentiment.”

After a pause he spoke. “Perhaps you are right, Miss Bartram. Certainly about the science. However, I hope that even you could admit that the academy does not consist of science, or reason, or even knowledge, but people. It is people, Miss Bartram, with whom you must succeed. With that I will leave you to it.”

Which brings me to why I am boring you with all of this. Jessie, I sat there and sat there like a thwarted child. I revisited the words of Professor Merriam, the way he watched me so intently, his comment that the Indian did not want him to remove the specimen, all of it, but I could no more make sense of the Professor’s wishes than I could of Mr. Wylloe’s. Had the Professor argued that, following scientific protocol, a sole specimen should be left to stand, I would have understood and been forced to comply with his wishes. There would have been no discussion. But this sacred business made no sense to me what so ever.

As I write this I am still unsettled with my decision. Even if I did what was right, I am not at all convinced that I did it for the right reason. It pains me to admit it, Jessie, but I left the specimen behind not for science, but for sentiment. Or maybe it was my desire to finally make peace with Professor Merriam, and to be accepted into his company. I am at a loss to otherwise explain it.

That night, when I transferred my specimens to Dr. Rutherford for safekeeping, I could sense Professor Merriam watching me closely. I refused to look back at him, and since he never asked to see the specimen, there is no way he could be certain that I left the orchid behind. But he knew. For something changed between us that night. Time will tell if it is a change for the better.

If I believed in God, I would ask you to pray for me. Something or someone better save me soon, or this whole experience may end up being one in which a promising young woman goes out west in pursuit of science only to return to New York just like any other watcher in the woods, starched and prim, dressed in fairy slippers, with nothing but sentimental love of botany and a mere passion for flowers. Maybe you should pray for me after all.

I am writing as promised to let you know I have arrived in Yellowstone National Park, although I have yet to rendezvous with Alexandria. I have met with a cavalryman at the Yellowstone headquarters, a Captain Craighead, who will take me to her and her colleagues on Friday. He assures me that the naturalists’ camp, as he refers to it, is an easy ride, and has offered to lend me a horse for the duration of my stay. I prefer, however, to wait for his guidance and expert company since I find it difficult to believe that any destination in this wilderness is an easy ride, the roads in and out of this small valley are so steep and treacherous. To make matters worse, it is now threatening to rain, which could make travel even more dangerous.

That is not to suggest to you that Alex is in any danger. The National Park has a competing wildness and a civility about it which are, in my travelling experience, unique to the human condition. Everyone I have encountered, both on the train ride to the National Park and once here in the hotel, seems to think of themselves as world adventurers, latter day Lewises and Clarks, forging their way through the wilderness and discovering new territories, without fear of the shackles society in its wisdom places upon us elsewhere. These travellers come to the National Park, according to Captain Craighead, to break free of those rules and regulations, and to set their spirits free, to find that even here, at what appears to be the end of the earth, or at least the last stop on the train, the long arm of government regulation has them in their grip.

The National Park requires this government control, according to the captain. Not a day goes by, he informs me, that some fool is discovered carving his initials into a thermal feature or chipping off a piece of a stone formation to take home as a souvenir. With thousands of visitors arriving each year, it would take no time at all before there would be little or no National Park left to visit if it were not for the law and order of Captain Craighead and his men.

Then there are the visitors who throw boulders and large pieces of timber into geyser formations to see if they can block their flow. Of course these idiots are unsuccessful and the debris, I am told, shoots hundreds of feet into the air, often endangering the miscreants themselves and innocent by-standers more than the geysers. Poachers, too, are a problem, having almost wiped out the Park’s big game animals which, thanks to the military’s presence, are just now beginning to recover.

The captain appears to be a young man, wiser than his years, and unsuited for the administrative life he has been assigned to here. He told me he was selected for the post without being consulted and came to the Park against his wishes. However, now that he is here, he is determined to take great interest in his work and do his duty to the best of his ability.

To give you an idea of the kind of degenerate characters he is supposed to control, let me describe a brief encounter I witnessed just yesterday afternoon. As the captain and I were conversing at headquarters, a foreign earl or count of some form of purported European royalty sauntered in under the supervision of two cavalrymen who had apprehended the gentleman and his party on the road into the Mammoth Hot Springs compound. The count in question was fortunate in that he was stopped and questioned as he travelled into the Park, rather than out of it. In his possession was a cache of preserved animals collected throughout the West, including everything from buffalo to elk to prairie dogs to prairie chickens, along with the dogs, ammunition, and alcohol needed to hunt down, kill, and preserve a good deal more.

When questioned by the captain, the count feigned ignorance about Park regulations, he was a scientist and a foreigner after all, but then he took Captain Craighead aside and offered payment for permission to, in his words, collect on the captain’s private reserve. The captain declined, and with his gallant and good nature, explained the National Park’s rules. He suggested, instead, that the count register his specimens with the captain’s office and return for them upon his withdrawal from the National Park.

Also in the count’s possession is a full entourage of cooks, butlers, horsemen, musicians, dogs and their handler, the count’s own personal naturalists and taxidermists, who identify and preserve his burgeoning collection of big game animals and birds, and assorted other young men who looked road weary if not out-right debilitated by their employ, the lot of whom sat by waiting for a resolution to be reached between the cavalryman and the count. One young man retreated under his hat and proceeded to snore, an offence for which he was rapped across the knees by the count as he showed the captain around his collection.

The captain was resolute. The count was welcome to leave his specimens in the cavalry’s care and enjoy himself while in the National Park, or just as free to leave under escort to the Park’s northern boundary. But the count did not have the option of travelling with his collection unattended within the confines of the National Park, science or no science. As far as Captain Craighead was concerned, there were no other options.

The count walked along the wagons, motioning to the piles of carcasses laid to rest in these large, mobile caskets. As he walked, examining and explaining his collection, pulling up a well-preserved buffalo head for the captain’s closer examination, or unwrapping half a dozen calliope hummingbirds, their diminutive bodies falling into his hand, the count talked of the expenses associated with science, about the costs to all those involved with scientific collections, inferring, in essence, that Captain Craighead, too, must be compensated in some fashion. The captain accompanied the count along the tour of laden wagons, but at the mention again of money the captain lost his composure, and challenged the count to show him just one specimen, in amongst all the slaughter, which would help real scientists, he used those words, better understand the natural world. This was not science, the captain was certain of it, but killing for the simple joy of it.

And with that Captain Craighead raged past me into his office. With resolution reached, the entourage began re-securing the wagons and, after moving them to a shady alleyway next to the headquarters building, proceeded to unhitch and picket the horses for the night. The whole operation could not have taken more than ten or fifteen minutes but during the entire exercise, the count paced and barked orders as if he were being detained for hours.

From there, the remaining entourage, still ten or eleven wagons strong with the count’s bright red buggy in the lead, proceeded down the road to the hotel, where they hitched themselves in a row and began to unload. From the captain’s front porch I watched as four young men wheeled the count’s piano with much effort into the hotel lobby, while another four stumbled along, the count’s large iron bathtub hoisted on their shoulders. Wildness indeed.

As you can see, there are civilizing rules and regulations which, in theory at least, are looking out for the likes of Alexandria. I hope she is looking out for them. All last year, she was forever complaining about the rules and structure of the university and the limits they placed upon her, but what she has yet to understand is that it is through rules and structure and rigid protocols that we gain the freedom for creative work in the sciences. She claims to be enjoying her new-found freedom in the Park. She must be operating under the false assumption that there are no rules or limitations here to protect her from herself.

Captain Craighead has promised to escort me to Alex’s camp on Friday, at which point the captain and I will both take rooms at the Yellowstone Lake Hotel. He plans to be in attendance at a large celebration in honor of Independence Day. I will let you know of my own plans after I have had a chance to speak with your daughter.

The U.S. Cavalry has a saying that there are two seasons in Yellowstone, winter and July, but the weather has been at its bleakest in these earliest days of the month. It has been raining steadily for two days, so I find myself trapped inside my tent with Rutherford, his foul-smelling pipe, and his new pet raven, which Rutherford discovered standing by the side of the road, fearlessly gobbling like a turkey for the entertainment of all who passed by.

Rutherford is convinced that if a raven is smart enough to imitate a turkey to beg treats from tourists in the Park, it can just as easily be taught how to imitate a man’s speech. So every time the raven gobbles, it is now rewarded with scraps from Kim Li’s kitchen and is told that it is a “pretty bird.” The strategy, what Rutherford refers to as a scientific experiment, is to see if eventually the bird will not only associate the turkey call with treats, but will also learn to associate the words with the greasy goodies and, thus, learn how to talk.

Is it any wonder that Philip Aber has his doubts about my ability to lead a scientific expedition? Not only does this so-called experiment go on for all hours of the day, but the bird travels everywhere with Rutherford, riding with him in the wagon, sometimes sitting on his shoulder or even on his head.

Journalists are arriving at the hotel to document this weekend’s celebrations and plans for the electric rail line through the Park—plans which are being negotiated as I write. My greatest fear is that one of these journalists will get bored and wander into camp one day, see Rutherford talking to his raven, and the story will be plastered all over the New York and Chicago press. I will be the laughing stock of the scientific community. I can hardly show my face at the hotel as it is, since there is not a person in the Park who has not seen or at least heard about the fat man and his turkey-gobbling bird.

This morning a friend of Miss Bartram’s arrived, with the intention, I am certain, of taking her back home with him. He could not have arrived at a worse time. Miss Bartram is developing into a reliable and helpful assistant. She is steadfast in her commitment to science and considerate almost to a fault of the limitations of our meagre expedition. I have come to rely on her contributions as well as her good judgment in so many instances that I cannot even begin to tell you how much she would be missed, should she decide to leave. Worse yet, it is now July, which is peak collecting time in the Park. I could not possibly manage all there is to do without her.

But she is young, with her whole life ahead of her, and this is, in all honesty, no place for a woman on her own. If this friend is as serious in his intentions as he appears to be, perhaps this would be the best option for her, as disastrous as it would be for me personally. So when she came to ask permission to leave camp for the afternoon, I naturally gave my consent. I suggested, in fact, that she spend the entire weekend at the hotel. We cannot make any progress in this weather anyway, so she might as well enjoy a few days of comfort and warmth, regardless of her final decision. Besides, with the Independence Day celebrations ahead of us, this is a fine weekend to spend at the hotel. Many young people and much excitement, I am told. Given my state of mind, however, I think I had best weather the weekend here.

As if things were not bleak enough, President Healey arrived at the hotel this morning, ostensibly to check on our progress and enjoy the celebrations, but instinct tells me he is more interested in checking on tentative conversations about the herbarium I have had with representatives from the railroad (how he found out about those talks I am sure I will never know). He is, no doubt, anxious to initiate conversations of his own.

If ever there were an opportunity to raise funds for the herbarium, it is now, with every principal employee of the railroad in residence at the hotel, along with half the U.S. Congress and their staff. Thanks to a special shipment of alcohol and cigars brought in for the weekend, these gentlemen are in a good humor to bargain, and bargain they will.

I would like to think that it is those in the East who do not understand what it means to own a national resource in common for the benefit of us all, and it is these easterners who are leading the charge to buy up and sell off our country’s heritage in Yellowstone National Park. But I am sad to report that it is my fellow Montanans who are right up there at the front of the line, negotiating leases for every possible money-making scheme. There is a man who wants to construct an electric elevator to transport visitors, for a hefty fee of course, up and down the Yellowstone canyon and, to demonstrate its feasibility, he has constructed a working model which he has on display in the hotel lobby. Another is negotiating a lifetime lease on Dot Island where he plans to deposit a small herd of domesticated bison, which he has purchased for this purpose from Charles Goodnight, a Texas rancher. The beasts are already on their way and are to be corralled by the lake in the morning. And then there is an architect proposing to build a large log and stone lodge on the grounds adjoining the Old Faithful geyser. Yet another is looking to lease the rights to a hot springs where he will construct a private swimming pool. All sorts of harebrained schemes are being considered. There is even some foreigner bargaining for the right to personally eliminate from the Park cougars, wolves, and other vermin as he calls them. I fear avarice and greed do not recognize state or even national boundaries.

Of course the railroad is right there in the middle of it all. In the lobby, surveys have been mounted along with artists’ sketches to prove that, by damming the Yellowstone River, the railroad can generate more than adequate power to fuel all sorts of improvements, including their proposed electric rail line which will carry passengers from the northern entrance and through the Park as it stops at each major attraction. That it will also be used to carry ore from Cooke City is seldom discussed.

If there were any doubt about the need for such a service, the railroad has made a practice of transporting the dignitaries in great style and comfort by private car to the Cinnabar station, at which point they are herded like cattle into the worst wagons in the fleet and plunged down narrow canyon roads, brakes shrieking, horses stumbling, and then back up the steepest hills. One such incline has been dubbed the Devil’s Stairway, since all are forced to get out and walk, even the women, because the horses cannot manage the climb with both the passengers and their luggage on board. Those with wives in attendance are now particularly well disposed to the railroad’s plans I am told. It is all very sad.

Forgive me for only corresponding when I am full of bad news and trouble but I so badly need someone to whom I can confide. If Bill Gleick were here I would talk to him, but so far I have had little luck getting his attention, much less gaining his assurances that he will join us in the Park upon his return, which should be any day now. Perhaps he knows I would simply burden him with my sorrows if he were in the Park to hear them.

I am writing to you this morning, rather than to the Bartrams, to avoid any misunderstandings or concerns. If I were to write to Alexandria’s family at this point in time, I would either overwhelm them with the truth or lie to them with such transparency that they would fear the worst. Alex’s situation here is nothing for them to fear. It is loathsome, perhaps, but not, I think, perilous.

I arrived at the hotel near Alex’s camp late in the day. It had been raining, a steady downpour, but since I was anxious to see Alex, I ventured out. As I set forth, the rain let up, but still the sky and trees and ground were damp and cold and the muck underfoot clumped to my boots, making it difficult to walk.

I trudged along a well-worn path from the hotel until I came to a muddy clearing, at the center of which a man, huddled under a greasy tarpaulin, struggled to start a fire. The man did not look up as I entered the clearing, but arranged and rearranged the wood in a futile attempt to find just the right configuration to foil the dampness.

To his left, a large hospital tent, missing half of its hardware, slumped against the side of a tree. In front of the tent, a small, filthy Chinaman stirred dishes in a pot, upon the surface of which floated the greasy remains of the previous meal. The Chinaman kept careful watch of me through narrow, suspicious eyes but otherwise did not acknowledge my approach.

It was to this man that I announced myself, and asked after Alex. He, too, was suspicious, and queried me about my business. I explained that I was a friend, and he pointed me to a small cavalry shelter tent on the opposite side of the campsite. I could sense him watching as I mucked through the clearing, lifted the flap, and stooped down to peer into its dark confines. The tent was empty except for a simple cot, blanket, and tattered buffalo hide, upon which were stacked, almost to the low ceiling, Alex’s books and supplies to keep them out of the rain.

Like the other man, he did not have any idea where she might be. Someone had mentioned at dinner that bears were feeding on fish where the river spills into the lake, and our Miss B, he referred to her thus, might be down there observing them. Miss B, as he insisted on calling her, is determined to see bears in the wild, outside of those which habituate the hotel dump site, he informed me.

Is it any wonder that Alex claims to be happy here! No one is paying a bit of attention to her, or in any way tracking her activities. She was forever complaining about the restrictions of the university and the routine of the laboratories. Here she has complete freedom of movement. That alone should be reason for concern, given the conditions under which she is living.

I never did locate her that evening. It was getting dark and the rain was starting up again in cold, heavy sheets, so rather than venture into unknown territory, I resigned myself to the hotel, and returned to her camp the next morning. When I re-entered the clearing, I again saw the fat man by the fire, which sizzled and popped against a thin but persistent rain. Next to him sat another figure, wrapped in a blanket. I assumed this was the gentleman I had spoken to the day before. When I approached, the figure turned and looked in my direction.

Alex peered out from under the blanket, first confused and then surprised to see me. No one had bothered to inform her of my arrival the night before, and she had no reason to be expecting me. But when she realized I was indeed standing there, asking after her, she was pleased, not so much to see me, I admit it, but for me to see her there, huddled next to a damp fire with a fat man smoking a pipe in the rain.

I must tell you, Jessica, she looked terrible. Thin, brown, weary, her hair unkempt and hanging in limp ringlets around her face and down her back. And she was filthy, smelling of grease, pine, and woodsmoke. Everyone talks about the warm bathing holes in Yellowstone National Park. I could not help at that moment but wonder when she has had an opportunity to partake of them. And yet, in spite of the grime and weariness, when she saw me looking down at her, her eyes, her mouth, her cheeks glowed with such pride and pleasure, even I was happy to see her there, in spite of the primitive conditions in which she was living.

Of course, I took her at once to the hotel. She did not resist, claiming that, given the weather, my visit was convenient. She used that word. But before we could leave, she went out of her way to secure permission from the other man, the one in the tent. He consented, citing not my visit but the weather. He then suggested she stay for the weekend, and enjoy the holiday and the planned celebrations. It was clear he made the offer with some reluctance, but he again mentioned the weather and he, too, used the word convenient.

I booked Alex a room, arranged for some clean, dry clothes, ordered a bath and toiletries for her personal use, and waited for her in the lobby, where I was joined by the cavalryman who had befriended me upon my arrival in the Park. Joining us as well was Philip Aber, a scientist from the Smithsonian, who is providing the financial support for the botanical expedition and its activities. When I mentioned my short visits to the camp, Aber did not even try to conceal his contempt for the conditions under which the field work is being conducted, and his professional reservations about its leadership. In fact, once his wife and family arrive in the Park, Aber told me he is planning to end support for the expedition. When I asked him when he was expecting his family, he ignored the question, asking instead about my work at Cornell.

We sat there, the three of us, talking and smoking and watching the black squall advance across the lake and rage against the windows of the hotel. Outside, travellers hurried up the hill and huddled under the hotel’s covered entry way, as their bags were unloaded from wagons and from a steamboat which docked at a landing on the lake. But even under the portico, these exhausted travellers found little relief since the wind whipped the rain and cold all around them, following them into the lobby and past the heavy hotel doors which, against the wind, were difficult to close. The travellers were all wet and weary and cold from their journeys, but they were shouting and laughing and joking and stomping the water and mud from their feet, excited to be in the midst of nature in such a wild and uncontrollable state.

A red, two-wheeled buggy appeared outside the door, and a foreign count, who I met in passing when I first arrived in the Park, entered the hotel, followed by an entourage of men with trunks and boxes and other personal effects which were carried up the stairs to his rooms. Outside, the count’s pack of hunting dogs yapped and howled while two men fought to keep a piano, tied to the back of one of the wagons, erect in spite of the wind.

With all the ensuing confusion and noise, I did not see Alex enter the lobby, nor did I see her join us at the table overlooking the lake until she was right there upon us. She greeted Captain Craighead and Philip Aber with a casual familiarity, and then took my hand for but a minute before joining us without the slightest hesitation or modesty.

She looked better after bathing, changing, and cleaning and brushing her hair, but still you would be hard pressed to recognize her. It is not that she has lost weight so much as that she has become more sinewy, roughened or perhaps even toughened by the conditions under which she is living here. There seems to be an air of detachment, too, from common courtesies and civilities, which have been replaced by a wildness in her demeanor. It is as if she has been held captive against her wishes while living in the East and now that she is here in the Park, she has been released from civilization, and has returned to her true, wild nature.

My companions excused themselves, Philip Aber more gracious in the excusing than Captain Craighead, I noticed, at which point Alex turned without a word and watched the rain beat against the windows. After a moment or two, she turned to me again, her face radiant. With the wind and rain wailing outside the glass, she asked if I did not think it beautiful.

To be honest, I found the question distracting. I told her of our worry, her parents’ worry, of our concern for her life and her reputation. I wanted to tell her, too, that, based on what I had seen in her camp and the conditions there, our concerns were well founded. But she interrupted me with a laugh.

She wants to have a reputation like Meriwether Lewis, Charles Darwin, and all the other Bartrams before her, she told me. She wants to understand this small piece of the world as well or better than they had understood theirs. The botanical specimens she had sent to me for safekeeping were but a small piece of the knowledge she had collected while in the Park, she informed me, and an even smaller fraction of what she planned to master before coming home in the fall.

She told of just yesterday seeing a dragonfly dipping through the misty spray of a waterfall, the water on its wings reflecting the sunlight. She crept out onto the rocks to view it closer, and saw not one but two insects, one atop the other, dipping in and out of the sunlight. They alighted on a plant, at which point her watching startled them so one flew off, leaving the other to sit alone, drying its wings in the sun. The wings were gossamer, she used that word, and had one red spot on each corner. She laughed again and said that for the first time in her naturalizing career she felt a bit like a voyeur. She used that word, too. Then she told me that there was so much to do and see and learn and experience, and so little time left in the season in which to do it all. And then she surprised me again by taking both my hands into her own and telling me how good it was to see me.

In her enthusiasm, a strand of hair had broken loose from its pins and had strayed across her cheek and mouth. I reached out and brushed it back away from her face. She grabbed my hand and kissed it on the palm, like a man would do to a woman in private. And then she laughed again, and proclaimed to anyone within hearing distance—we were, remember, sitting in the middle of a busy hotel lobby—that she was so happy and it was so good to be alive.

Before I could respond, a tall cowboy walked up with the same casual familiarity with which Alex had joined my party earlier. He knew how anxious Alex was to see buffalo, he said, and he was helping a friend transport a small herd from the rail station in Cinnabar to Yellowstone Lake, where the animals will be barged to start a private reserve on an island. There is a half a dozen head, he informed us, and they will be unloading them into corrals down by the lake in the morning. He had horses if we were interested in riding down with him to see the beasts.

Without hesitation and without consultation, Alex volunteered us both in spite of my protests. I have never been on a horse, and am not about to start now. And the back of a horse is no place for a lady. But Alex was resolute, and arranged for us to meet the cowboy and his friends before breakfast the next morning.

At dinner, Alex’s good humor grew, buoyed by the bath, the warmth of the hotel, and, I would like to think, my unexpected company. She ate and drank with an insatiable ardor, and relayed story after story about the things she had seen, the people she had met, and the discoveries she had made about the world of science and about herself and other people.

She told of a party of women she met at their first camp in Mammoth and, as she related the story, the women arrived at our table as if on cue, delighted to see Alex at the hotel, and intent on making sure she planned to attend the Independence Day ball and other planned festivities. Again, Alex volunteered us both, saying we would not miss it, in spite of the fact that her wardrobe was limited. The older woman, a Miss Zwinger, responded that she should not worry about such trifles. She used that word. Something suitable would be found for Alex to wear. The woman was certain of it.

Alex looked at me, triumphant in her new friendships and full of passion for a world that, she claimed, she is experiencing for the first time. As the evening drew on, Alex’s enthusiasm for her new life continued to grow. At the same time I could sense my own passions retreating. I felt overwhelmed. Diminished somehow. By the end of the evening, I can admit to you alone, I was at a loss as to how to respond to her.

This morning, rather than join me for breakfast, Alex has ventured off to see the buffalo unloaded at the steamboat harbor on the lake. She asked if I would like to join her and, when I declined, she kissed me, again in public, and clambered onto a horse in her skirts without the slightest hesitation or regret. She would be back, she informed me, her hair already beginning to loosen and fall onto her shoulders as she rode away.

So I am waiting for her here, uncertain what demands I will make of her, but more confident than ever that I need to make my demands known. It may be difficult to get her attention with all the activity here at the hotel, but I am resolute. Once I know her answer, I will then correspond with her parents. But not before. You may, in the meantime, want to let them know I have written to you and that I am in contact with their daughter.

I am beginning to believe that you have supernatural powers or the ear of some divine entity. Either way, I am so grateful I may yet become a true believer! It is hard to imagine that it has only been a day since I last wrote, a mere 24 hours. But how the world has changed in that short period of time! Not only has the rain let up, and the sun come out bright and full of summer, but with the early morning sunlight came word that Bill Gleick has arrived at the Yellowstone Lake Hotel. And he has brought along Philip Aber’s wife who is here, I hope, to lure him back home. This is such excellent news that I have thrown financial caution to the wind and booked a room at the hotel for myself, at least for one night, so that I might spend time with Gleick strategizing how to best salvage our expedition in the Park.

It is a perfect time to be in residence here, with the hotel staff and even the guests bustling here and there in preparation for the evening’s entertainment. Just a few hours before, such excitement and joviality would have only served to mock my own sense of despair about the future of our expedition, even my future in general, but now I find the commotion stimulating, even rejuvenating, and am committed to enjoying each and every one of the day’s activities to their fullest. Gleick has sent word that he cannot meet with me until after dinner, and I have just seen Philip Aber ride off on horseback to points unknown, so he is mercifully out of the way. I have, therefore, agreed to take part in a pre-celebration picnic planned by Miss Zwinger and her companions. They will be setting forth for some “secret place” they know of within the hour.

I am in such good humor that I invited Rutherford to join us, proposing that he bring along his pet raven which would, no doubt, amuse the ladies. But he is content, he tells me, to pay a courtesy call on President Healey, after which he plans to spend the remainder of the afternoon in the camp of some foreign count who, I have been told, has an abundant supply of liquor. Our driver and the two students plan to join him at the count’s camp as well. There was a time when I would have dreaded the news of such a potentially ruinous combination, but it is, after all, a holiday. Might as well let them celebrate in their way, while I celebrate in mine.

President Healey would not, of course, approve of any of this, but I am not all that concerned at the moment. I am anxious for his support of the herbarium, of course, but until I can sort out the details of the expedition, and ensure its continuation and success, there seems little need to keep him informed of our day-to-day activities here. Besides, he appears to have his own plans for the holiday. As I write, Healey is standing across the lobby, handling a model of the electric rail cars being proposed for the Park, rocking up and down on his toes with one of those far away looks in his eyes. He is no doubt planning the continuation and success of his own New Century campaign, perhaps musing about some massive brick structure to be named Healey Hall. I can guarantee you that he is not thinking about a research herbarium named after Meriwether Lewis—or William Clark, for that matter.

As for Miss Bartram, I have not yet had an opportunity to speak with her or inform her of Bill Gleick’s arrival. I saw her briefly as she walked through the lobby, not in the company of her friend from New York, but with that rancher who has frequented our camp from time to time. They were laughing and talking with such intimacy it makes me wonder how blind I have been, and what all I have been missing right there under my nose. But I admit, too, that I felt the slightest sense of selfish relief. If I misjudged the intentions of the gentleman from New York, or made false assumptions about Miss Bartram’s intentions towards him, it may mean that she will in fact be staying with the expedition for the duration of the summer. Now, of all times, I cannot afford to lose her.

I had best keep this correspondence brief since the wagons to take us to the picnic are lining up in front of the hotel. There are at least a dozen of them, so they must be planning quite the party. In fact, I can now see several of the railroad executives, and there is a congressman, too, all getting ready to board.

I was about to write that this might be my opportunity to speak to some of these gentlemen in earnest about the herbarium but before my pen could be recharged with ink, President Healey walked out to the roadway and now he, too, is being helped into a wagon, and is taking a seat right between one of the railroad men and the senator. It looks like this afternoon will be the president’s opportunity to speak of building new facilities rather than mine, for they are all laughing and appear to be in the best of humor. I will leave them to it. My highest priority at the moment is the continued success of our work here in the Park. I must ensure first and foremost that we return to campus with a full and complete collection. I can worry about where to house and work upon that collection once the summer has come to a close.

Miss Bartram, her friend from New York, and that nature writer, Wylloe, are now climbing into another wagon. I must hurry so I can join them instead. Maybe I can ascertain the gentleman’s intentions towards Miss Bartram—and hers towards him. I wrote earlier that I cannot afford to lose Miss Bartram. To be honest, I should have written that I do not want to see her go.

WESTERN UNION TELEGRAM

JULY 4, 1898

COL BRADSHAW INVITED TO DINNER WITH NORTHERN PACIFIC AND SENATOR JACKSON TO DISCUSS VIRTUES OF PRIVATE ENTERPRISE YOU MUST KNOW I AM NOT IN AGREEMENT RAILROAD ALREADY OWNS ALL THE HOTELS WHAT MORE DO THEY WANT THE PARK BELONGS TO ALL AMERICANS SHOULD BE NURTURED FOR GENERATIONS TO COME NOT EXPLOITED FOR SHORT TERM FINANCIAL GAINS OF FEW NATION HAS BUT ONE YELLOWSTONE PARK I INTEND TO ENSURE IT IS PROTECTED UNLESS ORDERED OTHERWISE

YOURS SINCERELY CAPT A CRAIGHEAD

I should be extremely angry at you for not warning me of Lester’s arrival, but I am so very happy these days that I cannot muster even the slightest words of reproach. This sense of wellbeing is not, I should hasten to add, because of Lester, whose unannounced arrival here has been a mixed blessing at best.

I admit it was good to see him when he walked into our camp the other day, trying so hard to be his usual professorial self, ready as always to take charge even though he was completely out of his element. Or perhaps I should say he was too much in the elements, since the rain was dripping off his hat and coat and he was walking around carrying a thick layer of mud attached to his boots. Seeing him standing there, looking so out of sorts, I realized how much I had missed him, and still needed him in a strange, longing sort of way. He has been so important to me and instrumental to my development as a scientist, that it is as if I cannot fully appreciate all that has happened to me here without experiencing at least some of it through his eyes.

But seeing him outside the safe and respected confines of the university does put him in a new light. This morning we had an opportunity to ride down to the fishing bridge where a half a dozen B. bison were being corralled for shipment to Dot Island out on the lake. I admit, had I known the specifics of their internment there, I would have been less enthusiastic about seeing them. These are domestic beasts, raised not unlike cattle, but still it was an opportunity, my very first, to see these shaggy beasts up close and I wanted to take advantage of it.

Lester would not even think of accompanying me. We had to ride horseback, which he considers ungenteel (not to mention unladylike), and leave before breakfast, another break from convention. He simply refused to consider the offer. So I went without him, in the company of a rancher, Ralph Clancy from Clancy, Montana. Imagine the size of that family’s ranch! Mr. Clancy has taken a great interest in our work in the Park, and has been kind enough to supply us with fresh meat from time to time. We were joined by the two students, Stony and Rocky, who had volunteered to help herd the bison onto the barge which will transport them across the lake.

Mr. Clancy is much more interesting and knowledgeable than I could have ever imagined, and is a walking (or riding!) contradiction to Lester’s theory that it is academia that makes the man. The land is this man’s university, and in his so-called uneducated way he knows more about the natural world than Lester could ever dream up in his biology labs. He was, after all, the one who knew precisely where to find the first blooming L. rediviva in the spring and, when I expressed my disappointment in the conditions in which these domestic bison were living, offered to show me a small herd of wild bison he knows of in the Hayden Valley. It is doubtful that I will have another opportunity to spend an entire day on horseback in search of wildlife, at least for the time being, but his offer was a generous one, and I let him know it was much appreciated.

When the rancher and I returned to the hotel, Lester was fighting off the attentions of Miss Zwinger and her companions who were organizing a last-minute afternoon picnic to celebrate that the rain had finally eased, and the summer sun was at last warm again and shining. Lester and I must both join them, Miss Zwinger insisted, and, of course, I agreed, much to Lester’s consternation. I feel compelled to get Lester out of the hotel so he can better experience the Park. Besides, it would be good fun I assured him.

It was, indeed, a lovely afternoon, with good food, good drink, and good company. And, with the change in the weather, everyone was in exceedingly good spirits. Even the railroaders and financiers, who have made it a point to maintain their superiority above and beyond the rest of the sightseers staying at the hotel, were openly enjoying themselves, sitting on colorful cloths spread out upon the ground, eating cold chicken and apples and cheese and bread, and drinking freely of a wine which was so rich and deep, it tasted as if it had been fermented inside the earth itself.

After the picnic, these scions of industry took off their coats and rolled up their sleeves for an impromptu game of baseball which Miss Zwinger, like a magician, was prepared to outfit, pulling bats, balls, and a specially designed mitt for the catcher from the back of one of the wagons. Senator Jackson served as umpire. Even John Wylloe, who tends toward the melancholy side, agreed to play. I must give Miss Zwinger credit. She knows how to bring out the best in men.

Professor Merriam was more animated than I have ever seen him. In fact, he was so ebullient that he volunteered to serve as the pitcher for his team and, when the president of his college was up at bat, proceeded to deliver a fastball within a fraction of an inch of the president’s ear, much to the amazement and, I dare say, enjoyment of us all. Except, of course, the president who was not in the least bit amused!

With the party thus engaged, and Lester preferring to watch from the sidelines, I suggested a short walk down to the river. He has been anxious to talk with me in private—I am certain he wants to convince me to return with him to the university—so this seemed as good an opportunity as any to let him have his say. But rather than welcome my suggestion, Lester was shocked and dismayed at what he called my proposition, and immediately declined, concerned about the propriety of leaving our party behind. He was concerned, too, he said, about what people might think if we disappeared, as he put it, into the woods together. That seemed so preposterous that I set out on my own, against his expressed wishes. As I started walking down the trail, he followed me briefly, all but forbidding me to leave, before he headed back to the ball-game and the watchful eye of Miss Zwinger. Maybe she can bring out the best in him as well.

Once I reached the river, I followed it downstream until I came to a clearing where it was joined by a small, rushing creek. From there, I turned and followed the smaller creek up the hill as it cut a narrower and narrower path through the trees. At the end of the trail, which threaded alongside the creek, I came to an open basin of large boulders into which a waterfall spilled from thirty or forty feet overhead. The cavernous ravine created by the falling water was so dark and moist and cool, I felt as if I had entered a subterranean world. In fact, it was so unlike the dry mountainous environment I have grown accustomed to during my tenure here, it was as if I might at any moment encounter Darwin himself, walking alongside the trail, observing large-beaked birds.

As if in response to my musings, a solitary Pandion haliaetus flew overhead, a fish firmly in its grasp. The osprey swooped to a perch above me and commenced to tear at its prey with its own small but highly specialized beak. My first thought was of Mrs. Eversman, wondering if she, too, would find such a carnivorous creature beautiful.

As I entered the deep, cool pocket carved by the cascading water, my adventuresome spirit got the best of me and I promptly climbed out onto the rocks, letting the icy water fall and splash all around me. I then did something that I am certain, if Lester learned of it, would confirm his worst suspicions about what he considers the anti-social behavior I have developed here. I removed my jacket and skirt and shirtwaist and laid them upon a rock to dry. I then loosened my hair and laid myself out, too, in a narrow patch of sunlight, closed my eyes, and listened to the living, breathing world which roared and pulsed and crashed down all around me.

I whiled away at least an hour there on the rocks before deciding I had best return before someone was sent out in search of me. My clothes were still damp, but I did my best to put myself back together again. I then retraced my steps down the creekbed until I reached the main river where I was surprised to find Professor Merriam sitting with his back to me.

We started walking back to rejoin our friends and, for the first time since my arrival in the Park, I did not feel an overwhelming need to tell him anything about what I had seen or what I had been doing. It was as if there was nothing I could tell him that he did not already know. The Professor seemed equally content as he, too, had little to say.

When we rejoined our friends, they were finalizing their preparations to return to the hotel, shouting and laughing about Senator Jackson’s questionable call at first base, and the time John Wylloe hit the ball into the river, forcing a gentleman from the railroad to wade waist deep into the water to make the play.

No one seemed to notice our return except Miss Zwinger, who simply smiled, and, of course, Lester, who gave me quite the lecture once we returned to the hotel. To hear him talk, I have become a savage or, worse, a beast, since coming to the West, ignoring well-established rules of society and abandoning all proper behavior when it comes to being in the company of men. I think if he and Professor Merriam had their way I would be banished for life to the safety of the laboratory. Or worse yet, to the confines of the parlor where they seem to believe all women belong.

Lester’s concern for social convention was pushed to the limit when I later showed him the dress Miss Zwinger provided for the evening’s festivities. Now I must admit, I had the gravest of doubts about what Miss Zwinger, in all her wisdom and good nature, would consider suitable for such an occasion. But I was resolute to do my utmost to please her. She had been so good to me since my arrival here, that wearing one of her frumpy old spinster gowns, if that would make her happy, seemed to be the least I could do. I am not here, after all, to impress anyone, and my wardrobe is, admittedly, limited.

Our wagons pulled into the hotel a little after four o’clock in the afternoon and, after walking through the lobby, Lester nagging me the entire way, I excused myself and met Miss Zwinger at her room as arranged. As I entered, Miss Zwinger was pulling a yellow silk dress from her wardrobe and spreading it upon the bed. I can say in all honesty that the dress was indeed beautiful, with narrow tucking down the front and tiny covered buttons from the high collar to the waist, and all along the sleeves, from the elbow to the wrist. In fact, it was so beautiful that I could not keep my mouth shut for even a moment, but had to immediately insist that such a dress was much too fine for me to borrow. I would feel too self-conscious in such a dress, I told Miss Zwinger. I would be afraid or unable to move in it, much less dance as she was advising.

Jessie, I have seen women wear dresses like this, low cut and revealing of everything there is to reveal, but I could never in my wildest dreams have imagined myself wearing one of them. If anything, I have always resented the fact that women are expected to funnel their creative energy into being the showy member of the species. It is so at odds with the rest of the natural world and so distracting from our other talents.

But Miss Zwinger was resolute, and motioned to a screen at the far side of the room, behind which I retreated trying to remember my own resolution to do my utmost to please her given all that she has done for me. She wanted me to try on the dress for size, and there was always the very real possibility that it would not fit. Miss Zwinger is, after all, a very full busted woman.

As expected, the dress was too large, and revealed next to nothing since I have so very little to reveal. But Miss Zwinger was not deterred, and attacked me with a needle and thread. In a moment or two, like magic, she altered the dress and sized the bodice to just the right proportions. She then pointed me in the direction of her dresser mirror.

I hardly recognized myself. It was not the dress, although it certainly made the changes that much more striking. It was more that my body, in the short time I have been in the Park, has changed. I have always seen myself as a girl. Or if not a girl, at least a young woman, with all the plumpness and vulnerability that comes with being that age. But now there is not a trace of that childhood softness. My arms and upper chest, just barely covered by the small gathers of the sleeves, are firm and golden. My hair, too, in spite of its unkempt condition, has changed dramatically, and is now streaked with yellow, I have spent so many hours in the sun. I could not stop staring at myself, I was so transformed. In fact, I finally had to reach out and touch my reflection, just to reassure myself that it was indeed me, and not another one of Miss Zwinger’s conjuring tricks.

“You know,” she said, carrying a small stool from her dressing table to the side of the bed, “I once wore that dress. It was Independence Day then, too, and in the patriotic spirit, the women were asked to wear red, white, or blue. Since I was contrary in my younger years, I pushed the limit, and was the only one to show up wearing something so dark. And so obviously foreign in design. It is more the color of wine, don’t you agree?”

I shrugged, and the narrow silk pleats on my right shoulder slipped slightly onto my arm. I fidgeted in the dress to make it right, and then resigned myself to listen. Miss Zwinger smiled again, warmly, her eyes not unlike those of Mrs. Eversman—knowing something about the world, about themselves, maybe even about me to which I could not yet put a name.

“I know you think I’m a foolish old woman,” she said, and before I could protest she continued. “Perhaps I am. I do not at all think of myself as being old, you know. In fact, I still feel quite young. But I have reached an age where I have lost my attractiveness to men. They no longer see me, or at least they no longer bother to look. It is an invisibility which we all reach as women eventually. I know this is true. And I accept it. In fact, if anything, as I have grown used to living in a world without men, I have learned to appreciate and look forward to the company of other women. I have also learned to look for other pleasures from life.”

She then proceeded to tell me that all her life she has had a commitment to science. Even when very young, she was forever exploring the family estate netting bugs, hooking fish, shooting birds and small mammals, all of which she preserved and stored in her room—she sounded exactly like me when I was younger!

“But that is not news to you, Miss Bartram. You and I are kindred spirits in that way. No one but another naturalist can appreciate the joy of studying the natural world, and the passion which one experiences when you discover something new—even if it’s new only unto yourself. It’s as if a door opens in your soul. Or maybe it’s a window.”

“I can assure you, Miss Bartram, that as bright and beautiful as you are, even you would find that marriage and children would effectively bring an end to your scientific studies. Men take wives to enable them to further their own careers, not to encourage and support the careers of the young women they have married, no matter how honorable their intentions. At best, you could hope to be a talented and, if you are lucky, appreciated assistant. I have seen it time and again. You must trust me on that one.”

“But that is not the message I want to leave with you today. I cannot complain about anything in my life. I would not change a day of it. I have done exactly as I have pleased. I have travelled the world. I have discovered new insects and birds and mammals. And even at my age I still have a full and rewarding life, and look forward to each new day with a renewed vigor. In fact, my life is so interesting, that friends and associates send me their daughters, as they might to an eccentric aunt, to spend time with me, to see the broader world before their own world closes in and they must assume the role society expects of them. This is a mission I have embraced, because I can help these young women not only have interesting experiences, which are fleeting, but I can also teach them how to see and experience the world for themselves. This is a life-long skill that they can take with them into the world, and even share with their children. All of their lives will be richer for it.”

I could not hide my reaction inside the dress. There was not enough of it in which to hide. I wanted to argue that I, for one, was certainly quite capable of seeing the world for myself. That was why I was here, to experience the world outside of the library, the classroom, the laboratory, and even the stuffy confines of Miss Zwinger’s hotel room. And I certainly did not need to troop along with a bunch of college-aged school girls. What could she possibly be getting at with that soft, grey look in her eyes? But if I could not read her thoughts, she quickly read mine.

“I have always firmly believed that I would meet someone who would appreciate me for who I am, not for what society says I should be. Someone who would be a companion, a colleague, a partner, if you will, in exploring and discovering all that is good and beautiful in the world. I have not given up on that dream. But the reality is that the clock keeps ticking. As I have grown older, the chances of that happening now are very slim indeed. Do not travel down a dead-end road, Miss Bartram, unless you are absolutely convinced that you will be content with the road’s destination.”

Jessie, can you believe what is happening to me here? I have always been so confident, so resolute in the direction my life was headed. Now I find myself like one of those sightseers who ventures too close to a geyser, only to discover that the earth on which she is treading is not at all the thick crust she has grown to expect in life but is rather thin and unstable, causing the ground to unexpectedly drop out from underneath her, casting her into a hot, bottomless pool. Once the earth collapses like that underneath a visitor in the Park, very few, I am told, manage to escape with their lives.

It is with mixed emotions that I must report I have withdrawn from the evening’s festivities and the role of Alex’s protector. Downstairs I can still hear much revelry and merriment accompanied by the Women’s Orchestra from Butte, Montana. But I, for one, am not feeling in the least bit merry.

Alex, by her behavior and outright refusal to do as I have instructed, has all but informed me of her true intentions. She says she does not plan to return to New York until the end of summer. Seeing her here, I realize I must insist that she return now, if not to campus then to the home of her parents, for her own wellbeing. From what Philip Aber has told me, the expedition will not last the month since he intends to withdraw funding once he is back in Washington. Better Alex returns in my company than be forced to travel on her own a week or two after I leave. If she refuses to accompany me, I can assure you she risks more than our mutual understanding.

Jessica, I wish you could see her now. I fear you would not recognize her in the least. There is a wildness about her demeanor which is unsettling. Some might even say frightening. And tonight, thanks to a spinster at the hotel who has pulled a dress out of her own questionable past and forced it upon Alex, she is wearing a red silk dress which outright flaunts respectability. I will not try to disguise my disgust from you who will understand my concern. The dress is the color of blood.

Rather than sit and enjoy the music in the company of refined society, Alex has taken to flirting and flying, table to table, group to group, introducing me with great enthusiasm to lustful hayseeds and lustless aging poets alike. And without any sign of courtesy toward me, she insults my company and good nature by dancing with any man who will have her, abandoning me to the company of Howard Merriam, the man responsible for this misadventure, while she dances with the president of Merriam’s land grant college. The president is a man ill suited for such a task, lacking both grace and stature, yet with Alex as a partner he was able to twirl around the dance floor for a full five minutes, defying nature and his short, fleshy physique.

I must admit that Merriam is more sensible than I first gave him credit. He is about my age, although he appears older, his sad, weary face peering from behind spectacles. I fear his lassitude is in part from the constant responsibility of tracking the whereabouts of Alex, a task he assures me he takes to heart. She is very adventuresome, he used that word, and though he appears to approve of her high spirits, he suggested that her actions here have led to more than one serious concern since her arrival.

When pressed, Merriam is the first to admit that he made a mistake inviting Alex to accompany the expedition, referring to some kind of misunderstanding. He used that word, too. But he is impressed by Alex’s contributions to the collection now that she is in Yellowstone Park, saying he hopes to use their work to make a systematic study of the plant life in these, the Park’s earliest days. Merriam is a man who appears to be dedicated to his work and those under his command, even if his general melancholia makes him, I believe, unfit to lead them.

While sitting there in the hotel ballroom, dancers all around us, we were joined by two of Merriam’s other colleagues from the land grant college, a William Gleick, who has just returned from the Smithsonian, and a Daniel Peacock, an entomologist, who has been working in the backcountry for the duration of their stay. It is hard to imagine three such disparate souls being friends, but good friends, in spite of their differences, they appear to be.

Unlike Merriam, Gleick is outgoing and bold in his nature, confident and sure of himself and his place in the world. Older by a few years than the other three of us, he has the annoying habit of smoothing back his long, greying hair away from his face, while he speaks with contempt of Philip Aber whose wife Gleick accompanied from Washington to the National Park.

Peacock, on the other hand, is hard-pressed to sit still, squinting and blinking in the bright lights of the ballroom chandeliers, his eyes darting each and every way as he forever pulls at his collar as if it were choking him. He only sat still when Alex was escorted back to the table by the college president. Once she was seated, Peacock shared a theory about the development of plant and animal life in Yellowstone National Park, which he referred to as a vast volcanic sea. He used those words. Alex was intent in her listening to Peacock’s far-fetched tale, while Gleick and Merriam strategized to one side about how to salvage the already doomed expedition. I heard it with my own ears, I wanted to warn them, but it is better if they learn of Aber’s plans for the expedition from the man himself.

Unable or at least unwilling to join in the conversation with Gleick and Merriam, I tried to query Peacock regarding his postu lations about the history of the Park’s geological and biological development. But each time I raised a question about his theory that the Park was being populated in waves which would, over time, reach its highest and most remote sections, Alex gave me such a severe reprimand in her demeanor, that I opted to excuse myself and leave the party altogether.

Before leaving, I asked Alex if she would care to accompany me and, in my asking, let her know of my concerns. She, however, declined, saying she found the atmosphere in the ballroom stifling, she used that word, and for that reason intended to go outside for air. She stood up as I did, shook hands with her usual familiarity with all at our table, and then shook hands with me as well. She then began her slow but deliberate retreat from the room, headed for the hotel verandah, all but defying me to forbid it. I refused to make our struggle public in such a wanton fashion, but opted instead to retreat. I will confront her in earnest, but prefer to do so in private, at my earliest opportunity. This behavior of hers has gone far enough.

Left on their own, without the attention of Alex, Peacock fidgeted in his chair, gulped his wine, and departed, while Gleick scanned the room for others to impress. Seeing Philip Aber’s wife enter the room without an escort, as there had been no sign of her husband all day, Gleick smoothed his hair one last time and hurried to Mrs. Aber’s side, offering his arm. I must say his gallantry is something to admire.

We have experienced a most wondrous 4th of July here in Yellowstone National Park. Perhaps because we are in territory protected by the Nation, rather than owned by any individual state, it is all the more important to celebrate our independence. Whatever the reason, both the human and natural elements have been at their most dramatic and beautiful.

The day was sunny and warm, fine holiday conditions, which were interrupted only late in the day by dark clouds rolling in across the horizon, followed by a storm which swept across the distant shore of the lake. We watched this display of nature, Miss Bartram, Mrs. Eversman, and I, from the widow walk atop the hotel, while below us, in the ballroom, the all female orchestra played like angels, sweet and haunting melodies which drifted into the night.

Miss Bartram was unusually radiant throughout the evening, having abandoned her customary field clothes for a dress which is most becoming. Unexpectedly so. Watching her dance with the captain, the rancher who has shown particular attention to Miss Bartram since our arrival at the hotel, John Wylloe, an elderly naturalist and poet in residence here, and even President Healey who, I am hoping, will take an equal interest in Miss Bartram as a potential employee of the college as he did in her as a dance partner, I could not help but feel the slightest tinge of longing that I, too, might have the pleasure of holding her, ever so briefly, in my arms. But just as I summoned the courage to ask her to dance, she slipped outside and joined Mrs. Eversman, who was on the hotel roof watching the evening settle like a blanket upon the lake. Seeing Miss Bartram there against the darkening sky, with the sun casting last-minute patches of light on the mountains around us, I could not bring myself to ask her. She was much too beautiful. Besides, it would be presumptuous of me to make the request, considering my position. So I asked, instead, Mrs. Eversman, a sweet, mild-mannered widow who, dressed in grey suiting, looked pale and almost forgotten next to Miss Bartram.

Mrs. Eversman smiled, twinkled her eyes, and dipped her head into her shoulders so that she almost disappeared. But then, twinkling again, she accepted my arm, and the two of us reluctantly began to take our leave of Miss Bartram, who promised to join us downstairs. As I began to escort Mrs. Eversman from the roof, however, the sky blackened and Miss Bartram let out a gasp.

Turning, Mrs. Eversman and I could see the object of Miss Bartram’s amazement. As the sun was about to disappear on the far horizon, it illuminated one mountain and then another, bright white and yellow, while, to the east and south of us, the sky turned a deep red with a tinge of orange. The spectacle was arresting, with the three of us so quieted by the sight, that the only discernible movement was the sweeping of bats in and around the trees surrounding the hotel. Even the music from the ballroom was silenced now, too.

And then, as if to complement Mrs. Eversman’s good nature, a narrow wisp of a rainbow, all red without a hint of any other color of the spectrum, spanned the southern sky like a thin, brightly burning ember in the dying light. I have never seen such a phenomenon before, and probably never will see the likes of it again.

Mother, I know I have not always welcomed Miss Bartram’s presence here, and have believed that it would be in her best interest to return home, particularly now that there is someone here to escort her, but I admit with all my heart that I was relieved to hear the news. I started to explain to her that she would indeed be welcome to stay, that her presence in the expedition has been, in fact, a blessing, but Mrs. Eversman drew our attention elsewhere.

By the time the geese were gone, so was the rainbow, and our collective mood. Down below we could hear much laughter as the party goers proceeded onto the boat dock and along the lake with chairs, while one by one, barges and small boats began to cluster off shore, their lanterns casting small pools of light upon the water as they waited for the fireworks to commence.

I think we would have been content to call it an evening right then, if Rocky Cave, one of the students travelling with our party, had not interrupted us. Rutherford had been poisoned, the young man hurriedly explained. He was in the count’s camp and was in desperate need of assistance. The hotel physician was out on the lake, awaiting the fireworks display, and no one could tell the student how to locate him.

“Miss Bartram, I’m not sure,” the student said. “The count came back to his camp, found us raiding his supplies, and cut us all off without another drop. So Dr. Rutherford and the driver took to dipping a cup into the barrel of alcohol the count uses for preserving skins. The men who travel with him seem to think the count laces it with something like arsenic to keep them from drinking it. None of them have been willing to tempt their fate and so no one had even given it a try. Dr. Rutherford’s hurting pretty bad, Miss Bartram. So is the driver.”

The student had a second horse on which Miss Bartram rode away in a flurry of red silk. Since there was no one in the lobby to assist me, and the doors to the hotel clinic were locked, I hurriedly returned to our own camp to see if I could locate Joseph, while Mrs. Eversman promised to watch for the physician’s return.

By the time I reached the camp, both Rutherford and the mountain man were bent over, retching the vilest looking substance imaginable, until I thought their entire insides would be expelled with the rest of it. As their stomachs calmed, and they both appeared to be catching their breath, Joseph handed them yet another cup of the liquid which he had kept warming on the fire. The drink promptly started them retching again. It was a horrid sight, not to mention the sound.

Rather than move Rutherford, we made a temporary bed for him next to the fire, my selfish motive as strong as my utilitarian one. It would be difficult to transport a man of Rutherford’s size without his expressed cooperation and, besides, President Healey could not possibly see him in this state if he spent the night away from our own camp and the hotel. I have enough trouble with Healey without him holding Rutherford’s bad judgment against me.

The two students agreed to stay with Rutherford throughout the night, keep an eye on his bird which was hiding under a camp table, and keep us informed if Rutherford experienced any additional problems. Miss Bartram seemed convinced that now that their stomachs were empty, both he and the driver would just have to sleep off the side effects of their indiscretions.

Since there was nothing else either of us could do to help, I offered to accompany Miss Bartram back to the hotel where we found Mrs. Eversman, true to her word, perched on the edge of a chair on the verandah still waiting for the arrival of the hotel’s physician. Fireworks roared and crashed in the sky all around her.

“I have grown very fond of Dr. Rutherford since arriving here, and would have done anything to save him,” she told me. “So you must understand me when I say that it was with great reservation that I let Joseph give him that drink. I had the gravest doubts, but felt under the circumstances I had no other option.”

Mother, I know my renewed sense of confidence in what I can accomplish this summer is wildly optimistic and unfounded. Bill Gleick tells me Philip Aber plans to withdraw support for the expedition at his earliest opportunity, and yet I cannot help but believe that with Bill’s leadership skills and the hard work of Rutherford, Peacock, and Miss Bartram, we will manage to not only salvage the work we have initiated here, but even flourish during the remainder of our stay. I am so confident of the fact, that I have booked my room at the hotel for an additional night, so that I might rest up for the long summer days ahead of us.

WESTERN UNION TELEGRAM

JULY 5, 1898

COL BRADSHAW YOU WILL NO DOUBT HEAR ABOUT THIS SOON SO SHOULD KNOW I HAVE DECLINED ALL OFFERS OF RAILROAD LEASES AND OTHER RIGHTAWAYS IN PARK SENATOR JACKSON PROMISES A FIGHT BUT MUST TAKE HIS BATTLE TO WASHINGTON I WILL NOT BE MOVED SHOULD KNOW TOO THAT SMITHSONIAN EMPLOYEE HAS DISAPPEARED ON HORSEBACK WHICH SENATOR CITES AS PROOF POSITIVE THAT RAIL LINE NEEDED HOW HE CONNECTS THE TWO EVENTS IS DIFFICULT TO FATHOM BUT TRYING TO CREATE MONOPOLY FOR RAILROADS IN PARK JUST AS NONSENSICAL TO ME SEARCH PARTY OUT LOOKING FOR GENTLEMAN PROBABLY JUST LOST HIS WAY WILL KEEP YOU INFORMED YOURS SINCERELY CAPT A CRAIGHEAD

In true American fashion we have celebrated our independence and now, like our forefathers, must learn how to live with the consequences of our actions. Perhaps the saddest casualty of drawing our collective line in the sand is Philip Aber, who left the hotel yesterday on horseback and has not been seen since. Captain Craighead has organized a search party but Dr. Aber has been gone so long, it is difficult to imagine that they will be able to locate him if he is determined not to be found.

Although the exact reason for his disappearance is unclear to me, seeing William Gleick and Mrs. Aber together last night, I can imagine where the problem lies. Dr. Gleick accompanied Dr. Aber’s wife from Washington, and seems to be more familiar with her than just a few days on the train would warrant.

Mrs. Aber is about my age, although she seems much younger, almost like a child in spite of her striking beauty. She stands perfectly tall, with a long neck and thick, black hair which only serves to accentuate the paleness of her complexion and the darkness of her eyes. I would say that she looks like a doll, but she is much too fragile for that description. She is so delicate that she appears to need the arm of a man just to walk from one side of the room to the other. I can understand why Dr. Aber was reluctant to leave her on her own in Washington. He must have feared that without his constant care and attention, she might shatter.

Dr. Gleick certainly seems to think so. He has steadfastly stayed by her side since Dr. Aber’s abrupt departure, and has offered to assist her with plans to return to Washington at the earliest opportunity. Why she should arrive in the Park only to leave again without even knowing of her husband’s condition is one of those human mysteries about which I am full of speculation but woefully under experienced to draw any conclusions. These are the kinds of human questions to which John Wylloe tells me I need to dedicate more time and observation.

Through Dr. Gleick, Professor Merriam has learned of Philip Aber’s plans to withdraw Smithsonian support for the expedition. Although Dr. Gleick initially counseled Professor Merriam to return to campus with President Healey, the Professor will not be persuaded. He is insistent that the expedition can and will be saved. And, more importantly, that it should be.

To prove his point, Professor Merriam invited Dr. Gleick to view and judge our collection for himself. This is where John Wylloe, as wise as he may be about his view of the world, is wrong about mine. It is one thing to worry about all the intricacies of human interactions, and I am certain it can make life easier at times for us all, but there is a much different set of concerns when it comes to science. Here, it is the work that must be allowed to speak for itself without a hint of human emotion.

Dr. Gleick was impressed not only by the quality of our work so far in the Park, but by the sheer quantity of work our small group has been able to accomplish in such a brief period of time. Although he appeared to be interested in, and I can only hope impressed by, the botanical collection, it was the work of Dr. Peacock that caught his eye.

They are indeed most spectacular, although Dr. Peacock would no doubt argue with such a description, resenting the attention such showy insects elicit from others. He prefers the diversity of Coleoptera, finding great charm in each intricate mandible, antenna, and diminutive claw, not to mention the spectacular ability beetles demonstrate in adapting to any environment. You can see Dr. Peacock’s devotion to his science in the passion with which he collects and displays these strange-looking creatures. For example, he has collected more than two dozen specimens of one such insect, the Polyphylla decemlineata, which he has neatly pinned to a hand-inked grid. In such an intricate presentation, these field beetles look almost Egyptian, bringing good luck or beauty or whatever was once believed of their scarab cousins.

I suspect that at least one of the reasons Dr. Gleick has been so positively impressed by our work is that he has been genuinely surprised to find something so unexpectedly professional, albeit unique, being organized under such primitive conditions. I am sure he has been equally impressed by the fact that the work is being conducted by Professor Merriam, Dr. Peacock, and especially Dr. Rutherford. Although Dr. Gleick appears to approve of them all as friends, it is clear in the way that he speaks of them that he does not—or at least has not—considered them colleagues or peers.

In any event, after viewing the collection, Dr. Gleick has pledged to write to the director of the Smithsonian on our behalf, discrediting Dr. Aber if necessary, to help secure support for the duration of the expedition. Professor Merriam seems confident that Dr. Gleick has the necessary influence in Washington to positively affect the outcome of our stay, so is making no plans for our work here to be concluded. In fact, the Professor is so convinced that Dr. Aber will no longer pose a problem for us, that he is making plans to move our camp to higher ground.

As Professor Merriam declared his independence from Dr. Aber, so, too, has Dr. Rutherford severed his relationship or at least allegiance to President Healey. Although this is yet another one of those human stories about which I have not yet been fully informed, it appears that Dr. Rutherford has, contrary to his overall appearance and contributions here, been extremely anxious to return to the comforts of home. He had hoped to accompany President Healey back to campus after the 4th of July celebrations and was, in fact, packed and ready to go.

President Healey, who has been a long and outspoken critic of Professor Merriam and his work, welcomed Dr. Rutherford into his returning party, in spite of Dr. Rutherford’s lugubrious condition brought on by his own independent form of celebration. But the president was decidedly not as generous when it came to offering a ride to Dr. Rutherford’s bird. Said bird, a Corvus corax with an uncanny talent for mimicry, has become like a pet to Dr. Rutherford. He calls him Edgar. And, in spite of his eagerness to return home, Dr. Rutherford will not leave the bird behind.

So this morning when President Healey refused to let the bird be boarded into his wagon, Dr. Rutherford unloaded his own things and morosely returned to camp, climbed into the tent he shares with Professor Merriam, and refused all of our entreaties to come out again. It is probably just as well. Dr. Rutherford had a serious run-in with some potentially deadly alcohol, and will no doubt benefit from some undisturbed rest and relaxation.

I am also happy to report that Captain Craighead has declared his own independence on behalf of the Nation and our National Park. He has steadfastly refused to entertain any additional railroad leases, in effect ending the history of monopolization of the public trust for the profits of a few. Captain Craighead has complex reasoning for his denial, claiming that he was charged to protect the land, and that any additional incursions by the railroad, with their plans to dam the river and make right-of-ways for the railroad to haul both tourists and gold from a mine near the northern border of the Park, will compromise if not outright condemn the natural features of the Park for generations yet to come.

I, for one, am relieved. The sheer ruggedness of Park roadways keeps travel to a minimum, and forces those of us with a sincere desire to partake of the Park’s beauties and wonders to leave the wagons behind and travel on our own volition. It is only on foot that you can see, hear, smell, and touch the wonders that are all around us here. Otherwise, you miss too much. In fact, I would argue that you miss it all.

Because wagon travel in the Park can be so arduous, such mode of transport has the additional benefit of creating communities of travellers in the Park. Although I value my independence and solitude as much if not more so than the average American, it is a wondrous experience to bound along the rutted wagon roads side-by-side with American families, European adventurers, and dedicated outdoorsmen alike. Such shared adventures are as much a part of the Park experience as is visiting Old Faithful, both of which, I believe, are equally worthy of protection. I must say, I am deeply impressed by Captain Craighead’s courage as well as his independent spirit as he has made a commitment to preserving these experiences for us all.

It is with mixed emotions that I report that I, too, have declared my own independence. Lester has insisted that I accompany him back to New York, citing the threatened withdrawal of support for our work here and the uncivilized conditions in which I am living and working. He gave me no choice, no options. I must return with him or he will no longer entertain my affections.

That seems such an unreasonable price to have to pay to continue my work here, and I have told him so, but to no avail. I owe so much of who I am to Lester, who was good enough to believe in me and my naturalizing when I was a student with little knowledge and experience. But he cannot now deny me the logical outcome of that encouragement and support.

Miss Zwinger told me I cannot be a student forever, but there is still so much in the world I need to learn about and to study. I would gladly dedicate my life to observation, in effect be a student for life, since there is no way I could possibly learn all there is to know in the very limited time each of us has here on earth.

At times like this, I cannot help but remember Meriwether Lewis who, on his thirtieth birthday, regretted how little he had accomplished at what he considered such a ripe old age. He who had accomplished so much in such a short, sweet lifetime. I can only hope that I might learn and accomplish a mere fraction of what he did, assuming I have the luck and good fortune to be on earth a much longer period of time.

But to accomplish that I need my freedom—to explore, to observe, to experience the natural world, a world rich with possibilities if only we open our eyes to it. And an opportunity to develop into the scientist I know I can become. I certainly cannot limit myself to one man’s vision of how and when I should see the world. I may not know which road I will follow in the months ahead, but I know for certain I am not willing to retreat along a path I know so well. At least not yet. Perhaps Miss Zwinger’s advice would have been more relevant had she said I cannot be Lester’s student forever.

Lester is preparing to depart as I write. He is so angry at me that I am not at all certain that he will even bother to say goodbye. This all seems a very high price for the opportunity to continue working, but it is one which I feel it is necessary to pay. I should have expected it. Lester’s world is so black and white, and I am just now beginning to see that the world is, in fact, colored with many shades of grey.

With the Independence Day celebration behind us, and our party rested and ready to go, we are now awaiting news of Philip Aber and whether or not he will continue to support the completion of our work. The delay is maddening, but there is little I can do but wait. Sadly, I am at the mercy of those who do not understand or appreciate the work that I am doing. I fear this will always be my lot.

Bill Gleick, however, has been very supportive and, having once encouraged me to return home, is now counseling me to complete my stay. He has written to Washington on my behalf, and has suggested to me in private that he has the necessary influence with the director to guarantee continued support. I can only hope that this is true.

My plan is to break camp and proceed across the Park’s central plateau. Because we will be following an abandoned road rarely used anymore by tourists and other travellers, Joseph has agreed to accompany our party into the field. I welcome his continued participation as there is still so much I would like to learn about his botanical knowledge, and Bill Gleick assures me that Philip Aber will no longer pose a problem for me in that regard. I hate to think the continuing success of our expedition is dependent on Philip Aber’s professional downfall but I will leave that to Bill. If Gleick feels he must discredit Aber to save our work here, so be it. The pursuit of truth has always been more important than the career and reputation of one individual. And in this case in particular, the man has done little, as far as I can tell, to pursue the truth himself.

In the meantime, I have just learned that the wagon in which President Healey was riding was the subject of a well-planned holdup as it left the hotel. It seems only fitting that we wait at least a day or two, out of respect for the man’s position if not the man himself, should he be in need of assistance or consolation.

It is ironic indeed that it would be President Healey’s wagon, the last in a train of at least a dozen departing the hotel this morning, that would be stopped by the thieves, given his fondness for tall tales about highwaymen. Apparently, the bandits in question waited at a bend in the road and greeted each wagon as it passed, waving and shouting “come again” as if they were official Park representatives. When the very last wagon entered the clearing, the three men placed bags over their heads and descended upon the travellers, shouting and waving pistols in the air, as they pulled the lone wagon to the side of the road. If the passengers in the wagons ahead heard anything at all, they must have assumed it was all part of the official greeting and gave it little or no additional thought.

The thieves mistakenly picked a wagon of academics and friends, including Miss Bartram’s friend and associate from Cornell. Had they selected one with eastern bankers and railwaymen, their pickings might have improved. As it worked out, their rewards were meagre to say the least, resulting in only about twenty dollars and a handful of watches. But the highwaymen still managed to get the best of their victims by insisting that the men remove their trousers and hats, which were dutifully gathered up and removed by one of the marauders who thanked them kindly before riding away.

One by one, President Healey’s party staggered back to the hotel, as well exposed as they were embarrassed. Since Captain Craighead is off with a search party looking for Philip Aber, and no one seems inclined to take any official action until he returns, there is little hope that the bandits will be apprehended. I suppose these are the perils associated with travelling so far from campus, a lecture I am certain to hear from President Healey, if not today then once I return back home.

I tried to relay the story of the president’s misfortunes to Rutherford, thinking it might amuse him or at least console him to know what he missed, but Rutherford has yet to speak to me or anyone else. Even his raven gobbles away for treats to no avail. This is the darkest mood I have ever seen in Rutherford. He can be exceedingly contrary about the world, but always outspokenly so. His mood is so black, he has even declined an offered glass of brandy.

Miss Bartram has suggested an afternoon of sightseeing as one possible way to cheer up Rutherford. Apparently he once mentioned a desire to visit the Old Faithful geyser. That seems very unlike Rutherford, who has only spoken of contempt for the Park’s thermal properties (except for those in which he can bathe), but I would be willing to try even this if it would lure him out of the tent and back into our party again.

Miss Bartram has also returned to camp, anxious to make up for what she calls lost time. It appears I am forever misreading her intentions and desires. I assumed she would welcome the opportunity to partake of the weekend festivities at the hotel, but to hear her talk now one would assume she considered the weekend as a frivolous waste of her time. Although I have grown to appreciate Miss Bartram and her contributions to our party here, I do not think I will ever learn to understand her.

Peacock has already returned to the field, promising to establish a base camp at a lake he knows of not far from the summit of the road we will be travelling. Assuming we get the approval from Aber or his superiors, we will join Peacock there in a day or two. That is assuming, too, that I can get Rutherford up and ready to go.

I must tell you the foreign count who is in residence in the hotel has spent the weekend in his own form of celebration, roaming the Park in pursuit of wolves, coyotes, and cougars, one of which he dragged into camp by its neck from behind his horse. His pursuit of science, which science he insists it is, borders on outright cruelty. There can be no scientific reason for killing so many of the same animals over and over again.

Captain Craighead has reluctantly allowed removal of the beasts, given the alarming decline of big game animals in the Park. Craighead is the first to acknowledge that elk, bison, and the rest have disappeared from the Park not because of wolves or coyotes—but because of poachers who once roamed the Park. But as the Senator, who was no doubt well rewarded for his eloquence, argued, the law protecting wildlife does not protect animals of “fang or claw,” so the count’s guns were returned to him over the weekend and he is now free to kill any of these animals that he can find. I fear such slaughter can only bring harm to the Park in the long run. Wait until the gophers start taking over the fields outside of Fort Yellowstone. Then even the Senator might feel some regret.

In the meantime, someone with a cruel sense of humor has taken his own revenge on the count and his idea of science. As the hotel guests were preparing for their return home, the count drove up with his wagons to provide them with one last look at the heaps of carcasses contained therein. Just as he peeled back the canvas covering, a large cannon firecracker blew up next to the wagon, knocking the count clear off his royal feet. I must admit I was much amused. Even his staff could hardly hold back a smile as they hurriedly ran here and there, trying to right the situation—and the count—before something else exploded. I can only hope that if we keep the hotel as the center of our communication with the outside world, we will not have to continue any association with the likes of that count.

As I begin to bring this letter to a close, I realize I have not asked after you or your situation. It is not, you must believe me, for lack of caring. I have such a large party under my protection here, and they consume so much of my time and all of my worry. These are new responsibilities for me, ones which I do not much enjoy and with which I am just now learning to cope. But please believe me when I say that even though my time is so consumed, I think of you often while I am here. And I do so hope that you are well.

Captain Craighead has promised us horses for our time away from the hotel. Since the students will no doubt be anxious for any excuse to return to civilization, even if it is just to transport the mail, plan on hearing from me from our backcountry camp, even if it is not as regularly as you and I both might wish.

It is with great sadness that I write to inform you that after disappearing on the afternoon of July 4, Philip Aber was found late yesterday, having fallen into one of the Park’s unmarked thermal pools in the upper geyser basin. He was badly burned over most of his body and although the Park’s medical staff at the hotel fought valiantly to save his life, there was little they could do as much of the flesh on his lower body was already beginning to fall away from the bone. He died this morning, at 8:23, in the arms of his beloved wife. I have made arrangements for Mrs. Aber to return to Washington with his remains. I will accompany her there, as she is in no fit condition to travel on her own.

I have, as you requested, visited the camp of Howard Merriam. As you must be aware, he and his companions are colleagues of mine and so my opinion of their work is subject to our collegial relationship. However, in this case, such friendship has proven to be an encumbrance since I have had little by which to judge Merriam’s work but his ineffectual presence on campus.

I must report I was extremely impressed with what I found in Merriam’s possession, and recommend without reservation the continuation of their funding for the duration of their stay. With limited personnel and resources, they have systematically collected and documented the flora of large geographic areas, using techniques which are most impressive and which bring credit to themselves and to the Smithsonian. In addition, an entomologist travelling with the party has collected a spectacular sampling of winged insects which, I believe, will be of great research interest to the Smithsonian. I know that public displays are of little interest to you, but I am confident that these Yellowstone insects will fascinate scientists, the general public, and anyone else who has the good fortune to view them.

Knowing of your interest in this particular field of study, I have asked for—and been granted—the opportunity to take the bulk of the entomological collection with me when I return to Washington in the morning. The botanical collection designated for the Smithsonian will follow at a later date, most likely when the party returns to Bozeman at the end of the summer and they have had an opportunity to sort through and document the multiple specimens.

Again, I offer my condolences on the death of Philip Aber. He was, I understand, a productive member of the Smithsonian’s scientific community. Sadly, he was under what appears to be debilitating personal pressure, which he was unable to balance with his professional duty and responsibilities to the work he had commissioned here in the Park. I can only hope that his personal weaknesses and his untimely death do not bring this worthy project to an equally untimely end.

I am writing to inform you that we are departing for the backcountry tomorrow, and to assure you that there is absolutely no reason for concern. We will at no time be more than a day away from services, and will be proceeding along a well-established, albeit rarely travelled, road should we ever need to return.

We are leaving our Yellowstone Lake camp with heavy hearts, having lost the life of our Smithsonian benefactor. Philip Aber was a fine scientist and believed in our work enough to not only support us for the summer, but even to travel to the Park to participate in a small but meaningful way in our success. Sadly, by insisting on travelling to the Park, he apparently lost his wife, and then his life. It seems an excessive price to pay for science, and has made me even more appreciative of each living, breathing day.

As I am certain you will hear from Lester, I, too, have paid a personal price for staying in the Park, and I apologize for any grief or concern that this might cause you. I know how you both feel about Lester; I have felt the same. But as I am certain you will understand, I must continue to find my own way. You have raised me to believe that I can accomplish anything I am determined enough to achieve. I came here with a commitment to work for the duration of the summer, to collect the best possible botanical specimens during that time, and to learn and to grow into the best possible scientist I can become. This is my goal, if not my destiny.

I am also now more committed than ever to Professor Merriam, who has been particularly shaken by Philip Aber’s loss. Contrary to what Lester will no doubt tell you, Professor Merriam has proven to be a sound leader with a clear vision of our work, a vision which is only now beginning to be understood and valued by the rest of us. Although the Professor and I have had our disagreements, each day I learn to appreciate his world view, as I believe he is beginning to appreciate mine. I can only hope that by the end of the summer he will have learned to accept me as a colleague, and maybe even as a friend. Perhaps then he can see me, not for who or what he had hoped I would be, but for who I truly am. If and when that happens, I will have succeeded here beyond my wildest dreams.

Given our location, I will not be able to correspond with you or Jessie as frequently as I have in the past. I promise, however, to do my utmost to keep you informed about my progress here in the Park. And please, do not worry. I am doing fine. In fact, in spite of the great loss of Dr. Aber, and of Lester, too, I am doing very well indeed.