The first camp was in a wild, rocky, and picturesque gorge on the
Yellowstone, about ten miles from the fort. A slight indisposition,
the result of luxurious living, with no wood to chop or to saw, and no
hills to climb, as at home, prevented me from joining the party till
the third day. Then Captain Chittenden drove me eight miles in a
buggy. About two miles from camp we came to a picket of two or three
soldiers, where my big bay was in waiting for me. I mounted him
confidently, and, guided by an orderly, took the narrow, winding trail
toward camp. Except for an hour's riding the day before with Captain
Chittenden, I had not been on a horse's back for nearly fifty years,
and I had not spent as much as a day in the saddle during my youth.
That first sense of a live, spirited, powerful animal beneath you, at
whose mercy you are,--you, a pedestrian all your days,--with gullies
and rocks and logs to cross, and deep chasms opening close beside you,
is not a little disturbing. But my big bay did his part well, and I
did not lose my head or my nerve, as we cautiously made our way along
the narrow path on the side of the steep gorge, with a foaming torrent
rushing along at its foot, nor yet when we forded the rocky and rapid
Yellowstone. A misstep or a stumble on the part of my steed, and
probably the first bubble of my confidence would have been shivered at
once; but this did not happen, and in due time we reached the group of
tents that formed the President's camp.