Letters from Yellowstone Page 2
Be that as it may, Professor Merriam can rejoice in his precious flowers “lilting along the creekbeds” all he wants as long as I am free to practice my own brand of science while being assured of the professional recognition afforded Smithsonian-endorsed field work. That stamp of approval, coupled with my other work to date, should help me establish a real career in botany, for which I so long! As for Merriam and the rest, I have never been one to feel constrained by the limitations (scientific or otherwise) of those around me, as you well know.
So I am off! If it is convenient, I can arrange for my books to be shipped directly to your Hudson Valley address. Or, if you prefer, I will leave them in your study at Cornell. In either event, please let me know as soon as possible as I will be returning to campus within the week. I will be leaving from Ithaca to avoid any last-minute scenes with my parents.
My best to Jonathan, Lester if you see him, and to your own dear family.
I remain, as always,
most sincerely yours,
Alex
Howard Merriam, Ph.D.
The Agricultural College
of the State of Montana
Bozeman, Mont.
April 25, 1898
Dr. William Gleick
Smithsonian Institution
Washington, D.C.
Bill,
Well, I have sold my soul to the devil (or James Hill, depending on your point of view). I can only hope that neither calls for payment until this fall. In the meantime, I have put together the barest bones of an expedition, to include Andy Rutherford and Daniel Peacock, the best I could do, and have notified President Healey of our plans, promising we will all be back on campus in time to satisfy our fall teaching. How I do hope you can join us!
We will be met in the field by a young scientist from Cornell and, with any luck at all, by my benefactor there at the Smithsonian—Dr. Philip Aber. Do you know him? His area of specialty is the flora of the European alpine tundra but, with his appointment to the Smithsonian, he has developed an interest in western montane environments. He has been most generous in his support (in exchange for which we will provide him with specimens for his collection). It might do us both a world of good if you stopped in to see him while you are in Washington.
The other scientist, A. E. Bartram, has studied extensively the botanical discoveries of the Lewis and Clark expedition. He is also, I might add, a direct descendent of John and William Bartram. Needless to say, I am going to do all I can to keep him working in Montana beyond the summer months. Imagine: a Bartram working in the new herbarium!
Before I leave campus, I am doing my best to ensure that there will be a new research herbarium to appoint him to upon our return. Just yesterday I had an impassioned meeting with the president in which I turned his own argument against him. If we are to have a future in Montana, we must build for it, I told him. Picture the herbarium as a library, an educational resource from which all—students, faculty, and, yes, even administrators—will benefit, a place to house and catalogue our collections, study the intricacies of the plant kingdom, and teach our students about the natural world. There is no real separation between teaching and research, or at least there should not be, I argued, and to prove my point, I have invited two students to travel with the expedition—at their own expense, I might add—to enhance their education. I have no illusions. They are simply looking for a way to get out of working on their father’s ranch over the summer, but needless to say I did not tell President Healey that. I even invited him to visit our camp to see real science in action.
I know he will never abandon the safe confines of this campus—he is far too busy stabbing his critics in the back and worrying about his “New Century” campaign—but I am not going to give up. I am an educator, after all, and believe in the power of education! We will spoon feed it to him if necessary, but by d——, he is going to learn the value of research.
Which brings me in a round-about-way to James Hill and friends. I have jumped into bed with Rutherford, the Anaconda Company, and Standard Oil, if you can imagine the aberrant offspring of that relationship! Gives you an idea of how desperate I am feeling these days.
Since you left, the local rag has been afire with the news that the railroads are petitioning Congress for right-of-way passage through the Park. Since the railroads rely primarily upon the goodwill and false hopes of those they can dupe into moving West—coupled with the propaganda of their sponsored research in western agriculture, I might add—they are desperate for good fare-paying opportunities. What better way than a direct route through Yellowstone National Park? Needless to say, this does not go over well with the nature seekers who want to experience the Park in all its pre-historic glory, without all the fury and fumes of Jim Hill’s mechanical dynamo.
There is also much political posturing going on, depending on which journal you read on a regular basis, threatening the demise of the Park, the end of the natural world as we know it, that sort of fin de siècle doom and gloom. Sounds like a perfect fund-raising opportunity to me, or at least that is what I pointed out to our esteemed president.
Healey needs money for his new buildings, there is some vocal and even contentious opposition to naming those new buildings after Lewis and Clark, and I am pressing for a new research facility and herbarium, which will take a significant investment—more than Healey says he has or at least is willing to commit. Why not run over three birds with one locomotive and approach the railroads for support of all this new construction? Present it to them as a unique opportunity to purchase a little goodwill in the West, as it were. We could name the new buildings the Great Northern and the Northern Pacific which would immediately defuse the Lewis and Clark argument, and there just might be enough left over in the existing building fund to support my new facility. I would even be willing to name it Hill Hall—Hill Herbarium???—if I thought it would make a difference!
I fear I may have overdone it a bit. Healey was talking much too loud for a man of his size and tipping up and down on his toes, you know the way he does, but this time he looked more like a diver about to make a dangerous or maybe even fatal leap. Time will tell where he lands—and whether or not it is with a ripple, a splash, or just a dull thud.
Pray for me, my friend. My mother does so nightly but I do not think she has much influence with the darker side of life where I have taken to cavorting. And, please, say you will join us upon your return. As you can tell, I am skirting with danger and will need all the help I can get!
Yours faithfully,
Howard
A. E. Bartram
Livingston, Mont.
May 15, 1898
Dr. Lester King
Dept. of Biological Sciences
Cornell University
Ithaca, New York
Lester:
It has been a long but exhilarating journey. I am now stuck in Livingston, Montana, while my train awaits a private rail car from Chicago which will be joining us on our journey down the Paradise Valley and into the Park. Think of it: delayed, just this side of Paradise.
So far, my western adventure has proven to be a most eye-opening experience, of which I am certain you would approve. The railroad is indeed a stononiferous organism, sending its tentacles out across the country with wanton disregard for soil, climate, or water (there is none outside of the Missouri and Yellowstone Rivers and their thin web of tributaries as far as I can tell). Pity the poor families who follow this mechanical messiah so far from human habitation in search of the elusive promised land. I fear they will not find it in the West which, despite railroad proclamations to the contrary, is as unsuited to cultivation as any desert on earth. Lewis was right: it is “truly a desert barren country.” You can see it in the landscape, which is dry and desolate, dominated by a large species of sagebrush (Artemisia tridentata, best I can tell; I have enclosed a specimen for your review). This one species is often the only sign of botanical life to be seen for miles. From time to time, I have spotted Lewi
s’ cottonwoods in bloom down by small creekbeds that we have passed on our westward journey. They appear to be Populus angustifolia, but are difficult to identify at such a distance. They are, as Lewis described them, quite reviving just to look at in such dreary country.
By calling this a desert, for desert I am sure it will prove to be, I do not mean to suggest that it is devoid of life. Raptors circle high overhead like gulls following the wake of a ship, anxious for sight of rodents and other small mammals spooked by the train. Early this morning, I spotted a bald eagle (Haliaeetus leucocephalus?) and later a large golden raptor (I am assuming Aquila chrysaëtos?), feasting on a rabbit which had ventured too close to the rails. Eagles are easy to identify, if nothing else than by their sheer size, but most raptors are so similar looking to my untrained eye I am missing an opportunity to expand my natural history knowledge. So I have a favor to ask. If you have one, could you please send a field guide that includes bird silhouettes? Or perhaps you could check with the library on campus. Mrs. McGough might agree to lend me one on account until my return. In either event, I would be most grateful if you would assist me with my western education.
For an education it is proving to be. Yesterday, a young girl of ten or eleven, knowing of my interest, lured me to the back of the train to see a large herd of what she identified as big jack rabbits bounding through a field. Sadly, she had never seen an American Pronghorn (Antilocapra americana—interestingly not at all related to their African “cousins”), but then neither had I, except in books. We are indeed prisoners of our ignorance—and our urban lives. Just having the opportunity to see American species roaming free on their native land is enough to justify this trip as far as I am concerned.
I have not, however, spotted even one American buffalo (Bison bison—what a grand, double-barreled name for what was once a grand American beast!), but not for a lack of trying. All the way through Dakota and eastern Montana, I was forever poking my head from some window, scanning a landscape so vast and open I could almost detect the curve of the horizon silhouetted against the thin, western air. But not a sign of the beasts. This does not bode well for the twentieth century if indeed 60 million buffalo can be destroyed in one generation just to fuel man’s fleeting sense of fashion and his ever-present greed.
My fellow passengers, having to contend with open windows and the perpetual sight of my behind (as opposed to my be-front), are quite certain I am a fool, and living proof that B. Franklin was right: beware of strangers who keep journals. Aside from the young girl who follows me everywhere, they all keep their distance. Even her parents. Their reservations (could it be fear?) were confirmed as I have spent this afternoon in Livingston not in the admittedly charming café which adjoins the station here, but walking the tracks, digging in the dirt, probing into any space that might support life in this rich, evocative land.
I have enclosed a handful of specimens for my collection. Common I know, but of interest to me because they appear to have established a symbiotic relationship of sorts with the railroad, thriving along the areas most disturbed by rails, rock, gravel, &c. When I crossed the road into an open pasture I found not a sign of them. It would be interesting indeed if the railroad, separate from the activities of man and the plow, proves to be the greatest harbinger of change when examining the evolution of flora and fauna of the West.
In any event, treat these specimens kindly. William Clark camped on this spot (or very near to it as far as I can tell), so even if they are not of any botanical or sociological interest, they do come from semi-sacred ground. Please care for them as if they were the rarest member of the Orchidaceae.
I must end now. The Livingston station master warns me that I should enjoy this brief respite of spring since I will be transported back to “six inches of winter” once we make our ascent into the Park. I hope he is wrong, since I am anxious to get to work, but will take the long way to the post office and enjoy the sun just in case. Livingston’s weather, in spite of a cruel and unpredictable wind, feels so fine.
I hope you do, too.
Alex
Andrew Rutherford, Ph.D.
Mammoth Hot Springs
Yellowstone National Park
May 18, 1898
Dr. Robert Healey
President
The Agricultural College
of the State of Montana
Bozeman, Mont.
President Healey:
Have established temporary camp outside Mammoth Hot Springs complex. Not much to report. Butte company commissioned to provide room & board. Miners, it must be noted, an undemanding lot. Immigrants & ruffians, willing to settle for broken-down cots, rough blankets, and ragged roofs over their heads, & be glad for it. Had I known I would be setting out in middle of snow field, sharing camp with Chinaman who speaks little English, mountain man who doesn’t speak at all, & two layabout ranch hand kids, would have declined your generous offer. Even promised ag extension facility inadequate for summer spent in this primordial cesspool. Seen one bubbling cauldron, seen them all.
Have made my bed, so will lie in it. Lopsided as it is. Will need supplies to sustain me, however. Please forward following:1. two heavy woolen blankets
2. tarpaulin
3. waterproof jacket large enough to fit over my top coat
4. pair of oiled boots
5. large brimmed felt wool hat
Josephson at Bozeman Mercantile knows my size. Will arrange for shipping. Rain gauge would help allay perpetual boredom. So would brandy. Prices at railroad-owned hotel reminiscent of your tales of highway robbery.
Little else to report. Merriam not wasting time. Mean temperature 46° & barometer falling. Little to do but wait out weather. Fool that he is, Merriam has taken to horseback searching out warmer conditions—or greener pastures. A search futile as this excursion will prove to be. Could even be dangerous, given volume of snow in backcountry. If desperate, you might want to settle for demonstrable foolishness. Leave it at that. Save us all some misery.
Physician from Cornell to arrive on afternoon train. Once here, may break camp. If so, will notify of new address so provisions can be sent.
Sincerely yours,
A. B. Rutherford, Ph.D.
2. LEWISIA REDIVIVA
A. E. Bartram
National Hotel
Mammoth Hot Springs
Yellowstone National Park
May 20, 1898
My dear Jess,
Well, I made it. Or perhaps I should say I have almost made it. Sitting here next to the hotel fire, with my own room, fresh linens, and indoor facilities, it hardly feels like the promised rigors of field work, but I am in the Nation’s Park, and oh what a wondrous place it is! My dear, dear Jessie, how I wish you could see it.
The hotel itself is quite respectable, much like you might find in any out-of-the-way railroad tourist destination, for that is what the Park has become, even though the railroads have miraculously been kept from within its borders. In spite of all the late spring snow, the hotel bustles with the comings and goings of adventurers, photographers, writers, families, foreigners—a cosmopolitan group indeed considering we are so far away from the rest of the world. Many, I am told, enter the Park as soon as the roads are passable, and spend up to six months a year in Mammoth, convinced that the Park’s sulphurous waters can cure them of the most virulent diseases. One woman invited me to join her for a swim after breakfast, but I demurred. There will be ample opportunity to soak up the benefits of the Park’s waters and other wonders before I leave. The last thing I need right now is for Professor Merriam and his colleagues to see me cavorting around in a snowbank dressed in my swimming costume. It would confirm their worst opinion I am sure.
For, yes, I believe the Professor and his friends are ill disposed to my joining their company at the moment. It started with the worst possible misunderstanding when I arrived at the Cinnabar station. My train was late, having been delayed in Livingston, so it was well after dark when I arrived. The ro
ad from the hotel into the Park can be treacherous even in the best of conditions, so it was arranged via telephone message that I would be met at the Cinnabar Hotel in the morning. As promised, a man did arrive first thing and inquired after a “Dr. Bartram.” As the woman at the front desk shuffled through the registrations, I walked up to introduce myself.
“Professor Merriam?” I inquired. The man turned, looked down at me through the palest, most distant eyes I have ever encountered, and then promptly returned his attention to the hotel clerk. I should have had my wits about me and quietly returned to my seat, where I could have waited for the hotel clerk to point me out. But, you know me, I persisted.
I have to tell you that I was diminished by this beast of a man, for a beast he appeared to be, all bundled in hides and reeking so intensely of ill-tanned skins that his fetid odor all but dominated the small smoke-filled lobby. But am I deterred? Not in the least. I reasoned, as only I am capable of doing, that he must have just returned from a long stretch working in the field. So I persisted.
“Professor Merriam?” I asked again, holding out my hand in peaceful offering. “My name is Bartram.”