Early travelers to the area that became Yellowstone National Park depended on the abundant fish in the Yellowstone River watershed to supplement their larders, but they often they went hungry after discovering other streams and lakes were barren. At first, people thought the strange distribution of fish was caused by chemical laden hot springs, but that proved to be wrong. The article describes how scientists unraveled the mystery.
The article also tells about Cornelius Hedges discovery that anglers could catch fish in cold waters and cook them in hot springs without touching them, Lord Blackmore’s fabulous afternoon catching 254 fish, and General W.E. Strong’s thrill at landing his first fish in the park light tackle—a four-pound trout.
The article is accompanied by a slide show of historic images.
Corinne Roosevelt Robinson published a book in 1921 about her memories of her late brother, President Theodore Roosevelt. She described the summer of 1890 when TR acquiesced to requests that he take his family to Yellowstone Park, a place he visited often. Although she praised his geniality and good cheer, Corinne made it clear that TR didn’t like the comforts required by the ladies on the trip and would rather be “roughing it.”
In her book, Corinne included a letter that she sent to her aunt about the trip. She said she decided not to “terrify” her aunt by reporting the seriousness of the injuries TR’s wife, Edith, suffered when she fell off a horse. Here’s an excerpt.
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— Theodore Roosevelt, C. 1895
“We have had a most delightful two weeks’ camping and have enjoyed every moment. The weather has been cloudless, and though the nights were cold, we were only uncomfortable one night. We were all in the best of health and the best of spirits, and ate without a murmur the strange meals of ham, tomatoes, greasy cakes and coffee prepared by our irresistible Chinese cook. Breakfast and dinner were always the same, and lunch was generally bread and cheese carried in our pockets and eaten by the wayside. We have really had great comfort, however, and have enjoyed the pretense of roughing it and the delicious, free, open-air life hugely—and such scenery!
Nothing in my estimation can equal in unique beauty the Yellowstone canyon, the wonderful shapes of the rocks, some like peaks and turrets, others broken in strange fantastic jags, and then the marvelous colors of them all. Pale greens and yellows, vivid reds and orange, salmon pinks and every shade of brown are strewn with a lavish hand over the whole Canyon—and the beautiful Falls are so foamy and white, and leap with such exultation from their rocky ledge 360 feet down.
We had one really exciting ride. We had undertaken too long an expedition, namely, the ascent of Mt. Washburn, and then to Towers’ Falls in one day, during which, to add to the complications, Edith had been thrown and quite badly bruised. We found ourselves at Tower Falls at six o’clock in the evening instead of at lunchtime, and realized we were still sixteen miles from Camp, and a narrow trail only to lead us back, a trail of which our guide was not perfectly sure.
We galloped as long as there was light, but the sun soon set over the wonderful mountains, and although there was a little crescent moon, still, it soon grew very dark and we had to keep close behind each other, single file, and go very carefully as the trail lay along the mountainside. Often we had to traverse dark woods and trust entirely to the horses, who behaved beautifully and stepped carefully over the fallen logs. Twice, Dodge, our guide, lost the trail, and it gave one a very eerie feeling, but he found it again and on we went.
Once at about 11 p.m., Theodore suggested stopping and making a great fire, and waiting until daylight to go on, for he was afraid that we would be tired out, but we all preferred to continue, and about 11:30, to our great joy, we heard the roar of the Falls and suddenly came out on the deep Canyon, looking very wonderful and mysterious in the dim star-light. We reached our Camp after twelve o’clock, having been fifteen hours away from it, thirteen and a half of which we had been in the saddle. It was really an experience.”
It was a hazardous ride and I did not terrify my aunt by some of the incidents such as the severe discomfort suffered by Mrs. Theodore Roosevelt when she was thrown and narrowly escaped a broken back, and when a few hours later my own horse sank in a quicksand and barely recovered himself in time to struggle to terra firma again, not to mention the dangers of the utter darkness when the small, dim crescent moon faded from the horizon.
My brother was the real leader of the cavalcade, for the guide, Ira Dodge, proved singularly incompetent. Theodore kept up our flagging spirits, exhausted as we were by the long rough day in the saddle, and although furious with Dodge because of his ignorance of the trail through which he was supposed to guide us, he still gave us the sense of confidence, which is one’s only hope on such an adventure. Looking back over that camping trip in the Yellowstone, the prominent figure of the whole holiday was, of course, my brother. He was a boy in his tricks and teasing, crawling under the tent flaps at night, pretending to be the unexpected bear, which we always dreaded. He was a real inspiration in his knowledge of the fauna and birds of the vicinity and his willingness to give us the benefit of that knowledge.
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—Corinne Roosevelt Robinson, “The Elkhorn Ranch and Near-Roughing it in Yellowstone Park,” Pages 135-155 in My Brother Theodore Roosevelt, Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1921.
Conrad Kohrs’ trip to Yellowstone Park in 1883 was in many ways typical of those made by Montanans at that time. Travel was by horseback and lodging in tents. The pace was leisurely to allow the horses time to graze and people time to see the sights.
Conrad Kohrs
Kohrs was a very wealthy man who was known as “The Montana Cattle King” in the era of open range. He sold up to 10,000 steers a year. Naturally, his equipment was more elaborate than most. Kohrs himself drove an ambulance, a wagon that the rich used to maximize travel comfort. Unlike a canvass covered wagon, an ambulance had rigid sides and top, windows that could be covered by rolling down shades, and soft springs.
Kohrs had a four-horse team to pull his provision wagon that was loaded with enough equipment and supplies for the seven-week trip. In addition, each member of the party had a personal saddle horse. Kohrs hired a man just to take care of the 18 horses of the entourage.
Like many tourists coming from the west, they went up the Madison River and crossed Raynolds Pass over the continental divide to Henry’s Lake, which Kohrs described in his reminiscence:
“Henry’s Lake was a pretty sight, a fine sheet of water and covered with swan. An old settler living in a small cabin had a few elk and some young swan he was taming and raising. We secured boats from him and had great sport spearing lake trout, of which the lake contained a great many.”
After a few days at Henry’s lake, the party went back over the continental divide via Targhee Pass the Park. Crossing the divide twice made sense then because that’s where the road went. The “old settler” who Kohrs rented boats from probably was Gilman Sawtell, who homesteaded at Henry’s Lake in the 1860s.
Sawtell harvested fish from the lake—up to 40,000 pounds a year. He had to build a road to Virginia City to take them to market. And after the park was designated in 1872, he extended his road to the Lower Geyser Basin
The Kohrs party camped for several days at the Lower Geyser Basin and took side trips on horseback. They spent several days at there before moving on.
Although he didn’t see the Excelsior Geyser in the Middle Geyser Basin play, Korhs described it anyway:
“The largest geyser on Hell’s Half Acre was the Excelsior. This one spouts at long intervals, every two or three years, and then the eruption is terrific and continues many hours. When in the state of acquiescence it emits a roaring noise and makes nearly everyone feel as if the earth would give way under the feet.”
The party camped in the upper geyser basin near old Faithful where they saw what Korhs termed “most of the geysers of any importance.” They had to return to the lower basin to proceed to Yellowstone Lake, because that’s where the only road was. Kohrs said the lake was “a beautiful sight” and noted that the fish were worthless—a fact he erroneously attributed to water from hot springs rather than parasites.
They proceeded to the Falls: “the most majestic and beautiful spot in the park,” according to Kohrs. It snowed while they camped four miles from the Falls so they spent an extra day in camp. After that, they spend several days absorbing “the shading of the canyon.”
Kohrs said:
“As far as camping was concerned, there were no restrictions. Everything was free and easy. There were no government troops stationed at various points, though we realized the need of them as many of the beauties were defaced by the souvenir hunters. This was particularly true of the Monument Geyser Basin, an aggregation of extinct geysers thrown up in fantastic shape and named according to their resemblance to humans and of bird life.”
On their way to Mammoth Hot Springs, they saw so many pools, mud pots and hot springs that they became bored with them and gave Mammoth only a cursory glance.
The party then took the 226-mile trip back to Deer Lodge stopping in Bozeman, Central Park and Butte.
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— Adapted from “A Camping Trip in Yellowstone Park: Aug. 20 – Sept. 12, 1883.” Pp. 77-79 in Conrad Kohrs: An Autobiography.
— Moran painting from Coppermine Photo Gallery; Kohrs photo from Progressive Men of the State of Montana.
Great Springs of the Firehole River by Thomas Moran, 1871.
By the late 1860s enough prospectors’ reports of boiling fountains, deep canyons and glass mountains had accumulated to convince people that there really were things worth seeing on the upper Yellowstone. Several plans for expeditions to document the wonders of the area fizzled because organizers couldn’t recruit enough men to feel safe from Indians. But in 1869 David Folsom, Charles Cook and William Peterson decided that a small group could avoid the hostiles.
These intrepid explorers succeed in finding the canyons, falls, and geysers, but publishers were leery of their stories. Both the New York Tribune and Scriber’s magazine refused to publish an account of the expedition because “they had a reputations that could not risk such unreliable material.” A Chicago based magazine, the Western Monthly, finally published it in July 1870, nearly a year after the trip. The Monthly attributed the story to C.W. Cook.
The account didn’t get wide circulation until nearly 35 years later when it was published by the Montana Historical Society. N.P. Langford, who wrote a preface for the historical society version, attributed it to David E. Folsom. Here’s the Cook/Folsom description of geysers and hot springs.
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We ascended to the head of the lake and remained in its vicinity for several days, resting ourselves and our horses and viewing the many objects of interest and wonder. Among these were springs differing from any we had previously seen. They were situated along the shore for a distance of two miles, extending back from it about five hundred yards and into the lake perhaps as many feet. The ground in many places gradually sloped down to the water’s edge, while in others the white chalky cliffs rose fifteen feet high,, the waves having worn the rock away at the base, leaving the upper portion projecting over in some places twenty feet.
There were several hundred springs here, varying in size from miniature fountains to pools or wells seventy-five feet in diameter and of great depth. The water had a pale violet tinge and was very clear, enabling us to discern small objects fifty or sixty feet below the surface. In some of these, vast openings led off at the side, and as the slanting rays of the sun lit up these deep caverns, we could see the rocks hanging from their roofs, their water-worn sides and rocky floors, almost as plainly as if we had been traversing their silent chambers.
These springs were intermittent, flowing or boiling at irregular intervals. The greater portion of them were perfectly quiet while we were there, although nearly all gave unmistakable evidence of frequent activity. Some of them would quietly settle for ten feet, while another would as quietly rise until it overflowed its banks, and send a torrent of hot water sweeping down to the lake. At the same time, one near at hand would send up a sparkling jet of water ten or twelve feet high, which would fall back into its basin, and then perhaps instantly stop boiling and quietly settle into the earth, or suddenly rise and discharge its waters in every direction over the rim; while another, as if wishing to attract our wondering gaze, would throw up a cone six feet in diameter and eight feet high, with a loud roar.
These changes, each one of which would possess some new feature, were constantly going on; sometimes they would occur within the space of a few minutes, and again hours would elapse before any change could be noted. At the water’s edge, along the lake shore, there were several mounds of solid stone, on the top of each of which was a small basin with a perforated bottom. These also overflowed at times, and the hot water trickled down on every side. Thus, by the slow process of precipitation, through the countless lapse of ages, these stone monuments have been formed. A small cluster of mud springs near by claimed our attention. They were like hollow truncated cones and oblong mounds, three or four feet in height. These were filled with mud, resembling thick paint of the finest quality, differing in color from pure white to the various shades of yellow, pink, red and violet. Some of these boiling pots were less than a foot in diameter. The mud in them would slowly rise and fall, as the bubbles of escaping steam, following one after the other, would burst upon the surface. During the afternoon they threw mud to the height of fifteen feet for a few minutes, and then settled back to their former quietude.
As we were about departing on our homeward trip, we ascended the summit of a neighboring hill and took a final look at Yellowstone Lake. Nestled among the, forest crowned hills which bounded our vision, lay this inland sea, its crystal waves dancing and sparkling in the sunlight as if laughing with joy for their wild freedom. It is a scene of transcendent beauty which has been viewed by but few white men, and we felt glad to have looked upon it before its primeval solitude should be broken by the crowds of pleasure seekers which at no distant day will throng its shores.
September 29th, we took up our march for home. Our plan was to cross the range in a northwesterly direction, find the Madison river, and follow it down to civilization. Twelve miles brought us to a small triangular-shaped lake, about eight miles long, deeply set among the hills. We kept on in a northwesterly direction as near as the rugged nature of the country would permit, and on the third day came to a, small irregularly shaped valley, some six miles across in the widest place, from every part of which great clouds of steam arose. From descriptions which we had had of this valley from persons who had previously visited it, we recognized it as the place known as “Burnt Hole” or “Death Valley.” The Madison river flows through it, and from the general contour of the country we knew that it headed in the lake: which we passed two days ago, only twelve miles from the Yellowstone. We descended into the valley and found that the springs had the same general characteristics as those I have already described, although some of them were much larger and discharged a vast amount of water. One of them, at a little distance, attracted our attention by the immense amount of steam it threw off, and upon approaching it we found it to be an intermittent geyser active operation. The hole through which the water was discharged was ten feet in diameter, and was situated in the center of a large circular shallow basin, into which the water fell. There was a stiff breeze blowing at the time, and by going to the windward side and carefully picking our way over convenient stones, we were enabled to reach the edge of the hole. At that moment the escaping steam was causing the water to boil up in a fountain five or six feet high. It stopped in an instant, and commenced settling down—twenty, thirty, forty feet-until we concluded that the bottom had fallen out, but the next instant, without any warning, it came rushing up and shot into the air at least eighty feet, causing us to stampede for higher ground. It continued to spout at intervals of a few minutes for some time, but finally subsided and was quiet during the remainder of the time we stayed in the vicinity.
We followed up the Madison five miles, and there found the most gigantic hot springs we had seen, They were situated along the river bank, and discharged so much hot water that the river was blood warm a quarter of a mile below. One of the springs was two hundred and fifty feet in diameter, and had every indication of spouting powerfully at times. The waters from the hot springs in this valley, if united, would form a large stream, and they increase the size of the river nearly one half. Although we experienced no bad effects from passing through the “Valley of Death,” yet we were not disposed to dispute the propriety of giving it that name. It seemed to be shunned by all animated nature. There were no fish in the river, no birds in the trees, no animals – not even a track – anywhere to be seen, although in one spring we saw the entire skeleton of a buffalo that had probably fallen in accidentally and been boiled down to soup.
Leaving this remarkable valley, we followed the course of the Madison, sometimes through level valleys, and sometimes through deep cuts in mountain ranges, and on the fourth of October emerged from a canyon, ten miles long with high and precipitous mountain sides, to find the broad valley of the Lower Madison spread out before us. Here we could recognize familiar landmarks in some of the mountain peaks around Virginia City. From this point we completed our journey by easy stages, and arrived at home on the evening of the eleventh. We had been absent thirty-six days – a much longer time than our friends had anticipated and we found that they were seriously contemplating organizing a party to go in search of us.
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— Excerpt from C. W. Cook , “The Valley of the Upper Yellowstone,” The Western Monthly 4(19)60-67 (July 1870).
The Army assigned Lieutenant Gustavus Doane to led an army escort for the famous Washburn expedition that explored the upper Yellowstone in 1870. Doane’s official report was one of several well-written accounts of the expedition, which thrust the wonders of the area into public awareness and helped get it declared a national park. Here’s Doane’s description of going to the bottom of Yellowstone Canyon.
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Yellowstone Canyon
Selecting the channel of a small creek, and leaving the horses, I followed it down on foot, wading in the bed of the stream, which fell off at an angle about 30°, between walls of the gypsum. Private McConnell accompanied me. On entering the ravine, we came at once to hot springs of sulphur, sulphate of copper, alum, steam jets, &c., in endless variety, some of them of very peculiar form. One of them in particular, of sulphur, had built up a tall spire from the slope of the wall, standing out like an enormous horn, with hot water trickling down its sides. The creek ran on a bed of solid rock, in many places smooth and slippery, in other obstructed by masses of debris formed from the overhanging cliffs of the sulphereted limestone above.
After descending for three miles in the channel, we came to a sort of bench or terrace, the same one seen previously in following down the creek from our first camp in the basin. Here we found a large flock of mountain sheep, very tame, and greatly astonished, no doubt, at our sudden appearance. McConnell killed one and wounded another, whereupon the rest disappeared, clambering up the steep walls with a celerity truly astonishing. We were now 1,500 feet below the brink. From here the creek channel was more precipitous, and for a mile we climbed downward over masses of rock and fallen trees, splashing in warm water, ducking under cascades, and skirting close against sideling places to keep from falling into boiling caldrons in the channel.
After four hours of hard labor since leaving the horses, we finally reached the bottom of the gulf and the margin of the Yellowstone, famished with thirst, wet and exhausted. The river water here is quite warm and of a villainously alum and sulphurous taste. Its margin is lined with all kinds of chemical springs, some depositing craters of calcareous rock, others muddy, black, blue, slaty, or reddish water. The internal heat renders the atmosphere oppressive, though a strong breeze draws through the canyon. A frying sound comes constantly to the ear, mingled with the rush of the current. The place abounds with sickening and purgatorial smells.
We had come down the ravine at least four miles, and looking upward the fearful wall appeared to reach the sky. It was about 3 o’clock p.m., and stars could be distinctly seen, so much of the sunlight was cut off from entering the chasm. Tall pines on the extreme verge appeared the height of two or three feet. The canyon, as before said, was in two benches, with a plateau on either side, about half way down. This plateau, about a hundred yards in width, looked from below like a mere shelf against the wall; the total depth was not less than 2,500 feet, and more probably 3,000. There are perhaps other canons longer and deeper than this one, but surely none combining grandeur and immensity with peculiarity of formation and profusion of volcanic or chemical phenomena.
Returning to the summit, we were five hours reaching our horses, by which time darkness had set in, and we were without a trail, in the dense forest, having fallen timber to evade and treacherous marshes to cross on our way to camp. I knew the general direction, however, and took a straight course, using great caution in threading the marshes, wherein our horses sank in up to their bodies nevertheless. Fortune favored us, and we arrived in camp at 11 o’clock at night, wet and chilled to the bone.
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— Excerpt adapted from the Report of Lieutenant Gustavus C. Doan upon the So-called Yellowstone Expedition of 1870. Washington D.C.: U.S. Government Printing Office, 1871.
— Image from the Coppermine Photo Gallery.
— For other tales from the Washburn Expedition, click on “Washburn” under the “Categories” button to the left.
By the dawn of the Twentieth Century, watching the antics of bears at hotel garbage dumps became one of the most popular activities in Yellowstone Park. Here’s a colorful description.
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The transportation company’s stages had emptied their loads of dust covered sightseers at the open doors of the Fountain House, and the ink on the register was not yet dry wherewith the newcomers had written their names, when the Fountain geyser began to grumble, hiss and send up clouds of steam, promising an early eruption. Following suit, all the finger holes and cracks in the formation, the hot springs and the baby geysers shot out jets of steam. The Mammoth Paint Pot began to plop, plop, plop! And throw up gobs of pink, white and yellow mud into the air from its bowl full of scalding clay. All this hubbub was a vain attempt to attract the tourist attention.
The Dante’s Inferno in front of the hotel might have saved its steam and sulpher for another occasion, as it was unnoticed by the guests. The new arrivals were following the layovers in a stampede for the garbage heap on the white geyserite formation back of the house. Suddenly the crowd came to a halt.
“Gee!” exclaimed a small boy, as he pushed the button on his Kodak.
“Waught! Waugh! Shouted the pilgrims from Medicine Hat and Rat Portage.
“Hey! May be rubberneck, what?” laughed the man from Moose Jaw.
‘Say! She’s a tough proposition, an’ she wears the straps all right,” cried the guide; while the doctor from Chicago, the broker from New York, the office holder from Ohio, the colonel from Kentucky and the dude from Honolulu all clapped their hands with delight.
Having dumped its load of table leavings and tin cans the hotel garbage wagon was rumbling back over the formation to the stables, but it was not the wagon, team, driver or load of food scraps which called forth the applause and exclamations of pleasure from the guests of the Fountain House; it was nine great black bears that interested us.
To the delight of the spectators, the bears had given a short exhibition of their skills as boxers. It was a hot fight; but it did not last long. In fact, it was a mistake in the first place; an impromptu affair not down on the menu. This is the way it happened.
A long legged cinnamon bear snatched the remains of some ribs of beef from under the nose of a big mother black bear at the moment she was calling her two little cubs to partake of the roast. A benevolent looking bruin, with a glossy black coat covering rotund body, was busily engaged in pawing over the garbage near by, when the indignant mother lifted her paw for a swinging blow, missed the culprit and landed with a resounding swat on the jowl of her benevolent appearing neighbor.
“Ough-oo-oo-ee-ee-eah!” cried Fatty, in a rage, as he rose on his hind legs and let go at the solar plexus of Old Spot. He had gained his name by breaking through the crust near the Paint Pot and covered on black wide with white mud. Spot’s temper had be none of the best since that day, and in less time than it takes to tell it, he let fly with his left and right at his nearest neighbor, and it became a free-for-all fight accompanied by a continued ought-oo-eahing in various keys.
During the melee the cinnamon bear who caused the riot was quietly eating the remains of the roast beef, gnawing the bones within 10 feet of the gallant Kentucky colonel, to the latter’s great amusement.
Although nearly all the men present had cameras, only women and children took advantage of the sunlight and clear sky to photograph the scrapping bears. The sport-loving men stood around in a semicircle, with pleased grins on their faces, too much engaged in applauding the hairy gladiators to waste a thought on the black boxes under their arms.
Scarcely had the women and children time to wind up their films when the brown bear, elated over his former success, made another attempt to slip up unobserved to the garbage pile. To the casual onlooker it would appear that the black bears were all too busy seeking their own dinner to heed the brown’s approach; but a close observer could not fail to notice that the beadlike eyes of the blacks were keenly alert. No sooner did Brownie come within reach than biff! biff! biff! came the great black paws on his unprotected head.
An elderly spinster, who seemed deeply interested in the zoological show, stood within 15 feet of the feeding brutes and directly in front of the cinnamon bear, when, with open mouth, it made a dash for safety. With a quick movement the frightened spinster gathered up her skirts, there was a flash of white petticoats, a twinkling of feet, and she was gone, never once looking back until she slammed the hotel door behind her.
The astonishingly rapid gait at which the terror stricken lady made her 100-yard dash called forth the wildest enthusiasm from the spectators, and the colonel pushed the button of his pocket camera three times without once winding up the film.
Of course, the brown bear turned aside into the woods the moment he was out of reach of the powerful blows of his relatives, but it was of no use telling that to the spinster. She will always believe that the brute followed her to the hotel door.
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— Text and image from Dan Beard, “A Bear Fight in the Yellowstone Park,” Recreation 18(2):85-87 (February 1903).
American bison once numbered 30 million or more, but by the middle of the 1880’s commercial hunters had decimated the herds that once darkened the prairies. But the fact that bison were nearing extinction didn’t deter sportsmen from pursuing the thrill of killing one of the magnificent animals.
Even Theodore Roosevelt, who is renowned for his role in the American conservation movement and environment preservation, could not resist the temptation of bison hunting. Here’s how he described the experience.
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In the fall of 1889 I heard that a very few bison were still left around the head of Wisdom River. Thither I went and hunted faithfully; there was plenty of game of other kind, but of bison not a trace did we see. Nevertheless a few days later that same year I came across these great wild cattle at a time when I had no idea of seeing them.
We had gone out to find moose, but had seen no sign of them, and had then begun to climb over the higher peaks with an idea of getting sheep. The old hunter who was with me was, very fortunately, suffering from rheumatism, and he therefore carried a long staff instead of his rifle; I say fortunately, for if he had carried his rifle it would have been impossible to stop his firing at such game as bison, nor would he have spared the cows and calves.
About the middle of the afternoon we crossed a low, rocky ridge, above timber line, and saw at our feet a basin or round valley of singular beauty. The ground rose in a pass evidently much frequented by game in bygone days, their trails lying along it in thick zigzags, each gradually fading out after a few hundred yards, and then starting again in a little different place, as game trails so often seem to do.
We bent our steps toward these trails, and no sooner had we reached the first than the old hunter bent over it with a sharp exclamation of wonder. There in the dust were the unmistakable hoof-marks of a small band of bison, apparently but a few hours old. There had been half a dozen animals in the party; one a big bull, and two calves.
We immediately turned and followed the trail. It led down to the little lake, where the beasts had spread and grazed on the tender, green blades, and had drunk their fill. The footprints then came together again, showing where the animals had gathered and walked off in single file to the forest
It was a very still day, and there were nearly three hours of daylight left. Without a word my silent companion, who had been scanning the whole country with hawk-eyed eagerness, besides scrutinizing the sign on his hands and knees, took the trail, motioning me to follow. In a moment we entered the woods, breathing a sigh of relief as we did so; for while in the meadow we could never tell that the buffalo might not see us, if they happened to be lying in some place with a commanding lookout.
The old hunter was thoroughly roused, and he showed himself a very skilful tracker. We were much favored by the character of the forest, which was rather open, and in most places free from undergrowth and down timber. The ground was covered with pine needles and soft moss, so that it was not difficult to walk noiselessly. Once or twice when I trod on a small dry twig, or let the nails in my shoes clink slightly against a stone, the hunter turned to me with a frown of angry impatience; but as he walked slowly, continually halting to look ahead, as well as stooping over to examine the trail, I did not find it very difficult to move silently.
At last, we saw a movement among the young trees not fifty yards away. Peering through the safe shelter yielded by some thick evergreen bushes, we speedily made out three bison, a cow, a calf, and a yearling. Soon another cow and calf stepped out after them. I did not wish to shoot, waiting for the appearance of the big bull which I knew was accompanying them.
So for several minutes I watched the great, clumsy, shaggy beasts, as all unconscious they grazed in the open glade. Mixed with the eager excitement of the hunter was a certain half melancholy feeling as I gazed on these bison, themselves part of the last remnant of a doomed and nearly vanished race. Few, indeed, are the men who now have, or ever more shall have, the chance of seeing the mightiest of American beasts, in all his wild vigor, surrounded by the tremendous desolation of his far-off mountain home.
At last, when I had begun to grow very anxious lest the others should take alarm, the bull likewise appeared on the edge of the glade, and stood with outstretched head, scratching his throat against a young tree, which shook violently. I aimed low, behind his shoulder, and pulled trigger. At the crack of the rifle all the bison, without the momentary halt of terror-struck surprise so common among game, turned and raced off at headlong speed.
The fringe of young pines beyond and below the glade cracked and swayed as if a whirlwind were passing, and in another moment they reached the top of a very steep incline, thickly strewn with boulders and dead timber. Down this they plunged with reckless speed; their surefootedness was a marvel in such seemingly unwieldy beasts. A column of dust obscured their passage, and under its cover they disappeared in the forest; but the trail of the bull was marked by splashes of frothy blood, and we followed it at a trot.
Fifty yards beyond the border of the forest we found the stark black body stretched motionless. He was a splendid old bull, still in his full vigor, with large, sharp horns, and heavy mane and glossy coat; and I felt the most exulting pride as I handled and examined him; for I had procured a trophy such as can fall henceforth to few hunters indeed.
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— Abridged from Theodore Roosevelt. “The Bison or American Buffalo,” pages 3-36 in Hunting the Grisly and Other Sketchs. New York: The Review of Reviews Company, 1915.
— Photo from Wikipedia Commons.
— For more stories about hunting in or near Yellowstone Park, click on “hunting” under “Categories” to the left.
I love Montana’s many small museums because the do such a good job of preserving history and promoting community spirit. I’m looking forward to presenting “Sidesaddles and Geysers” Saturday, May 19, at the Jefferson County Museum in Clancy. I’ve been there before and I plan to arrive early so I can see the wonderful exhibits.
I’ll begin my presentation, which is supported by Humanities Montana, with stories my grandmother used to tell me about her trip to Yellowstone Park in 1909. I built a “stone soup story” around that trip for my presentation at the Sheridan, MT, Public Library a couple of weeks ago. You can read about that here.
Then I’ll tell stories about the first women to visit Yellowstone Park. These brave ladies literally rode sidesaddle through the then roadless wilderness in the 1870’s. One of the most chilling stories is Emma Cowan’s tale of being captured by Indians in the Park. Emma and her family went there in the summer of 1877, the year the Nez Perce fled the homeland in hopes of finding freedom in Canada.
Emma wrote a gripping account of watching Indians shoot her husband, George, in the head, and, leaving him for dead, and then taking her and her sister and brother captive. After the Nez Perce release the trio, Emma made her way home where she awaited word of her husband’s fate. Word finally arrived that George was alive, but Emma didn’t know if the army would send him to Virginia City or Bozeman, so she waited near the telegraph office in Helena to find out. As soon Emma heard that George was being taken to Bozeman, she rented a wagon and set out to meet him.
For my presentation in Clancy, I’ll read the account I wrote about Emma’s epic ride to be by George’s side for my upcoming book, Encounters in Yellowstone. Emma traveled 175 miles over rough roads in 31 hours, a trip that generally took four days.
Then I’ll slow the pace with a different kind of adventure: Eleanor Corthell’s account of her 1903 trip to Yellowstone Park. By then roads were good and there was no danger from Indians, but Eleanor still had plenty to deal with while she watched her seven children frolic near geysers and drove bears from her camp.
I’ll end the presentation with a bit of humor, Louise Elliott’s story of how a camp assistant for a tour company gets even with a supercilious guest who has been making her life miserable.
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— Photo from the Jefferson County Museum Web Site.
Ben Stone was an African American hired to cook for a group of men from Helena who toured Yellowstone in August 1877, the year the Nez Perce passed through there. The Helena Party fought a couple of gun battles with Nez Perce scouts. Leaving the body of one of their companions behind, several members party made their way to Mammoth Hot Springs where there was an incipient resort.
When two young men failed to show up at Mammoth, two others went to search for them, leaving Stone, a music teacher named Dietrich, and a wounded man named Stewart to wait for a ride. Here’s how Stone described what happened then.
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No more of our party, having shown up in the three days after arriving at the Springs, we were alarmed about them, and Andy Weikert concluded to go and see if he could find anything of them. James McCartney, proprietor of the Mammoth Hot Springs, kindly volunteered to go with him.
The next day after they left an ambulance arrived to take Stewart, Dietrich, and myself to Bozeman. The boys with the ambulance begged Dietrich to go with them, but he said, with tears in his eyes, “My God! What will Mrs. Roberts say if I go and leave Joe?” Through my inducement he came. “What shall I say when I meet his mother, when she asks me where Joe is?”
Dietrich and I concluded to remain until we heard from Weikert and McCartney. If Joe or any of the rest of the party were brought in, we wished to be there to care for them, in case they were wounded. One of the party, with the ambulance (Jake Stoner), remained with us.
Dietrich and Stoner went down to Gardiner’s River fishing, not returning until three in the afternoon, leaving me to keep house alone at the Springs. After they returned, I cooked dinner and, after eating, Dietrich and I concluded to go up and take a bath. Stoner said he would go along to look at the Springs, and took his gun with him, as he said, “To knock over a grouse, as grub was getting scarce.”
After taking our bath and drinking some of the water out of the Hot Springs, we went back to the house.
Dietrich said: “I’ll go down and water and stake the mare for the night.
“All right,” I answered, “and while you’re gone, I’ll keep house.
Taking a seat in the doorway, I felt uneasy. On glancing towards the Springs, I saw Jake Stoner running to the house. I smilingly asked him if he had caught any grouse.
He said: “No, but I’ve caught something else.”
I inquired of him what he had caught, when he said that, while up on top of the Springs, he had caught sight of a large party coming this way.
I replied: “You did! That must be white men. How many did you see?”
“I saw two parties, with about ten persons in each nearly forty yards apart, and traveling very slowly.”
I said: “They must be white men. Andy and McCartney have found the boys, and are bringing them in. Of course, they are wounded, and have to travel slowly. I’ll go in the house, make a fire, and have grub ready for the boys by the time they get here.
“No,” said Jake: “don’t do that. We had better cache ourselves in the timber until we know whether they are white men or not.”
I replied: “That’s a good idea—we’ll do that.”
He then asked for Dietrich, saying, “I’ll warn him, so he can take to timber too.”
I told him where Dietrich was, and he went down the flat towards him. I started up the gulch to cache myself. After advancing twenty-five or thirty yards, I took to the timber on my right, and went up in it to a point of rocks overlooking the house, and where I could see both trails approaching the house. After waiting there fifteen or twenty minutes, and the parties not coming, I began to think the boys were a long time coming. Looked out, but could not see anything.
Sat down and waited ten minutes—nothing in sight. I exposed myself in trying to find out if the parties were coming. When I got to where I could see, I descried an object in the distance, in what appeared to be a long white blanket. He dodged around out of sight, as if intending to go behind the Springs. Another appeared closer to me, in what also appeared to be a blanket. He dodged around in the same manner as the former one.
Another soon appeared. I had no doubt that he was an Indian, and I said to myself: “Mr. Stone, it’s about time you were traveling!” I “lit out” for timber about one hundred yards up the gulch. While I was waiting to see who were coming, the Indians had worked around and got into the gulch I had to go up, and get to the timber. I had to go within five or six yards of them through the brush. Moving as fast and cautiously as I could, I accidentally stepped on a piece of dead brush, which broke with a loud crash. Some of the Indians heard and one made for me. I then moved very fast, for I knew I had to work for my life, if I did not get to timber soon, I was a dead man.
In a few moments, I found that the Indian would cut me off, as from the crash of breaking twigs I knew he was close to me. I thought I was a dead man, sure, and said: “My God! What shall I do!” Just then, I chanced to run under a tree, with low branches. I took hold of the branches and hoisted myself in, without any expectation of saving my life. I had no more than got into the tree, before an Indian on horseback dashed under it, gazing in every direction for me, and seeming surprised at not seeing the object that made the noise.
After going about ten yards, he stopped his horse, raised his gun up on his arm, and listened for an instant. He then went through an opening out of sight.
I now considered myself perfectly safe, but remained in the tree about two hours.
While in the tree I heard several shots at the house, and saw they had made fires there. Suppose they had burned the buildings.
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After the Indians left, Stone decided to make for a ranch north of the Park. On the way, he met a group of soldiers who were pursuing the Indians. Later he learned that the Indians had killed Dietrich and other members of the party were safe.
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— Abridged from “Two Narrow Escapes from the Clutches of the Red Devils in 1877: His Own Story Told by Benjamin Stone.” The Avant Courier, Bozeman, September 6, 1877.
At the end of the Nineteenth Century, the bicycle was being touted as a great innovation in transportation. An army tour of Yellowstone Park was the ultimate test of their versatility and durability.
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Fort Missoula, Mont.
Oct. 15, 1896.
Messrs A G. SPALDINC & BROS.
Gentlemen:
In testing the practicability of the bicycle for military purposes in a mountainous country, the Twenty-fifth U.S. Infantry Bicycle Corps, consisting of eight soldiers commanded by myself, has used Spalding Bicycles exclusively. In making our experiments we have ridden about 1,400 miles, the greater part being over some of the worst roads in the United States. On our 800-mile trip to Yellowstone Park, the Main Divide over the Rocky Mountains was crossed twice, the first time over “The Summit, near the Mullan Tunnel, and the second time over the old Mullan Stage Line, now little more than a mere trail, and without doubt one of the worst roads in this country.
As it was our object to thoroughly test the matter under all possible conditions we made and broke camp in the rain; we traveled through mud, water, sand, dust, over rocks, ruts, etc.; we crossed and re-crossed mountain ranges and forded streams, carrying our rations, rifles, ammunition, tents, blankets, extra underwear, medicine, tools, repairing material, cooking utensils and extra bicycle parts. The heaviest bicycle, packed, weighed 86 lbs., and the rider 186 lbs.; total. 272 lbs. The lightest bicycle, packed, weighed 67 lbs., and the rider 135 lbs.; total, 202 lbs. The average weight of the bicycles, packed, was 79.7 lbs.*, the riders, 157.4 lbs.; the bicycles and riders, 237.1 lbs.
The test was of a most severe nature, and it affords me great pleasure to be able to state the bicycles stood the work extraordinarily well, and are without doubt very fine machines.
Very truly yours,
JAMES A. MOSS,
Second Lieutenant Twenty-fifth U. S. Infantry, Commander Twenty-fifth V. S. Infantry Bicycle Corps.
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— This advertisment appeared in League of American Wheelmen Bulletin and Good Roads. January 29, 1897. 25(5):121.
Early travelers to the area that became Yellowstone National Park depended on the abundant fish in the Yellowstone River watershed to supplement their larders, but they often they went hungry after discovering other streams and lakes were barren. At first, people thought the strange distribution of fish was caused by chemical laden hot springs, but that proved to be wrong. The article describes how scientists unraveled the mystery.
The transportation company’s stages had emptied their loads of dust covered sightseers at the open doors of the Fountain House, and the ink on the register was not yet dry wherewith the newcomers had written their names, when the Fountain geyser began to grumble, hiss and send up clouds of steam, promising an early eruption. Following suit, all the finger holes and cracks in the formation, the hot springs and the baby geysers shot out jets of steam. The Mammoth Paint Pot began to plop, plop, plop! And throw up gobs of pink, white and yellow mud into the air from its bowl full of scalding clay. All this hubbub was a vain attempt to attract the tourist attention.
I’ll begin my presentation, which is supported by Humanities Montana, with stories my grandmother used to tell me about her trip to Yellowstone Park in 1909. I built a “stone soup story” around that trip for my presentation at the Sheridan, MT, Public Library a couple of weeks ago. You can read about that 
At the end of the Nineteenth Century, the bicycle was being touted as a great innovation in transportation. An army tour of Yellowstone Park was the ultimate test of their versatility and durability.
M. Mark Miller, Author 