M. Mark Miller, Author

Category: Yellowstone Stories

  • A Tale: Gilman Sawtell, Yellowstone’s First Commericial Guide

    On Friday afternoon, while I was doing my usual shift as a volunteer at the Pioneer Museum of Bozeman, I saw that the new edition of the Pioneer Museum Quarterly was out.  Of course, I immediately went through it to look at my article on Gillman Sawtell.  It’s a companion piece to the one I published last summer on Fred Bottler.

    Sawtell's buildings at Henry's Lake.

    Sawtell and Bottler were pioneer ranchmen who in the 1860s staked out claims on the edges of what was to become Yellowstone Park—Bottler in the Paradise Valley north of the park, Sawtell at Henry’s Lake to the west.  Their ranches became stopping points for early Yellowstone explorers and tourists and both were park guides.  Here’s a excerpt from the Quarterly article on Sawtell.

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    Sawtell staked his claim on the northwest edge of Henrys Lake and launched a group of enterprises that included ranching, commercial hunting and guiding tourists.

    Sawtell’s main business was harvesting and selling fish, as many as 40,000 of them a year. He reportedly caught as many as 160 trout an hour, averaging two and a half pounds each, with a hook and line. In winter when the lake froze over, springs kept open a small area near Sawtell’s compound. Fish swarmed the open water and Sawtell harvested them with a spear.

    Sawtell sawed blocks of ice from the lake in winter and stored them packed in sawdust in a sturdy thick-walled icehouse he built of logs. He stored his catch in the icehouse until he had enough to fill his wagon. As late as 1896, Sawtell was hauling fish to Monida where they were loaded into railroad cars for sale in Butte and Ogden, Utah.

    While launching his enterprises, Sawtell built a veritable village. He had six sturdy log buildings: a residence, a blacksmith shop, a stable, a storage shed for hides and game, and his icehouse. He apparently had guests in mind when he built the compound. His whitewashed house was big enough to accommodate 20 people and had numerous bedsteads, stools, and tables. He kept enough stoneware to serve that many.

    Sawtell kept tamed antelope and elk at his ranch. In 1871, he used a rowboat to run down several baby swans. He raised the signets until they were big enough to travel (about the size of domestic geese) and shipped them to New York City for Central Park.

    In 1871, Sawtell guided a group of men from Virginia City and Deer Lodge on a tour that covered the geyser basins, Yellowstone Lake, and the Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone. Because of this trip, Sawtell is credited with being the first commercial Yellowstone guide.

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    —Excerpt from M. Mark Miller, “Gilman Sawtell: Yellowstone Pioneer at Henry’s Lake,” Pioneer Museum Quarterly, Winter 2012, pp. 13-15.

    —  You can read the rest of my article about Gilman Sawtell by buying a copy of the Quarterly at the Pioneer Museum of Bozeman.  Better stil, join the Gallatin Historical Society and get a free subscription.

    — You might also enjoy my story about Fred Bottler, who settled in the Paradise Valley north of Yellowstone Park in 1867.

    — Detail from an 1872 William Henry Jackson photo.

  • A Tale: A Lady’s Visit To The Geysers Of The Yellowstone Park — HWS 1880 (Part 1)

    When I find long pieces on early travel to Yellowstone Park, I usually look for a excerpt or two to post on my blog. But when I examined “A Lady’s Visits To The Geysers of Yellowstone Park,” I couldn’t find short piece that stood out.

    Utah and Northern Bridge, Idaho Falls, 1880.

    In fact, the whole thing struck me as a charming account that deserved wide circulation. Also, since it’s getting harder to find items, I decided to post it in sections.

    The magazine that published the article identifies its author only as HWS, and she reveals few details about herself, just that she was a stout lady in her 50s who had two daughters.

    We know that HWS was adventurous because she took her trip at a time when getting to Yellowstone Park required a long horseback or stagecoach ride. Also, road building was just beginning in Yellowstone Park so HWS knew she would have to ride a horse when she was there.

    In part 1 or her story, HWS describes preparations for her Yellowstone adventure and the trip from Ogden, Utah, to Camas, Idaho, on the Utah and Northern Railroad. By 1883, thousands would take the train to Yellowstone Park and cross it in comfortable coaches. But in 1881, when HWS went there, it was still a remote wilderness with only a few primitive roads.

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    In the summer of 1880, while traveling in California, we conceived the idea of taking a trip the following year to the National Yellowstone Park. Our party consisted of myself and three children, two young collegians, two gentlemen from Philadelphia, and a young cousin. As we had learned that our journey would have to be largely made on horseback, we condensed our baggage as much as possible, and packed it in some admirable canvas saddlebags we found in an outlying store at Salt Lake. Our “proud clothes” we left in Ogden to be picked up on our return.

    During our previous camping-out trip in Colorado, we had discovered that an oval hole dug for the hips relieved the strain on the body, and made even the hard earth quite bearable. And if to this was added a small pillow to place under the back or side, it became luxurious! We therefore purchased pillows at Salt Lake, and I supplied myself with a private trowel to carry in my own knapsack for these digging purposes. The three ladies of the party (myself and my two daughters) wore short flannel suits, with Turkish trousers. The gentlemen wore flannel shirts, and winter coats and pants, with brown duck overalls for protection from rents and holes. These latter garments were bought at my especial request, as I strongly objected to the risk of spending all my spare time in mending.

    On July 27th we started for Camas on the little narrow gauge railroad, our road lying through the dreariest of all dreary alkali plains. As far as the eye could reach, there was nothing to be seen but the burning sand and the sad gray sagebrush, which is the only thing that will grow upon it. Prairie the people called it, but desert it is, and desert it used to be called, I am sure, in the geographies of my childhood. I remember well how I used to be interested and excited in those far off days with the vague | descriptions given us of this mysterious I “Great American Desert,” and how I used to long to penetrate its dreary wastes, but never hoped to have such good fortune bestowed upon me.

    And now here I found myself, feeling as natural and almost as much at home as on a New Jersey sand-flat, and could hardly wonder how it came about. I believe it is the tin cans that have done it—tin cans and Yankee push and grit, but chiefly tin cans, for without them I do not see how these deserts could have been traversed or settled. The altitudes are so high, and the nights so cold, and the water so scarce, that nothing fit to eat grows naturally, and very little can be raised artificially, and therefore if it had not been for the ease of carrying food in these cans, civilization would, it seems to me, have met with an impassible barrier in these desert plains.

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    — From H. W. S., “A Lady’s Visit To The Geysers Of The Yellowstone Park.” Friends Intelligencer May 19, 1883. Pages 218-221, and May 27, Pages 234-237.

    — Image from Widipedia Commons.

    — In Part 2: HWS describes the trials and tribulations of traveling across Idaho to the edge of Yellowstone National Park with a pack train.

  • A Tale: First Report of Cooking Live Fish in a Hot Spring — Hedges, 1870.

    Many early Yellowstone travelers describe places like the Fishing Cone where anglers could catch a fish in cool water and then cook it in a nearby hot spring without taking it off the hook. In fact, Philetus Norris, the park’s second superintendent, used to demonstrate the feat for the amusement of tourists.

    The earliest written description of cooking live fish in a hot spring was written by Cornelius Hedges, a member of the famous Washburn expedition of 1870. Here’s Hedges’ description of how he accidentally discovered the trick.

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    My individual taste led me to fishing, and I venture that none of the party dared to complain they did not have all the fine trout that there several appetites and capacities could provide storage for. Indeed, I felt in gratitude bound to hear testimony that for fine fish, and solid, satisfying fun, there is no body of water under the sun more attractive to the ambitious fisherman than Yellowstone Lake.

    While upon the subject of fishing, allow me to relate one or two instances of personal experience. One day, after the loss of one of our comrade, when rations were getting short, I was deputed to lay in a stock of fish to eke our scanty larder on our homeward journey.

    Proud of this tribute to my piscatory skill, I endeavored under some difficulties, to justify the expectations of my companions, and in about two hours, while the waves were comparatively quiet, I strewed the beach with about 50 beauties, not one of which would weight less than 2 pounds, while the average weight was about 3 pounds.

    Another incident, illustrative of the proximity of hot springs rather than of trouting: Near the southwest corner of the lake is a large basin of exceedingly hot springs. Some are in the very margin of the lake, while others rise under the lake and indicate their locations by steam and ebullition upon the lake’s surface when the waves are not too uneasy. One spring of large size, unfathomable depth, sending out a continuous stream of at least 50 inches of scalding water, is still separated from the cool water of the lake by a rocky partition not more than a foot thick in places.

    I returned to the narrow rim of this partitian and catching sight of some expectant trout lying in easy reach, I solicited their attention to a transfixed grasshopper, and meeting an early and energetic response, I attempted to land my prize beyond the spring, but unfortunately for the fish, he escaped the hook to plunge into this boiling spring.

    As soon as possible, I relieved the agonized creature by throwing him out with my pole, and although his contortions were not fully ended, his skin came off and he had all the appearance of being boiled through. The incident, though excusable as an incident, was too shocking to repeat.

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    — Cornelius Hedges, “Yellowstone Lake,” Helena Daily Herald, November 9, 1970.

    — Illustration from William Cullen Bryant (ed.), Picturesque America. New York: Appleton, 1872. 1:302.

    — You also might enjoy Henry J. Winser’s story about “Cooking Fish on the Hook in a Hot Spring.”

    — For more stories about fishing, click “Fishing” under the Categories button to the left.

  • A Tale: The Army Protects Theodore Roosevelt From Snooping Reporter — 1903

    Guard Mount at Fort Yellowstone

    When the U.S. congress established Yellowstone National Park in 1872, they put a civilian staff  in charge, but failed to appropriate enough money for the job of protecting it. Poachers decimated wildlife; collectors vandalized natural features and monopolists gouged travelers. Things became so bad by 1886 that the U.S. Army was asked to step in. It ran the park until 1918 when the National Park Service took over.

    By all accounts, the Army was diligent and left its mark in ways ranging from the shape of rangers’ hats to Grand Loop pattern of roadways. Here’s a story that describes how effective they were when they were asked to protect President Theodore Roosevelt when he visited Yellowstone in 1903.

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    An incident that occurred during President Roosevelt’s recent visit proves the exceedingly careful manner in which the Park is guarded. When Mr. Roosevelt made it known that his object in entering the Yellowstone Park was to secure several days of complete privacy, and that he did not want any one aside from Major Pitcher and the picked escort to accompany him, a certain correspondent representing a New York daily, who had been ordered to be on hand in case of any accident to the President or other emergency of National importance, resolved to ignore the President’s request and to follow him at all hazards.

    With this object in view, he attempted to bribe some of the native population, but without success. Not disheartened by his failure to secure a friendly companion and guide, the correspondent hired a horse and persuaded a stray dog to accompany him. This was on the afternoon of the President’s arrival at Fort Yellowstone. The Fort is ten miles from Gardiner, where the rest of the correspondents and the President’s party had stopped.

    The recreant correspondent set forth in high glee at the possibility of working a “beat” on his fellow-craftsmen. As he rode along through the leafy lanes and past the towering cliffs, which in part line the road to the Springs, he felt very well satisfied with himself, and chuckled at the ease with which he had evaded the guards stationed near Gardiner. Suddenly, as he was entering a particularly dark part of a forest, he heard a voice from the brush on the right.

    “Theodore Jones,” it said slowly and in unmistakable authoritative tones. “Theodore Jones!”

    The correspondent reined up his horse in amazement. Who was it calling his name? Had he been followed from Gardiner? If so, why did the voice come from the bushes and evidently some distance from the road?

    “Hello !” he shouted, in reply.

    There was no answer. He called again and again, but without result. Then he put spurs to his horse and rode on. Half a mile further down the road, just as he was passing through another bit of woodland, a deep voice called out seemingly at his very elbow:

    “Theodore Jones ! Theodore Jones-s-s ! Better go back.”

    For one moment, the newspaperman hesitated, then he rode resolutely forward. He felt that he was being tricked, but he intended to see the game out. He was a bit nervous because he realized that his course of action was not entirely honorable, and it was with something very like relief that he espied at a turn in the road a United States trooper sitting with horse blocking the path and a rifle slung carelessly across the pommel of his saddle.

    “Haiti” called out the soldier. “Mr. Jones, you are wanted at Headquarters.”

    “How do you know my name is Jones?” demanded the correspondent.

    The trooper smiled as if the question was a joke. Placing one hand upon the correspondent’s bridle, he led him without further words to Fort Yellowstone. A technical charge of unlawfully bringing a dog into the reservation was entered against Mr. Jones, but he was released on his promise not to enter the Park again until the President’s return. The incident had its value in showing the extreme care taken by the Park’s guardians in keeping out unwelcome visitors. The correspondent’s errand was known at Headquarters before he had crossed the line.

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    — From Henry Harrison Lewis, “Managing a National Park.” The Outlook 74(18)1036-40. (Aug. 29, 1903).

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    — Detail from Coppermine Gallery Photo.

  • An Event: Getting Ready to Launch 2012 at Old Faithful Snow Lodge

    Castle Geyser in Winter

    I spent the day preparing for my presentations on January 1 and 2 at the Old Faithful Inn Snow Lodge. I’ll be at the visitor center gift shop on both days from 7 to 9 p.m. to do readings and sign copies of my book, Adventures in Yellowstone: Early Travelers Tell Their Tales.

    I could have just marked a few selections in Adventures and been done with it, but I prefer to do a unique presentation every time I speak. That motivates me to re-examine my collection of stories about early travel to Yellowstone Park and lets people see my presentations more than once without a lot of repetition. That’s really important this time because I’m on for two nights in a row.

    I’ll begin both nights by introducing myself and explaining how I became interested in early travel to Yellowstone Park. That gives me an excuse to recount the stories my grandmother told me when I was a little boy. Grandma went to the park in 1909 with her aunt, seven cousins and two brothers. Family lore says they took a milk cow with them to provide for the younger children.

    Then I’ll tell stories that explore snow and cold weather in the Park. On Jan. 1, Sunday, I’ll read a story about pioneer photographer F. J. Haynes who was a member of the first winter expedition to the park in 1887. Haynes marveled at the fantastic forms created when ice formed on trees near hot springs and geyser and managed to take pictures in temperatures that reached 50 degrees below zero. On Jan. 2, Monday, I’ll tell how soldiers, who guarded Yellowstone at the dawn of the Twentieth Century, tracked down a notorious buffalo poacher in February.

    Of course, I’ll read from Adventures in Yellowstone. On Sunday, I’ll read an excerpt from Truman Everts’ story of being treed by a mountain lion. The incident occurred when Everts became separated from the famous Washburn Expedition of 1870. Everts’ tale of being lost and alone in the Yellowstone wilderness for 37 days is one of the park’s most famous.

    Another very famous Yellowstone story is Emma Cowan’s account of being captured by the Nez Perce in 1877. On Monday, I’ll read her chilling description of watching Indians shoot her husband in the head.

    Emma’s adventures will also appear in my Sunday presentation when I read a section from the book I’m working on now, Encounters in Yellowstone, which will tell what happened when several groups of tourists ran afoul of the Nez Perce. I’ll read a section from the new book that describes Emma driving her team and wagon 125 miles in 15 hours to be by her wounded husband’s side.

    On Monday, I’ll read a selection from Macon’s Perfect Shot, a mid-grades novel that I’m sending to a publisher next week. Perfect Shot tells about a 14-year-old boy who learns to shoot while visiting the Park in the 1870s. I’ll read an excerpt where he makes an impossible shot—and regrets it.

    If time allows, I’ll read a couple of my favorite stories. On Sunday, I’ll have Henry Merry’s tale of driving the first automobile into the park in 1904.  Merry tried to race his Winton past the guards, but they lassoed the car and dragged it to the superintendent’s office.  On Monday, I’ll be ready to read “Maud’s Revenge,” the story of how a camp cook gets even with a supercilious travel guest.

    I’ll like to end my presentation with a farewell story. On Sunday, I’ll read story from Osborne Russell’s famous Journal of a Trapper about a group of Mountain Men telling tall tales around a campfire in the 1830s. On Monday, I’ll end up with Stephan Dale’s 1904 story about people finishing a six-day tour by saying goodbye to new friendships and budding romances.

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    — Photo courtesy of Xantera.

  • A Scene: The Geysers of Yellowstone — Washburn, 1870

    There had been rumors of wonders in the upper Yellowstone for more than 50 years, but the Washburn Expedition of 1870 made it official. The place really did contain towering waterfalls, a huge inland sea and—most stupendous—boilding fountains that threw water hundreds of feet into the air. 

    There were several reasons Washburn and his companions captured the public imagination. First, the expedition was composed of prominent government officials and businessmen whose word could not be doubted. Second, the expedition included several skilled writers who published reports immediately after they returned from the wilderness. Third, there was a well developed communication system that included several Montana territorial newspapers and the telegraph to spread the news across the nation. Finally, the Northern Pacific Railroad, which was making its way westward, promoted the area in hopes of  making it a tourist destination.

    General Washburn himself was one of the skilled writers whose work was caught up in this fortuitous combination. Here’s his description of the geysers of the Upper Yellowstone.

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    Grand Geyser

    On the south end of the lake is a very beautiful collection of hot springs and wells. In many the water is so clear that you can see down fifty or a hundred feet.

    The lake is 8,000 feet above the level of the sea, a beautiful sheet of water, with numerous islands and bays, and will in time be a great summer resort; for its various inlets, surrounded by the finest mountain scenery, cannot fail to be very popular to the seeker of pleasure, while its high elevation and numerous medicinal springs will attract the invalid. Its size is about twenty-two by fifteen miles.

    Leaving the lake, we moved nearly west, over several high ranges, and camped in the snow amid the mountains. Next day, about noon we struck the Fire Hole River. and camped in Burnt Hole Valley.

    This is the most remarkable valley we found. Hot springs are almost innumerable. Geysers were spouting in such size and number as to startle all, and are beyond description. Enormous columns of hot water and steam were thrown into the air with a velocity and noise truly amazing. We classified and named some of them according to size:

    No. 1. The Giant, 7 by 10 feet, throwing a solid column of water from £0 to 120 feet high.

    No. 2. The Giantess, 20 by 30. throwing a solid column and jets from 150 to 200 feet high.

    No. 3. Old Faithful, 7 by 8, irregular in shape, a solid column each hour, 75 feet high.

    No. 4. Bee Hive, 24 by 15 inches, stream measured 219 feet.

    No. 5. Fan Tail, irregular shape, throwing a double stream 60 feet high.

    No. 6 is a beautiful arched spray, called by us the Grotto, with several apertures through which, when quiet, one can easily pass, but when in action each making so many vents for the water and steam.

    Upon going into camp we observed a small hot spring that had apparently built itself up about three feet. The water was warm but resting very quietly, and we camped within 200 yards of it. While we were eating breakfast this spring, without any warning threw, as if it were the nozzle of an enormous steam-engine, a stream of water into the air 210 feet, and continued doing so for some time, thereby enabling us to measure it, and then as suddenly subsided.

    Surrounded by these hot springs is a beautiful cold spring of tolerably fair water. Here we found a beautiful spring or well, raised around it was a border of pure white, carved as if by the hand of a master-workman, the water pure. Looking down into it, one can see the sides white and clear as alabaster, and carved in every conceivable, shape, down, down, until the eye tires in penetrating.

    Standing and looking down into the steam and vapor of the crater of the Giantess. With the sun upon our back, the shadow is surrounded by a beautiful rainbow; and, by getting the proper angle, the rainbow, surrounding only the head, gives that halo so many painters have vainly tried to give in paintings of the Savior.

    Standing near the fountain when in motion, and the sun shining, the scene is grandly magnificent; each of the broken atoms of water shining like so many brilliants, while myriads of rainbows are dancing attendance. No wonder, then, that our usually staid and sober companions threw up their hats and shouted with ecstasy at the sight.

    We bid farewell to the geysers, little dreaming there were more beyond. Five miles below Burnt Hole we found the “Lake of Fire and Brimstone.” In the valley we found a lake measuring 450 yards in diameter, gently overflowing, that had built itself up by a deposit of white sub-strata at least 50 feet above the plain. This body of water was steaming hot.

    Below this was a similar spring, but of smaller dimensions while between the two, and apparently having no connection with either, was a spring of enormous volume flowing into the Madison, and is undoubtedly the spring about which Bridger was laughed at so much when he reported that it heated the Madison for two miles below. For some distance down the river we found hot springs and evidences of volcanic action.

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    — From Henry Washburn, “The Yellowstone Expedition,” Helena Daily Herald, September 27 and 28, 1870.

    — Frank J. Haynes postcard, Yellowstone Digital Slide File.

    — You might also enjoy General Washburn’s description of Yellowstone Falls.

    — For more stories from the Washburn Expedition, click “Washburn” under the “Categories” button to the left.

  • A Tale: The Antelope That Got Away — Dunraven, 1874

    While returning from Yellowstone Park in 1874, the Earl of Dunraven discovered he was running out of “grub.” Hunting for food in the Park was legal then, so he decided to replenish the larder by bagging an antelope. He went hunting with pioneer rancher and Yellowstone guide, Fred Bottler, and a helper named Wynn.

    While the trio was pursuing a large buck, a ferocious hail storm forced them to take cover under a pine tree. When the storm abated, Dunraven spotted the buck, tried a long shot and missed. Here’s his story of what happened after that.

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    It was blowing so hard, and there was such a noise of storm, that there was no danger of the shot having disturbed anything, and so, as the country looked very gamey, we walked on, leading the horses. Presently we came upon a little band containing six antelopes.

    We were by this time near the summit of a long sloping mountain. The ground fell away rapidly on either side, and in a long but narrow glade the antelopes were lying. While we were peering at them, two does—nasty inquisitive females—got up, walked forward a few steps and stared too. We remained still as statues, and after a while they appeared satisfied and began to crop the grass. We then left our ponies, and signing to Wynne, who just then hove in sight, that there was something ahead, and that he was to catch them, hastened up under cover of some brush.

    By the time we reached the tree nearest to them we found the does had all got up and fled to some distance, but a splendid buck with a very large pair of horns was still lying down. At him I fired, and nailed him. He gave one spring straight into the air from his bed, fell back into the same spot, kicked once or twice convulsively, and lay still. I fired the second barrel at a doe and struck her, for she “pecked” almost on to her head, but she recovered and went on.

    Out we rushed: “Never mind the dead one,” shouts Bottler, his face all aglow; “let’s get the other; she’s twice as good, and can’t go far. You take one side of that clump and I will take the other.” So off we set, best pace, bursting up the hill after the wounded doe. We followed her for half an hour, running our level best, and got each a long shot, but missed; and, as she was evidently quite strong, we gave up the chase and walked back.

    We found Wynne driving up the ponies; and as he appeared to have some little trouble with the poor beasts, rendered sulky and ill-tempered by the wet and cold. I said to Bottler, “You go down and help him, and I will butcher the buck.”

    I had scarcely got the words “butcher the buck” out of my mouth, when the darned thing, apparently not appreciating my intentions, came to life, bounded to his feet, sprang into the air, coming down all four feet together, and, with his legs widely extended, gave a phwit—a sort of half whistle, half snort of surprise, I suppose at his own resurrection—stared a second, and made off.

    “Shoot, Bottler,” I cried, “shoot. In Heaven’s name, man, can’t you see the buck?” and I threw up my own rifle and missed him of course. “By George,” says Bottler, wheeling round, “look at the  ___;” and he let go at him with the same result.

    Wynne yelled and dropped the lariats; Bottler ejaculated terrible things; and I also, I fear, made use of very cursory remarks. But neither for swearing, shouting, nor shooting would he stop. He ran about fifty yards, fell on his head and rolled over and over, jumped up again, ran one hundred yards, pitched head over heels the second time, got up, and went down the hill as if he had never felt better in his life.

    We followed of course, and wasted an hour in searching for him in vain. Never again will I pass a beast, however dead he may appear to be, without cutting his throat by way of making sure.

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    — Excerpt from Hunting on the Yellowstone by the Earl of Dunraven.

    — Image from the Coppermine Photo Gallery.

    — For more stories about The Earl of Dunraven, click on “Dunraven” under the “Categories” button to the right.

    — You can read more of Dunraven’s stories in my book, Adventures in Yellowstone: Early Travelers Tell Their Tales.

  • A Tale: Rafting Across the Yellowstone to View the Canyon From Artist Point — Holmes, 1896.

    The View from Artist Point

    In 1896 the famous lecturer, film maker and writer, Burton Holmes, visited Yellowstone Park. Holmes, who coined the word “travelogues” wrote about his Yellowstone trip in Volume 6 of his ten-volume series by that name.

    After describing the Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone from several vantage points on the north rim, Holmes told this story about crossing the Yellowstone River on a crude raft made of logs to see the lower fall from “Artist Point.”

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     Most travelers are content to view the canyon from the points to which I have already led you. Others remain unsatisfied until they have looked into the great chasm from “Artists’ Point,” the one perfect point of view, which is unfortunately on the other bank, and in 1896 was well nigh inaccessible.

    There was no bridge; the crossing of the river below the falls was utterly out of the question; but there remained the possibility of crossing far above the upper gorge, where the waters, although swift-flowing, present a level, navigable surface. But there has not been a boat upon the river since the last one, very fortunately empty, was swept away and dashed to pieces by the cataracts. No boat! No bridge!

    The river being now too deep and swift to ford, I turn in my difficulty to the gallant soldiers of Uncle Sam, who are stationed at the canyon. The sergeant in command at the little military camp enthusiastically comes to my assistance, and at sunrise next morning I find him a little way above the rapids, slowly poling upstream a raft, which he has built expressly for our excursion.

    Rafting Across the Yellowstone

    At last, we reach a point from which he deems it safe to put out into the current, where the waters, swift as those of a millrace, are gliding on in their eagerness to plunge into the yawning canyon, just one mile beyond. There was, of course, no actual danger, yet the thought was ever present that our raft, if left to its own devices, would at once follow unresistingly that treacherous flood, bound through the rapids and plunge over the first fall, then dash through the upper canyon, and finally meet annihilation in the whirlpools at the bottom of the great cataract.

    In safety, however, we arrive on the farther shore. Then we skirt the right bank through a thick growth of pine, and while we are walking through the forest, thundershowers come and go with great frequency and fury.  We are soon drenched to the skin, but pressing on we reach the edge of the forest; the earth appears to open at our feet, and the canyon yawns before us, deep and mysterious. Vapors are surging upward from its depths, but fortunately, the sun is beginning to break through the clouds above.

    A shaft of sunshine touches a portion of the opposing wall, and another brilliantly illuminates the pinnacles of white and gold, while others chase the vapors rapidly away. The fears that rain and fog will render our excursion fruitless are dispelled, as, reaching another point of view, we exchange salutes with friends on the other rim.

    We shout to them, they shout to us; but the sounds meet only halfway and then fall into the depths between. We cannot hear, nor are we ourselves heard. The river’s rumbling mocks our puny efforts to span the deep chasm with a bridge of vocal sound. We must attempt to span it with our gaze.

    Few of the great sights of this world have power to thrill us more than this vista of the canyon of the Yellowstone. We are unable to tell what most impresses us: the immensity of the great gulf, the infinite glory of its colored walls, the struggling river far below, the stately army of tall pines massed on the brink and pressing forward, apparently as eager as we to drink in all the splendor of the scene.

    All these things go to compose the scene, to form that indefinable majesty that inspires us—to hold our peace. Silence is the only eloquence that can avail us here. No man has yet found language to express the majesty of this abyss of color. But, we ask, will no voice ever perfectly express in words what we all feel but dare not, cannot speak? Will no great poet of the new world, inspired by these grandeurs, ever utter the immortal song in which our vaguest thoughts shall find interpretation? Great, great indeed must be the soul of him who would give adequate expression to the reverential awe inspired by a scene like this.

    But what is man that he should strive to utter the unutterable? The emotions that overwhelm us here can be expressed only in one language, and that is not a mortal language; it is the language of those to whom all mysteries have been revealed—the great eternal, wordless language of the soul: a language that we may not understand until the gates of death have closed behind us.

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    —   From Burton Holmes Travelogues, Volume 6, The McClure Company: New York, 1905. (Pages 104-112)

    —   Artist Point Postcard by F.J. Haynes. Coppermine Photo Gallery.

    —  Photos of rafting across the Yellowstone River by Burton Holmes, Travelogues, Volume 6.

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  • A Tale: Rolling Boulders Down Gardiner Canyon — Wingate, 1885

    In the summer of 1885, General George W. Wingate took his wife and daughter through Yellowstone Park. Although the system of roads was complete by then, the Wingates decided to make their tour on horseback, the better to see the sights. The General, who was a civil war veteran and later president of the National Rifle Association, wrote a charming book about his adventures in the park. Here’s an excerpt.

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    The Gardiner River

    The 19th being Sunday, the ladies rested in camp, while I took our three men and rode to the Middle Falls of the Gardner. There was no road; merely a blazed trail through the woods, which we had to hunt up. This involved fording the river and considerable skirmishing among fallen timber, and in and out of places where I would never have dreamed at the East of venturing on horseback. Finally, the trail (probably an old elk runway) was found. It was just wide enough for a horse to get through, and led us up the mountain by a comparatively easy grade, but along a precipice, with yawning depths, to glance into which was sometimes quite startling. But we were rapidly becoming accustomed to that sort of thing and took it as naturally as our ponies did.

    After a steady climb of four miles, we found ourselves on the edge of a canyon overlooking the falls. It was a magnificent and most picturesque sight. Mr. Winson’s very accurate guide book gives the depth of the canyon at from 1,200 to 1,500 feet. I think this is an error as this would be deeper than the Great Canyon (which the same authority gives at 1,200 feet) and I should think the latter was considerably the deepest. But whatever the measurement, it is of appalling depth, about 500 yards wide at the top and very narrow at the bottom, not to exceed 150 feet. The sides drop from the brink above in almost perpendicular ledges, as steep as the Palisades on the Hudson River and four times their depth. Into this cleft in the rocks, the river plunges in one unbroken fall of over a hundred feet and then continues its fall in a scries of cascades to the bottom of the dark chasm. The white fall, the tumbling water, and the dark shadows of.the canyon, make a striking picture.

    After fully enjoying the scene, we amused ourselves by rolling large rocks over the cliff. It was wonderful to see a stone the size of a trunk leap into the air in a plunge of 200 or 300 feet, strike the shelf below as if thrown by a catapult, and with such tremendous force as to rebound twenty feet, and after a series of such terrific bounds, make another tremendous leap to the slope below, continuing in bound after bound until it reached the creek, growing smaller and smaller at each movement until it seemed no larger than a foot-ball.

    While indulging in this boyish sport a faint shout came up from below signifying that there was some one down in the canyon. It is unnecessary to say that we at once stopped the stone rolling. Looking down we saw a party of fishermen from the hotel dodging up the bottom of the canyon with great celerity and evident anxiety as to whether any more stones might be expected. So great was the depth, that they looked like children.

    While watching them, Horace’s hat blew off and lodged in the shelf at the foot of the cliff at the brink of which we were standing. It seemed only a short way down, and we undertook to fasten the picket ropes of the horses together so as to aid him to descend, but found they would not begin to reach the distance. Horace was determined to have his hat, and with regular western recklessness started to climb down.

    By selecting places where the fragments from the sides of the canyon had formed a slope, and clinging to the trees and shrubs, he managed to work his way to the shelf below, and up on that to his beloved head-gear. He had to go so far down that he appeared only half his natural size.

    The exploit was more hazardous than we imagined. Mr. Davis, of the Northern Pacific Railroad, as I was afterwards told, undertook to climb up near that very spot only a day or two before. The loose stone slid under his feet, as is common in mountain climbing, but which, though fatiguing, is not dangerous if one keeps moving. Finally, he climbed out on a large boulder, the size of a small house, to look around. Suddenly he discovered that it too was in motion. He slid along upon it for some distance expecting it would roll at every instant, when fortunately, it passed so near a tree that he was enabled to spring into the branches, while the boulder went crashing downwards for a thousand feet, snapping the trees like pipe stems in its course.

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    — From ‪George Wood Wingate, Through the Yellowstone Park on Horseback. Judd and Judd: New York, 1886. Pages 79-81.

    — Photo, Coppermine Photo Gallery.

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  • A Tale: A Dark and Stormy Night in Yellowstone Park — Dunraven, 1874

    Late October is a time for scary stories so I decided to check my collection of tales from Yellowstone Park for one to share here. I didn’t find anything about geyser ghosts and goblins, but I did locate a chilling tale by the Earl of Dunraven.

    Dunraven was hunting in Yellowstone in 1874. (It was legal then.) When a storm came up, the Earl and his guides, Fred Bottler and Texas Jack Omohondro, decided to return to camp, but their companion, Dr. George Kingsley, decided to keep hunting a little longer. The storm grew worse as darkness fell. Here’s the Earl’s story about what happened next.

    ∞§∞

    When Jack and I got in we found camp in a sorry plight, everything soaked through—tents, bedding, and all, and our prospects for the night looked anything but cheerful; but by extending the hide of the wapiti stag between four trees, and hauling it out taut with ropes, we managed to make a tolerable shelter; and, taking from out of our cache some dry birch bark and splinters of fat pine, we lit a huge fire, and sat down to make some tea for supper.

    About dusk, we heard a shot, and visions of fresh venison steaks floated before our eyes. About half an hour passed, but no venison and no Kingsley appeared, and then we heard another shot, and two or three minutes afterwards yet another.

    By this time, it was getting quite dark, and we were puzzled to know what Kingsley could be firing at—unless, indeed, he was treed by a bear. After a short interval we heard the sound of his rifle again, evidently further off, and then it suddenly occurred to us that he was lost and making signals. We fired our rifles, and whooped, and yelled, and shouted, but all to no purpose. The sound of his rifle became fainter and fainter; —he was going in the wrong direction.

    To be left out on such a night might cost a man his life, for it would have been hard for even an old experienced mountain man to have found material dry enough to make a fire; so Jack and Bottler started out into the blackness of the night and the thick fog to look for him, leaving me behind to heap logs on the fire, and occasionally emit a dismal yell to keep them acquainted with the whereabouts of camp.

    For some time I could hear the responsive shouts of the searchers, but after awhile they ceased, and nothing broke the horrid silence except the noises of the night and of the storm.

    The heavy raindrops pattered incessantly on the elk hide; the water trickled and splashed, and gurgled down the hillside in a thousand muddy rills and miniature cascades. The night was very dark, but not so black but that I could dimly see white ghost-like shreds of vapor and great indistinct rolling masses of fog driving up the valley in the gale. The wind rumbled in the caverns of the cliffs, shrieked and whistled shrilly among the dead pine trees, and fiercely shook the frail shelter overhead, dashing the raindrops in my face.

    Every now and then the fire would burn up bright, casting a fitful gleam out into the damp darkness, and lighting up the bare jaws and white skulls of the two elk-heads, which seemed to grin derisively at me out of the gloom; and then, quenched by the hissing rain, it would sink down into a dull red glow.

    My dog moved uneasily about, now pressing close up against me, shivering with cold and fear, nestling up to me for protection, and looking into my face for that comfort, which I had not in me to give him—now starting to his feet, whimpering, and scared when some great gust smote the pine tree overhead, angrily seized and rattled the elk-hide, and scooping up the firebrands tossed them in the air.

    The tall firs bowed like bulrushes before the storm, swaying to and fro, bending their lofty heads like bows and flinging them up again erect, smiting their great boughs together in agony, groaning and complaining, yet fiercely fighting with the tempest.

    At intervals, when the gale paused for a moment as it were to gather strength, its shrill shrieking subdued to a dismal groan, there was occasionally heard with startling distinctness, through the continuous distant din and clamor of the night, a long, painfully-rending cr-r-r-rash, followed by a dull heavy thud, notifying the fall of some monarch of the woods, and making my heart quake within me as I uneasily glanced at the two tall hemlocks overhead that wrathfully ground their trunks together, and whose creaking limbs were wrestling manfully with the storm.

    Strange and indistinct noises would come up from the vale: rocks became detached, and thundered down the far-off crags. A sudden burst of wind would bear upon me the roar of the torrent below with such clearness that it sounded as though it were close at hand. It was an awful night, in the strictest sense of the word. The Demon of the Tempest was abroad in his anger, yelling down the valley, dashing out the water-floods with his hands, laying waste the forest, and filling with dread the hearts of man and beast and every living thing.

    There was not a star or a gleam of moonlight. It was very gruesome sitting there all alone, and I began to feel, like David, “horribly afraid.” I do not know how long I was alone; probably it was only for a short time—a couple of hours or so, at most— but the minutes were as hours to me.

    Most dismal was my condition; and I could not even resort to the Dutch expedient for importing courage, to supply my natural allowance of that quality which had quickly oozed out of my cold fingertips. I had poured into a tin pannikin the last drain of whisky from the keg, and had placed it carefully to settle.

    I knew that Kingsley would really want it, so I could not seek consolation in that way. I could not find even a piece of dry tobacco wherewith to comfort myself; I began to feel very wretched indeed; and it was truly a great relief when I heard the shouts of the returning party.

    They brought in the lost man pretty well exhausted, for he had been out a long time exposed to the weather, had walked a great distance, and had fallen about terribly in the darkness. He had tried in vain to make a fire, and was wandering about without an idea of the direction in which camp lay.

    He was indeed in real need of a stimulant, and when, in answer to his inquiring glance at the keg, I said that there was half a pannikin full, his face beamed with a cheerful smile. But alas! A catastrophe had occurred. A gust of wind or a falling branch had over-thrown all my arrangements, and when I arose to give him the pannikin, behold, it was bottom upwards and dry!

    ∞§∞

    —   From the Earl of Dunraven, Hunting in the Yellowstone, New York: Outing Publishing Company, 1917. (Pages 174-177.)

    —   C.D. Loughrey Photo, c. 1888, Pioneer Museum of Bozeman.

    — To see more stories by by the Earl, click on “Dunraven” under the Categories button on the left side of this page.