[Illustration]
On certain portions of our globe Almighty God has set a special
imprint of divinity. The Alps, the Pyrénées, the Mexican volcanoes,
the solemn grandeur of Norwegian fjords, the sacred Mountain of
Japan, and the sublimity of India's Himalayas--at different epochs in
a life of travel--had filled my soul with awe and admiration. But,
since the summer of 1896, there has been ranked with these in my
remembrance the country of the Yellowstone. Two-thirds across this
continent, hidden away in the heart of the Rocky Mountains, eight
thousand feet above the level of the sea, there lies a marvelous
section of our earth, about one-half as large as the State of
Connecticut. On three sides this is guarded by lofty, well-nigh
inaccessible mountains, as though the Infinite Himself would not
allow mankind to rashly enter its sublime enclosure. In this respect
our Government has wisely imitated the Creator. It has proclaimed to
all the world the sanctity of this peculiar area. It has received it
as a gift from God and, as His trustee, holds it for the welfare of
humanity. We, then, as citizens of the United States, are its
possessors and its guardians. It is our National Park. Yet, although
easy of access, most of us let the years go by without exploring it!
How little we realize what a treasure we possess is proven by the
fact that, until recently, the majority of tourists here were
foreigners! I thought my previous store of memories was rich, but to
have added to it the recollections of the Yellowstone will give a
greater happiness to life while life shall last. Day after day, yes,
hour after hour, within the girdle of its snow-capped peaks I looked
upon a constant series of stupendous sights--a blending of the
beautiful and terrible, the strange and the sublime--which were,
moreover, so peculiar that they stand out distinct and different from
those of every other portion of our earth.
[Illustration: LONE STAR GEYSER.]
[Illustration: THE GROTTO, GEYSER'S CONE.]
[Illustration: ENTRANCE TO THE PARK.]
To call our National Park the "Switzerland of America" would be
absurd. It is not Switzerland; it is not Iceland; it is not Norway;
it is unique; and the unique cannot be compared. If I were asked to
describe it in a dozen lines, I should call it the arena of an
enormous amphitheatre. Its architect was Nature; the gladiators that
contended in it were volcanoes. During unnumbered ages those
gladiators struggled to surpass one another in destruction by pouring
forth great floods of molten lava. Even now the force which animated
them still shows itself in other forms, but harmlessly, much as a
captive serpent hisses though its fangs are drawn. But the volcanoes
give no sign of life. They are dead actors in a fearful tragedy
performed here countless centuries before the advent of mankind, with
this entire region for a stage, and for their only audience the sun
and stars.
I shall never forget our entrance into this theatre of sublime
phenomena. The Pullman car, in which we had taken our places at St.
Paul, had carried us in safety more than a thousand miles and had
left us at the gateway of the park. Before us was a portion of the
road, eight miles in length, which leads the tourist to the Mammoth
Springs Hotel. On one side an impetuous river shouted a welcome as we
rode along. Above us rose gray, desolate cliffs. They are volcanic in
their origin. The brand of fire is on them all. They are symbolic,
therefore, of the entire park; for fire and water are the two great
forces here which have, for ages, struggled for supremacy.
[Illustration: THE WATCHFUL SENTINEL.]
[Illustration: THE MAMMOTH SPRINGS HOTEL.]
No human being dwells upon those dreary crags, but at one point, as I
looked up at them, I saw--poised statue-like above a mighty pinnacle
of rock--a solitary eagle. Pausing, with outstretched wings above its
nest, it seemed to look disdainfully upon us human pygmies crawling
far below. Living at such a height, in voluntary isolation, that king
of birds appeared the very embodiment of strength and majesty. Call
it a touch of superstition, if you will, yet I confess it thrilled me
to the heart to find that here, above the very entrance to the
Wonderland of our Republic, there should be stationed midway between
earth and heaven, like a watchful sentinel, our national bird,--the
bird of freedom!
At length a sudden turn revealed to us our first halting-place within
the Park,--the Mammoth Springs Hotel. The structure in itself looked
mammoth as we approached it, for its portico exceeds four hundred
feet in length. Our first impressions were agreeable. Porters rushed
forth and helped us to alight, and on the broad piazza the manager
received us cordially. Everything had the air of an established
summer resort. This, I confess, surprised me greatly, as I had
expected primitive accommodations, and supposed that, though the days
of camping-out had largely passed away, the resting-places in the
Park were still so crude that one would be glad to leave them. But I
lingered here with pleasure long after all the wonders of the Park
had been beheld. The furniture, though simple, is sufficient; to
satisfy our national nervousness, the halls are so well-stocked with
rocking-chairs that European visitors look about them with alarm,
and try to find some seats that promise a more stable equilibrium;
the sleeping-rooms are scrupulously clean; soft blankets, snow-white
sheets, and comfortable beds assure a good night's rest; and the
staff of colored waiters in the dining-room, steam-heat, a bell-boy
service, and electric lights made us forget our distance from great
cities and the haunts of men. Moreover, what is true of this is true,
as well, of the other hotels within the Park; and when I add that
well-cooked food is served in all of them, it will be seen that
tourists need not fear a lengthy sojourn in these hostelries.
[Illustration: HALL OF THE MAMMOTH SPRINGS HOTEL.]
[Illustration: THE PHOTOGRAPHER'S HOUSE.]
[Illustration: MAMMOTH HOT SPRINGS.]
[Illustration: FORT YELLOWSTONE.]
Standing on the veranda of the Mammoth Hot Springs Hotel, I saw
between me and the range of mountains opposite a broad plateau, on
which were grouped a dozen neat and tasteful structures. With the
exception of the photographer's house in the foreground, these
constitute Fort Yellowstone. "A fort!" the visitor exclaims,
"impossible! These buildings are of wood, not stone. Where are its
turrets, battlements, and guns?" Nevertheless, this is a station for
two companies of United States Cavalry; most of the houses being
residences for the officers, while in the rear are barracks for the
soldiers.
[Illustration: A FOREST IN THE PARK.]
No one who has visited the National Park ever doubts the necessity of
having soldiers there. Thus, one of the most important duties of the
United States troops, stationed within its area, is to save its
splendid forests from destruction. To do this calls for constant
vigilance. A fire started in the resinous pines, which cover many of
the mountain sides, leaps forward with such fury that it would
overtake a horseman fleeing for his life. To guard against so serious
a calamity, soldiers patrol the Park continually to see that all the
camp-fires have been extinguished. Thanks to their watchful care,
only one notable conflagration has occurred here in the last eight
years, and that the soldiers fought with energy for twenty days, till
the last vestige of it was subdued.
The tourist comprehends the great importance of this work when he
beholds the rivers of the Park threading, like avenues of silver, the
sombre frame-work of the trees, and recollects that just such forests
as adjoin these streams cover no less than eighty-four per cent. of
its entire area. In a treeless country like Wyoming these forests are
of priceless value, because of their utility in holding back, in
spring, the melting snow. Some of the largest rivers of our continent
are fed from the well-timbered area of the Yellowstone; and if the
trees were destroyed, the enormous snowfall in the Park, unsheltered
from the sun, would melt so rapidly that the swollen torrents would
quickly wash away roads, bridges, and productive farms, even, far out
in the adjacent country, and, subsequently, cause a serious drought
for many months.
[Illustration: FIRE-HOLE RIVER.]
Another very important labor of the United States soldiers here is to
preserve the game within the Park. It is the purpose of our
Government to make this area a place of refuge for those animals
which man's insatiate greed has now almost destroyed. The remoteness
of this lofty region, together with its mountain fastnesses, deep
forests, and sequestered glens, makes it an almost perfect
game-preserve. There are at present thirty thousand elk within the
Park; its deer and antelopes are steadily increasing; and bears,
foxes, and small game roam unmolested here. Buffaloes, however, are
still few in number. They have become too valuable. A buffalo head,
which formerly could be bought for a mere trifle, commands, to-day,
a price of five hundred dollars. Hence, daring poachers sometimes run
the risk of entering the Park in winter and destroying them.
[Illustration: MOUNTAIN SHEEP.]
It is sad to reflect how the buffaloes of this continent have been
almost exterminated. As late as thirty years ago, trains often had to
halt upon the prairies; and even steamboats were, occasionally,
obliged to wait an hour or two in the Missouri River until enormous
herds of buffalo had crossed their path. Now only about two hundred
of these animals are in existence,--the sole survivors of the
millions that once thundered over the western plains, and disputed
with the Indians the ownership of this great continent.
[Illustration: YELLOWSTONE ELK.]
Until very recently, travelers on our prairies frequently beheld the
melancholy sight of laborers gathering up the buffalo bones which
lay upon the plains, like wreckage floating on the sea. Hundreds of
carloads of these skeletons were shipped to factories in the east.
Now, to protect the few remaining buffaloes, as well as other
animals, our troops patrol the Park even in winter. The principal
stations are connected by telephone, and information given thus is
promptly acted on. No traveler is allowed to carry fire-arms; and any
one who attempts to destroy animal life is liable to a fine of one
thousand dollars, or imprisonment for two years, or both.
[Illustration: BUFFALOES IN THE SNOW.]
[Illustration: GATHERING BUFFALO BONES.]
Still another task, devolving upon the Military Governor of the Park,
is the building and repairing of its roads. No doubt the
Superintendent is doing all he can with the amount of money that the
Government allows him; but there is room for great improvement in
these thoroughfares, if Congress will but make a suitable
appropriation for the purpose. At present, a part of the
coaching-route is of necessity traveled over twice. This should be
obviated by constructing one more road, by which the tourist could be
brought to several interesting features of the Park that are now
rarely seen.
Every one knows how roads in Europe climb the steepest grades in easy
curves, and are usually as smooth as a marble table, free from
obstacles, and carefully walled-in by parapets of stone. Why should
not we possess such roads, especially in our National Park? Dust is
at present a great drawback to the traveler's pleasure here; but this
could be prevented if the roads were thoroughly macadamized. Surely,
the honor of our Government demands that this unique museum of
marvels should be the pride and glory of the nation, with highways
equal to any in the world.
[Illustration: A YELLOWSTONE ROAD.]
[Illustration: LIBERTY CAP.]
Only a few hundred feet distant from the Mammoth Springs Hotel
stands a strange, naturally molded shaft of stone, fifty-two feet in
height. From certain points its summit calls to mind the head-dress
of the Revolution, and hence its name is Liberty Cap. It is a fitting
monument to mark the entrance into Wonderland, for it is the cone of
an old geyser long since dead. Within it is a tube of unknown depth.
Through that, ages since, was hurled at intervals a stream of boiling
water, precisely as it comes from active geysers in the Park to-day.
But now the hand of Time has stilled its passionate pulsations, and
laid upon its stony lips the seal of silence. At only a little
distance from this eloquent reminder of the past I peered into a
cavern hundreds of feet deep. It was once the reservoir of a geyser.
An atmosphere of sulphur haunts it still. No doubt this whole plateau
is but the cover of extinguished fires, for other similar caves
pierce the locality on which the hotel stands. A feeling of solemnity
stole over me as I surveyed these dead or dying agents of volcanic
power. In the great battle of the elements, which has been going on
here for unnumbered centuries, they doubtless took an active part.
But Time has given them a mortal wound; and now they are waiting
patiently until their younger comrades, farther up the Park, shall,
one by one, like them grow cold and motionless.
[Illustration: A MOUND OF THE HOT SPRING TERRACES.]
Not more than fifty feet from Liberty Cap rise the famous Hot Spring
Terraces. They constitute a veritable mountain, covering at least two
hundred acres, the whole of which has been, for centuries, growing
slowly through the agency of hot water issuing from the boiling
springs. This, as it cools, leaves a mineral deposit, spread out in
delicate, thin layers by the soft ripples of the heated flood.
Strange, is it not? Everywhere else the flow of water wears away the
substance that it touches; but here, by its peculiar sediment, it
builds as surely as the coral insect. Moreover, the coloring of these
terraces is, if possible, even more marvelous than their creation;
for, as the mineral water pulsates over them, it forms a great
variety of brilliant hues. Hot water, therefore, is to this material
what blood is to the body. With it the features glow with warmth and
color; without it they are cold and ghostlike. Accordingly, where
water ripples over these gigantic steps, towering one above another
toward the sky, they look like beautiful cascades of color; and when
the liquid has deserted them, they stand out like a staircase of
Carrara marble. Hence, through the changing centuries, they pass in
slow succession, from light to shade, from brilliancy to pallor, and
from life to death. This mineral water is not only a mysterious
architect; it is, also, an artist that no man can equal. Its magic
touch has intermingled the finest shades of orange, yellow, purple,
red, and brown; sometimes in solid masses, at other places
diversified by slender threads, like skeins of multicolored silk. Yet
in producing all these wonderful effects, there is no violence, no
uproar. The boiling water passes over the mounds it has produced with
the low murmur of a sweet cascade. Its tiny wavelets touch the stone
work like a sculptor's fingers, molding the yielding mass into
exquisitely graceful forms.
[Illustration: MINERVA TERRACE.]
The top of each of these colored steps is a pool of boiling water.
Each of these tiny lakes is radiant with lovely hues, and is bordered
by a colored coping, resembling a curb of jasper or of porphyry. Yet
the thinnest knife-blade can be placed here on the dividing line
between vitality and death. The contrast is as sudden and complete as
that between the desert and the valley of the Nile. Where Egypt's
river ends its overflow the desert sands begin; and on these terraces
it is the same. Where the life-giving water fails, the golden colors
become ashen. This terraced mountain, therefore, seemed to me like a
colossal checker-board, upon whose colored squares, the two great
forces, Life and Death, were playing their eternal game. There is a
pathos in this evanescent beauty. What lies about us in one place so
gray and ghostly was once as bright and beautiful as that which we
perceive a hundred feet away. But nothing here retains supremacy.
The glory of this century will be the gravestone of the next. Around
our feet are sepulchres of vanished splendor. It seems as if the
architect were constantly dissatisfied. No sooner has he finished one
magnificent structure than he impatiently begins another, leaving the
first to crumble and decay. Each new production seems to him the
finest; but never reaching his ideal, he speedily abandons it to
perish from neglect.
[Illustration: JUPITER TERRACE.]
[Illustration: "VITALITY AND DEATH."]
It cannot be said of these terraces that "distance lends enchantment
to the view." The nearer you come to them the more beautiful they
appear. They even bear the inspection of a magnifying glass, for they
are covered with a bead-like ornamentation worthy of the goldsmith's
art. In one place, for example, rise pulpits finer than those of Pisa
or Siena. Their edges seem to be of purest jasper. They are upheld by
tapering shafts resembling richly decorated organ-pipes. From
parapets of porphyry hang gold stalactites, side by side with
icicles of silver. Moreover, all its marvelous fretwork is
distinctly visible, for the light film of water pulsates over it so
delicately that it can no more hide the filigree beneath than a thin
veil conceals a face.
It is a melancholy fact that were it not for United States troops,
these beautiful objects would be mutilated by relic-hunters. Hence,
another duty of our soldiers is to watch the formations constantly,
lest tourists should break off specimens, and ruin them forever, and
lest still more ignoble vandals, whose fingers itch for notoriety,
should write upon these glorious works of nature their worthless
names, and those of the towns unfortunate enough to have produced
them. All possible measures are taken to prevent this vandalism.
Thus, every tourist entering the Park must register his name. Most
travelers do so, as a matter of course, at the hotels, but even the
arrivals of those who come here to camp must be duly recorded at
the Superintendent's office, If a soldier sees a name, or even
initials, written on the stone, he telephones the fact to the
Military Governor. At once the lists are scanned for such a name. If
found, the Superintendent wires an order to have the man arrested,
and so careful is the search for all defacers, that the offending
party is, usually, found before he leaves the Park. Then the
Superintendent, like the Mikado, makes the punishment fit the crime.
A scrubbing brush and laundry soap are given to the desecrator, and
he is made to go back, perhaps forty miles or more, and with his own
hands wash away the proofs of his disgraceful vanity. Not long ago a
young man was arrested at six o'clock in the morning, made to leave
his bed, and march without his breakfast several miles, to prove that
he could be as skillful with a brush as with a pencil.
[Illustration: "SEPULCHRES OF VANISHED SPLENDOR."]
[Illustration: MAN AND NATURE.]
[Illustration: THE PULPIT TERRACE.]
[Illustration: A CAMPING-PARTY.]
After spending several days at the Mammoth Hot Springs, we started
out to explore the greater marvels that awaited us in the interior.
The mode of travel through the Park is a succession of coaching-parties
over a distance of one hundred and eighty miles. The larger vehicles
are drawn by six, the smaller ones by four, strong horses, well fed,
well groomed, high spirited, yet safe. This feature of our National
Park astonished me. I had formed no idea of its perfection or its
magnitude. Here, for example, are vehicles enough to accommodate
seven hundred tourists for a continuous journey of five days! Here,
too, are five hundred horses, all of which can be harnessed at
twenty-four hours' notice; and, since the Park is so remote, here
also are the company's blacksmith and repair shops. Within the
stables, also, are the beautifully varnished coaches, varying in
cost from one to two thousand dollars, and made in Concord, New
Hampshire, twenty-five hundred miles away. On one of these I read
the number, "13-1/2." "Why did you add the fraction?" I inquired of
the Manager of Transportation. "Because," he replied, "some
travelers would not take a number thirteen coach. They feared a
breakdown or a tumble into the river; so I put on the half to take
ill-luck away." I dwell at length upon these practical details,
because I have found that people, in general, do not know them. Most
Americans have little idea whether the driving distance in the Park
is ten miles, or a hundred. Especially are they ignorant of the fact
that they may leave the coaches at any point, remain at a hotel as
long as they desire, and then resume their journey in other
vehicles, without the least additional expense for transportation,
precisely as one uses a stop-over ticket on a railroad.
[Illustration: A COACHING-PARTY.]
[Illustration: NO. 13-1/2.]
[Illustration: HOTEL AT YELLOWSTONE LAKE.]
The fact that it is possible to go through the Park in four or five
days is not a reason why it is best to do so. Hundreds of tourists
make the trip three times as rapidly as they would were they aware
that they could remain comfortably for months. When this is better
known, people will travel here more leisurely. Even now, parents
with little children sometimes leave them at the Mammoth Springs
Hotel in charge of nurses, and receive messages by telephone every
day to inform them how they are. An important consideration, also,
for invalids is the fact that two skilled surgeons, attendant on the
army, are always easily accessible. Moreover, the climate of the Park
in summer is delightful. It is true, the sun beats down at noonday
fiercely, the thin air offering scant resistance to its rays, but in
the shade one feels no heat at all. Light overcoats are needed when
the sun goes down. There is scarcely a night here, through the year,
which passes without frost. To me the pure dry air of that great
height was more invigorating than any I had ever breathed, save,
possibly, that of Norway, and it is, probably, the tonic of the
atmosphere that renders even the invalid and aged able to support
long journeys in the Park without exhaustion. In all these years no
tourist has been made ill here by fatigue.
[Illustration: THE GOLDEN GATE.]
[Illustration: THE GOLDEN GATE, LOOKING OUTWARD.]
A few miles after leaving the Hot Springs, we reached the entrance to
a picturesque ravine, the tawny color of whose rocks has given it the
name of Golden Gate. This is, alike, the entrance to, and exit from,
the inner sanctuary of this land of marvels. Accordingly a solitary
boulder, detached from its companions on the cliff, seems to be
stationed at this portal like a sentinel to watch all tourists who
come and go. At all events it echoes to the voices of those who enter
almost as eager as seekers after gold; and, a week later, sees them
return, browned by the sun, invigorated by the air, and joyful in the
acquisition of incomparable memories.
Emerging from this Golden Gate, I looked about me with surprise, as
the narrow walls of the ravine gave place to a plateau surrounded
everywhere by snow-capped mountains, from which the Indians believed
one could obtain a view of Paradise. Across this area, like a
railroad traversing a prairie, stretched the driveway for our
carriages.
"Do tourists usually seem delighted with the park?" I asked our
driver.
"Invariably," he replied. "Of course I cannot understand the words of
the foreigners, but their excited exclamations show their great
enthusiasm. I like the tourists," he continued, "they are so grateful
for any little favor! One of them said to me the other day, 'Is the
water here good to drink?' 'Not always,' I replied, 'you must be
careful.' At once he pressed my hand, pulled out a flask, and said,
'I thank you!"
[Illustration: THE PLATEAU.]
While crossing the plateau we enjoyed an admirable view of the
loftiest of the mountains which form, around the Park, a rampart of
protection. Its sharply pointed summit pierces the transparent air
more than eleven thousand feet above the sea, and it is well named
Electric Peak, since it appears to be a storage battery for all of
the Rocky Mountains. Such are the mineral deposits on its sides, that
the best instruments of engineers are thrown into confusion, and
rendered useless, while the lightning on this favorite home of
electricity is said to be unparalleled.
[Illustration: ELECTRIC PEAK.]
[Illustration: THE GLASS MOUNTAIN.]
Presently a turn in the road revealed to us a dark-hued mountain
rising almost perpendicularly from a lake. Marvelous to relate, the
material of which this mountain is composed is jet-black glass,
produced by volcanic fires. The very road on which we drove between
this and the lake also consists of glass too hard to break beneath
the wheels. The first explorers found this obsidian cliff almost
impassable; but when they ascertained of what it was composed, they
piled up timber at its base, and set it on fire. When the glass was
hot, they dashed upon the heated mass cold water, which broke it into
fragments. Then with huge levers, picks, and shovels, they pushed
and pried the shining pieces down into the lake, and opened thus a
wagon-road a thousand feet in length.
[Illustration: AN INDIAN CHIEF.]
The region of the Yellowstone was to most Indian tribes a place of
horror. They trembled at the awful sights they here beheld. But the
obsidian cliff was precious to them all. Its substance was as hard as
flint, and hence well suited for their arrow-heads. This mountain of
volcanic glass was, therefore, the great Indian armory; and as such
it was neutral ground. Hither all hostile tribes might come for
implements of war and then depart unharmed. While they were here a
sacred, inter-tribal oath protected them. An hour later, those very
warriors might meet in deadly combat, and turn against each other's
breasts the weapons taken from that laboratory of an unknown power.
[Illustration: A TRAPPER.]
Can we wonder that, in former times, when all this region was still
unexplored, and its majestic streams rolled nameless through a
trackless wilderness, the statements of the few brave men who
ventured into this enclosure were disbelieved by all who heard them?
One old trapper became so angry when his stories of the place were
doubted, that he deliberately revenged himself by inventing tales of
which Münchhausen would have been proud. Thus, he declared, that one
day when he was hunting here he saw a bear. He fired at it, but
without result. The animal did not even notice him. He fired again,
yet the big bear kept on grazing. The hunter in astonishment then
ran forward, but suddenly dashed against a solid mountain made of
glass. Through that, he said, he had been looking at the animal.
Unspeakably amazed, he finally walked around the mountain, and was
just taking aim again, when he discovered that the glass had acted
like a telescope, and that the bear was twenty-five miles away! Not
far from the volcanic cliff which gave the trapper inspiration for
his story, we reached one of the most famous basins of the Park. In
briefest terms, these basins are the spots in the arena where the
crust is thinnest. They are the trap-doors in a volcanic stage
through which the fiery actors in the tragedy of Nature, which is
here enacted, come upon the scene. Literally, they are the vents
through which the steam and boiling water can escape. In doing so,
however, the water, as at the Mammoth Springs, leaves a sediment of
pure white lime or silica. Hence, from a distance, these basins look
like desolate expanses of white sand. Beside them always flows a
river which carries off the boiling water to the outer world.
[Illustration: THE NORRIS BASIN.]
[Illustration: A PLACE OF DANGER.]
No illustration can do justice to what is called the Norris Basin,
but it is horrible enough to test the strongest nerves. Having full
confidence in our guide (the Park photographer) we ventured with him,
outside the usual track of tourists, and went where all the money of
the Rothschilds would not have tempted us to go alone. The crust
beneath our feet was hot, and often quivered as we walked. A single
misstep to the right or left would have been followed by appalling
consequences. Thus, a careless soldier, only a few days before, had
broken through, and was then lying in the hospital with both legs
badly scalded. Around us were a hundred vats of water, boiling
furiously; the air was heavy with the fumes of sulphur; and the whole
expanse was seamed with cracks and honeycombed with holes from which
a noxious vapor crept out to pollute the air. I thought of Dante's
walk through hell, and called to mind the burning lake, which he
describes, from which the wretched sufferers vainly sought to free
themselves.
[Illustration: A CAMPING-STATION.]
Leaving, at last, this roof of the infernal regions, just as we again
stood apparently on solid ground, a fierce explosion close beside
us caused us to start and run for twenty feet. Our guide laughed
heartily. "Come back," he said, "don't be afraid. It is only a baby
geyser, five years old." In fact, in 1891, a sudden outburst of
volcanic fury made an opening here, through which, at intervals of
thirty minutes, day and night, hot water now leaps forth in wild
confusion.
"This, then, is a geyser!" I exclaimed.
"Bah!" said the guide, contemptuously, "if you had seen the real
geysers in the Upper Basin, you would not look at this."
[Illustration: A BABY GEYSER.]
Meantime, for half an hour we had been hearing, more and more
distinctly, a dull, persistent roar, like the escape of steam from a
transatlantic liner. At last we reached the cause. It is a mass of
steam which rushes from an opening in the ground, summer and winter,
year by year, in one unbroken volume. The rock around it is as black
as jet; hence it is called the Black Growler. Think of the awful
power confined beneath the surface here, when this one angry voice
can be distinctly heard four miles away. Choke up that aperture, and
what a terrible convulsion would ensue, as the accumulated steam
burst its prison walls! It is a sight which makes one long to lift
the cover from this monstrous caldron, learn the cause of its
stupendous heat, and trace the complicated and mysterious aqueducts
through which the steam and water make their way.
[Illustration: THE BLACK GROWLER.]
Returning from the Black Growler, we halted at a lunch-station, the
manager of which is Larry. All visitors to the Park remember Larry.
He has a different welcome for each guest: "Good-day, Professor. Come
in, my Lord. The top of the morning to you, Doctor." These phrases
flow as lightly from his tongue as water from a geyser. His station
is a mere tent; but he will say, with most amusing seriousness:
"Gintlemen, walk one flight up and turn to the right, Ladies, come
this way and take the elevator. Now thin, luncheon is ready. Each
guest take one seat, and as much food as he can get."
"Where did you come from, Larry?" I asked.
[Illustration: LARRY.]
"From Brooklyn, Sor," was his reply, "but I'll niver go back there,
for all my friends have been killed by the trolley cars."
Larry is very democratic. The other day a guest, on sitting down to
lunch, took too much room upon the bench.
"Plaze move along, Sor," said Larry.
The stranger glared at him. "I am a Count," he remarked at last.
"Well, Sor," said Larry, "here you only count wun!"
"Hush!" exclaimed a member of the gentleman's suite, "that is Count
Schouvaloff."
"I'll forgive him that," said Larry, "if he won't shuffle off this
seat," Pointing to my companion. Larry asked me: "What is that
gintleman's business?"
"He is a teacher of singing," I answered.
[Illustration: LARRY'S LUNCH-STATION.]
"Faith," said Larry, "I'd like to have him try my voice. There is
something very strange about my vocal chords. Whenever I sing, the
Black Growler stops. One tourist told me it was a case of
professional jealousy, and said the Black Growler was envious of my
_forte_ tones. 'I have not forty tones,' I said, 'I've only one
tone,' 'Well,' says he, 'make a note of it!'"
[Illustration: THE BISCUIT BASIN.]
Only once in his life has Larry been put to silence. Two years ago, a
gentleman remarked to him: "Well, Larry, good-by; come and visit me
next winter in the East. In my house you shall have a nice room, and,
if you are ill, shall enjoy a doctor's services free of all expense."
"Thank you," said Larry, "plaze give me your card."
The tourist handed it to him; and Larry, with astonishment and
horror, read beneath the gentleman's name these words:
"Superintendent of the Insane Asylum, Utica, New York."
Some hours after leaving Larry's lunch-station, we reached another
area of volcanic action. Our nerves were steadier now. The close
proximity to Hades was less evident; yet here hot mineral water had
spread broadcast innumerable little mounds of silica, which look so
much like biscuits grouped in a colossal pan that this is called the
Biscuit Basin; but they are not the kind that "mother used to make."
If a tourist asked for bread here, he would receive a stone; since
all these so-called biscuits are as hard as flint. We walked upon
their crusts with perfect safety; yet, in so doing, our boots grew
warm beneath our feet, for the water in this miniature archipelago is
heated to the boiling point.
[Illustration: A GEYSER POOL.]
"Show me a geyser!" I at last exclaimed impatiently, "I want to see a
genuine geyser." Accordingly our guide conducted us to what he
announced as "The Fountain." I looked around me with surprise. I saw
no fountain, but merely a pool of boiling water, from which the light
breeze bore away a thin, transparent cloud of steam. It is true,
around this was a pavement as delicately fashioned as any piece of
coral ever taken from the sea. Nevertheless, while I admired that, I
could not understand why this comparatively tranquil pool was called
a geyser, and frankly said I was disappointed. But, even as I spoke,
I saw to my astonishment the boiling water in this reservoir sink and
disappear from view.
"Where has it gone?" I eagerly inquired.
"Stand back!" shouted the guide, "she's coming."
[Illustration: "A CLOUD-BURST OF JEWELS."]
I ran back a few steps, then turned and caught my breath; for at that
very instant, up from the pool which I had just beheld so beautiful
and tranquil, there rose in one great outburst of sublimity such a
stupendous mass of water as I had never imagined possible in a
vertical form. I knew that it was boiling, and that a deluge of those
scalding drops would probably mean death, but I was powerless to
move. Amazement and delight enchained me spellbound. Talk of a
fountain! This was a cloud-burst of the rarest jewels which, till
that moment, had been held in solution in a subterranean cavern, but
which had suddenly crystallized into a million radiant forms on thus
emerging into light and air. The sun was shining through the
glittering mass; and myriads of diamonds, moonstones, pearls, and
opals mingled in splendid rivalry two hundred feet above our heads.
[Illustration: THE OBLONG GEYSER.]
We soon approached another of the many geysers in the basin. They are
all different. Around one, a number of colored blocks, exquisitely
decorated by the geyser's waves, appeared to have been placed
artistically in an oblong frame. When I first beheld them, they
looked like huge sea-monsters which, startled by our footsteps, were
about to plunge into the depths.
What is there in the natural world so fascinating and mysterious as a
geyser? What, for example, is the depth of its intensely-colored pool
of boiling water? No one can tell. One thing, however, is certain;
the surface of the pool is but the summit of a liquid column. Its
base is in a subterranean reservoir. Into that reservoir there flows
a volume of cold water, furnished by the rain or snow, or by
infiltration from some lake, or river. Meantime, the walls of the
deep reservoir are heated by volcanic fire. Accordingly the water, in
contact with these walls, soon begins to boil, and a great mass of
steam collects above it. There must, of course, be some escape for
this, and, finally, it makes its exit, hurling the boiling water to a
height of one or two hundred feet, according to the force of the
explosion. Imagine, then, the amount of water that even one such
reservoir contains; for some of these volcanic fountains play for
more than half an hour before their contents are discharged! Think,
also, that in this basin there are no less than thirty geysers,
seventeen of which have been observed in action simultaneously.
[Illustration: THE GIANT GEYSER.]
[Illustration: THE CASTLE GEYSER.]
Thus far we had seen merely geysers which arise from pools; but,
presently, we approached one which in the course of ages has built up
for itself a cone, or funnel, for its scalding waves.
"That," said our guide, "is the Castle Geyser."
"That rock a geyser!" I exclaimed incredulously, "it looks like an
old ruin, without a single indication of activity; save, possibly,
the little cloud of steam that hangs above it, as if it were the
breath of some mysterious monster sleeping far below."
"If you doubt it," he replied, "go nearer and examine it."
[Illustration: ON "ITS FLINTY SIDES."]
We did so. I scrambled up its flinty sides, and found an opening in
the summit three feet wide. I touched the rock. It was still warm,
and yet no water was discernible. No sound was audible within its
depths.
[Illustration: THE CASTLE GEYSER'S CONE.]
"If this be really a geyser," I remarked, "it is no doubt a lifeless
one like Liberty Cap."
My comrade smiled, looked at his watch, then at his notebook, and
finally replied: "Wait half an hour and see."
Accordingly, we lingered on the massive ledges of the Castle Geyser,
and learned that it is the largest, probably the oldest, of all the
active geyser cones within the Park. Once its eruptions were no doubt
stupendous; but now its power is waning. The gradual closing up of
its huge throat, and the increasing substitution of steam for water,
prove that the monster has now entered on the final stage of its
career; for here, as on the terraces, we are surrounded by specimens
of life, decay, and death. The young, the middle-aged, the old, the
dead,--they are all here!
The fiery agitation of the pool and the impulsive spurts of water are
indicative of youth. A steady, splendid outburst proves maturity. The
feebler action of the Castle shows the waning powers of old age. Last
of all comes the closed cone, like a sealed sarcophagus, and that is
death.
[Illustration: THE CASTLE AND THE BEEHIVE IN ACTION.]
Meantime, the thirty minutes of expectancy had passed; and, suddenly,
with a tremendous rush of steam, the Castle proved that its resources
were by no means exhausted. At the same instant, half a mile away,
the Beehive Geyser threw into the air a shaft of dazzling spray fully
two hundred feet in height. I realized then, as never before, the
noble action of our Government in giving this incomparable region to
the people. If this had not been done, the selfishness and greed of
man would have made a tour here almost unbearable. A fence would,
doubtless, have been built around every geyser, and fees would have
been charged to witness each wonderful phenomenon; whereas, to-day,
thanks to the generosity of Congress, the Park itself, and everything
that it contains, are absolutely free to all, rich and poor, native
and foreigner,--forever consecrated to the education and delight of
man.
[Illustration: THE CRATER OF OLD FAITHFUL.]
But no enumeration of the geysers would be complete without a mention
of the special favorite of tourists, Old Faithful. The opening
through which this miracle of Nature springs is at the summit of a
beautifully ornamented mound, which is itself a page in Nature's
wonder-book. The lines upon its wrinkled face tell of a past whose
secrets still remain a mystery. It hints of an antiquity so vast that
one contemplates it with bated breath; for this entire slope has been
built up, atom after atom, through unnumbered ages; during which
time, no doubt, the geyser hour by hour has faithfully performed its
part, without an eye to note its splendor, or a voice to tell its
glory to the world. Old Faithful does not owe its popularity entirely
to height or beauty, though it possesses both. It is beloved for its
fidelity. Whatever irregularities other geysers show, Old Faithful
never fails. Year in, year out, winter and summer, day and night, in
cold and heat, in sunshine and in storm, Old Faithful every
seventy minutes sends up its silvery cascade to the height of about
one hundred and eighty feet. Of all the geysers known to man this is
the most reliable and perfect. Station yourself before it watch in
hand and, punctual to the moment, it will never disappoint you. Few
realize on how large a scale the forces of Nature work here. At each
eruption, Old Faithful pours forth about one million five hundred
thousand gallons, or more than thirty-three million gallons in one
day! This geyser alone, therefore, could easily supply with water a
city of the size of Boston.
[Illustration: CASTLE AND OLD FAITHFUL GEYSERS.]
[Illustration: OLD FAITHFUL IN ACTION.]
Within this area of the active geysers is a place called Hell's Half
Acre. It is rightly named. Rough, perpendicular ledges project over a
monstrous gulf of unknown depth, from which great clouds of steam are
constantly emerging. When the wind draws back for a moment a portion
of this sulphur-laden curtain, the visitor perceives a lake below,
seething and boiling from internal heat. For years no one suspected
this to be a geyser; but suddenly, in 1881, the underlying force
hurled the entire lake up bodily to the height of two hundred and
fifty feet, and even repeated frequently. After some months the
exhibition ceased, and all was calm again for seven years. In 1888,
however, it once more burst forth with prodigious energy, ejecting at
each explosion more boiling water than all the other geysers in the
Park combined. Even the surrounding ledges could not withstand this
terrible upheaval, and tons of rock were sometimes thrown up, with
the water, more than two hundred feet. It is not strange, therefore,
that this is called Excelsior, the King of Geysers. It is the most
tremendous, awe-inspiring fountain in the world. When it will be
again aroused, no one can tell. Its interval would seem to be from
seven to ten years. Said an enthusiastic traveler to me: "If the
Excelsior ever plays again, I will gladly travel three thousand miles
to see it."
[Illustration: HELL'S HALF ACRE.]
[Illustration: THE EXCELSIOR, IN 1888.]
[Illustration: EVENING IN THE UPPER BASIN.]
I have a vivid remembrance of my last night at the Upper Basin. The
hush of evening hallowed it. Alone and undisturbed we looked upon a
scene unequaled in the world. Around us liquid columns rose and fell
with ceaseless regularity. The cooler air of evening made many shafts
of vapor visible which in the glare of day had vanished unperceived.
So perfect were their images in the adjoining stream, that it was
easy to believe the veil had been at last withdrawn, and that the
hidden source of all this wonderful display had been revealed. No
sound from them was audible; no breeze disturbed their steadfast
flight toward heaven; and in the deepening twilight, the slender,
white-robed columns seemed like the ghosts of geysers, long since
dead, revisiting the scenes of their activity.
[Illustration: THE MORNING-GLORY POOL.]
[Illustration: PRISMATIC LAKE.]
But geysers do not constitute the only marvels of these volcanic
basins. The beauty of their pools of boiling water is almost
inconceivable to those who have not seen them. No illustration can do
them justice; for no photographer can adequately reproduce their
clear, transparent depths, nor can an artist's brush ever quite
portray their peculiar coloring, due to the minerals held in
solution, or else deposited upon their sides. I can deliberately say,
however, that some of the most exquisitely beautiful objects I
have ever seen in any portion of the world are the superbly tinted
caldrons of the Yellowstone.
Their hues are infinitely varied. Many are blue, some green, some
golden, and some wine-colored, in all gradations of tone; and could
we soar aloft and take of them a bird's-eye view, the glittering
basin might seem to us a silver shield, studded with rubies,
emeralds, turquoises, and sapphires. Moreover, these miniature lakes
are lined with exquisite ornamentation. One sees in them, with
absolute distinctness, a reproduction of the loveliest forms that he
has ever found in floral or in vegetable life. Gardens of mushrooms,
banks of goldenrod, or clusters of asparagus, appear to be growing
here, created by the Architect and colored by the Artist of these
mineral springs.
[Illustration: THE ROAD NEAR THE GOLDEN GATE.]
[Illustration: THE EMERALD POOL.]
The most renowned of all these reservoirs of color is called the
Emerald Pool. Painters from this and other lands have tried
repeatedly to depict this faithfully upon canvas, but, finally, have
left it in despair. In fact, its coloring is so intense, that as the
bubbles, rising to its surface, lift from this bowl their rounded
forms, and pause a second in the air before they break, they are
still just as richly tinted as the flood beneath. Accordingly this
pool appeared to me like a colossal casket, filled with emeralds,
which spirit hands from time to time drew gently upward from its
jeweled depths.
[Illustration: SUNLIGHT LAKE.]
Close by this is another boiling pool called the Sunlight Lake. On
this I saw one of the most marvelous phenomena I have ever looked
upon. The colors of this tiny sheet of water appeared not only in
concentric circles, like the rings of a tree, but also in the order
of the spectrum. The outer band was crimson, and then the unbroken
sequence came: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and violet in the
centre! Moreover, the very steam arising from it (reflecting as it
did the varied tints beneath) was exquisitely colored, and vanished
into air like a dissolving rainbow. All these prismatic pools are
clasped by beautifully decorated curbs of silica, and seem to be set
in rings of gold, with mineral colors running through them like
enamel. So delicate are the touches of the magic water, as the
persistent heart-beats of old Mother Earth propel it over their
ornamental rims, that every ripple leaves its tiny mark. Hence it is
no exaggeration, but literal truth, to say that beautiful mosaic work
is being formed each time the films of boiling water are dimpled by
the passing breeze.
[Illustration: THE DEVIL'S PUNCH-BOWL.]
[Illustration: THE MAMMOTH PAINT POT.]
The great variety of wonders in our National Park was a continual
source of pleasure and surprise to me. Thus, in the midst of all the
pools and geysers in the Upper Basin is one known as the Mammoth
Paint Pot. The earth surrounding it is cracked and blistered by heat,
and from this rises a parapet five feet high, enclosing a space
resembling a circus ring. Within this area is a mixture of soft clay
and boiling water, suggesting an enormous caldron of hot mush. This
bubbling slime is almost as diversely tinted as the pools themselves.
It seemed to me that I was looking into a huge vat, where unseen
painters were engaged in mixing colors. The fact is easily explained.
The mineral ingredients of the volcanic soil produce these different
hues. In a new form, it is the same old story of the Mammoth
Terraces. Fire supplies the pigments, and hot water uses them. All
other features of the Park are solemn and impressive; but the Mammoth
Paint Pot provokes a smile. There is no grandeur here. It seems a
burlesque on volcanic power. The steam which oozes through the
plastic mass tosses its substance into curious Liliputian shapes,
which rise and break like bubbles. A mirthful demon seems to be
engaged in molding grotesque images in clay, which turn a somersault,
and then fall back to vanish in the seething depths. Now it will be a
flower, then a face, then, possibly, a manikin resembling toys for
children. Meanwhile one hears constantly a low accompaniment of
groanings, hiccoughs, and expectorations, as if the aforesaid demon
found this pudding difficult to digest.
[Illustration: THE ROAD BY GIBBON RIVER.]
[Illustration: "GROTESQUE IMAGES IN CLAY."]
[Illustration: ON THE CONTINENTAL DIVIDE.]
Soon after leaving the Upper Geyser Basin, we approached a tiny lake
which has, in some respects, no equal in the world. With the
exception of some isolated mountain peaks, it marks the highest
portion of our country. In winter, therefore, when encircled by
mounds of snow, it rests upon the summit of our continent like a
crown of sapphire set with pearls. So evenly is it balanced, that
when it overflows, one part of it descends to the Atlantic, another
part to the Pacific. This little streamlet, therefore, is a silver
thread connecting two great oceans three thousand miles apart.
Accordingly, one might easily fancy that every drop in this pure
mountain reservoir possessed a separate individuality, and that a
passing breeze or falling leaf might decide its destiny, propelling
it with gentle force into a current which should lead it eastward to
be silvered by the dawn, or westward to be gilded by the setting sun.
[Illustration: THE "SILVER THREAD CONNECTING TWO OCEANS."]
On either side of this elevation, known as the Continental Divide,
the view was glorious. In one direction, an ocean of dark pines
rolled westward in enormous billows. The silver surfaces of several
lakes gleamed here and there like whitecaps on the rolling waves. Far
off upon the verge of the horizon, fifty miles away, three
snow-capped, sharply pointed mountains looked like a group of
icebergs drifting from the Polar Sea. They did not move, however, nor
will they move while this old earth shall last. They antedate by ages
the Pyramids which they resemble. They will be standing thus, in
majesty, when Egypt's royal sepulchres shall have returned to dust.
Forever anchored there, those three resplendent peaks rise fourteen
thousand feet above the sea, and form the grand tiara of our
continent, the loftiest summits of the Rocky Mountains.
[Illustration: THE THREE TETONS.]
As we began the descent from this great elevation, another splendid
vision greeted us. We gazed upon it with delight. Beyond a vast
expanse of dark green pines we saw, three hundred feet below us, Lake
Yellowstone. It stirred my heart to look at last upon this famous
inland sea, nearly eight thousand feet above the ocean level, and to
realize that if the White Mountain monarch, Washington, were planted
in its depths (its base line on a level with the sea), there would
remain two thousand feet of space between its' summit and the surface
of this lake! In this respect it has but one real rival, Lake
Titicaca, in the Andes of Peru.
[Illustration: LAKE YELLOWSTONE, FROM A DISTANCE.]
Descending to the shore, however, we found that even here, so far
from shipyards and the sea, a steamboat was awaiting us. Imagine the
labor of conveying such a vessel sixty-five miles, from the
railroad to this lake, up an ascent of more than three thousand feet.
Of course, it was brought in several sections; but even then, in one
or two mountain gorges, the cliffs had to be blasted away to make
room for it to pass. It is needless to add that this steamer has no
rivals. It was with the greatest interest that I sailed at such a
height on this adventurous craft; and the next time that I stand upon
the summit of Mount Washington, and see the fleecy clouds float in
the empyrean, one-third of a mile above me, I shall remember that the
steamer on Lake Yellowstone sails at precisely the same altitude as
that enjoyed by those sun-tinted galleons of the sky.
[Illustration: RUSTIC FALLS, YELLOWSTONE PARK.]
[Illustration: THE SOLITARY STEAMBOAT.]
[Illustration: ON LAKE YELLOWSTONE.]
To appreciate the beauty of Lake Yellowstone, one should behold it
when its waves are radiant with the sunset glow. It is, however, not
only beautiful; it is mysterious. Around it, in the distance, rise
silver crested peaks whose melting snow descends to it in ice-cold
streams. Still nearer, we behold a girdle of gigantic forests,
rarely, if ever, trodden by the foot of man. Oh, the loneliness of
this great lake! For eight long months scarcely a human eye beholds
it. The wintry storms that sweep its surface find no boats on which
to vent their fury. Lake Yellowstone has never mirrored in itself
even the frail canoes of painted savages. The only keels that ever
furrow it are those of its solitary steamer and some little
fishing-boats engaged by tourists. Even these lead a very brief
existence. Like summer insects, they float here a few weeks, and
disappear, leaving the winds and waves to do their will.
[Illustration: THE SLEEPING GIANT.]
In sailing on this lake, I observed a distant mountain whose summit
bore a strange resemblance to an upturned human face, sculptured in
bold relief against the sky. It is appropriately called the Sleeping
Giant; for it has slept on, undisturbed, while countless centuries
have dropped into the gulf of Time, like leaves in the adjoining
forest. How many nights have cast their shadows like a veil upon that
giant's silhouette! How many dawns have flooded it with light, and
found those changeless features still confronting them! We call it
human in appearance, and yet that profile was the same before the
first man ever trod this planet. Grim, awful model of the coming
race, did not its stern lips smile disdainfully at the first human
pygmy fashioned in its likeness?
[Illustration: ALONG THE SHORE.]
This lake has one peculiarity which, in the minds of certain
tourists, eclipses all the rest. I mean its possibilities for
fishing. We know that sad experience has taught mankind to invent the
proverb: "Once a fisherman, always a liar." I wish, then, at the
start, to say I am no fisherman; but what I saw here would
inevitably make me one if I should remain a month or two upon these
shores. Lake Yellowstone is the fisherman's paradise. Said one of
Izaak Walton's followers to me: "I would rather be an angler here
than an angel." Nor is this strange. I saw two men catch from this
lake in one hour more than a hundred splendid trout, weighing from
one to three pounds apiece! They worked with incredible rapidity.
Scarcely did the fly touch the water when the line was drawn, the
light rod dipped with graceful curve, and the revolving reel drew in
the speckled beauty to the shore. Each of these anglers had two hooks
upon his line, and both of them once had two trout hooked at the same
time, and landed them; while we poor eastern visitors at first looked
on in dumb amazement, and then enthusiastically cheered.
[Illustration: GREAT FISHING.]
Can the reader bear something still more trying to his faith?
Emerging from the lake is a little cone containing a boiling pool,
entirely distinct from the surrounding water. I saw a fisherman stand
on this and catch a trout, which, without moving from his place, or
even unhooking the fish, he dropped into the boiling pool, and
cooked! When the first scientific explorers of this region were
urging upon Congress the necessity of making it a National Park,
their statements in regard to fishing were usually received with
courteous incredulity. But when one of their number gravely declared
that trout could there be caught and boiled in the same lake, within
a radius of fifteen feet, the House of Representatives broke forth
into roars of laughter, and thought the man a monumental liar. We
cannot be surprised, therefore, that enthusiastic fishermen almost go
crazy here. I have seen men, after a ride of forty miles, rush off to
fish without a moment's rest as if their lives depended on it. Some
years ago, General Wade Hampton visited the Park and came as far as
Lake Yellowstone. On his return, some one inquired what he thought of
Nature's masterpiece, the cañon of the Yellowstone.
[Illustration: LARRY, AS FISHERMAN AND COOK.]
"The cañon!" cried the general, "no matter about the cañon; but I had
the most magnificent fishing I ever saw in my life."
One day, while walking along the shore, my comrade suddenly pressed
my arm and pointed toward the lake. "An Indian!" I cried in great
astonishment, "I thought no Indians ever came here." Our guide
laughed heartily; and, as he did so, I perceived my error. What I had
thought to be an Indian was but a portion of a tree, which had been
placed upright against a log. The only artificial thing about it was
a bunch of feathers. Everything else was absolutely natural. No knife
had sculptured it. No hand had given a support to its uplifted arm.
Even the dog which followed us appeared deceived, for he barked
furiously at the strange intruder. There was to me a singular
fascination in this solitary freak of nature; and, surrounded though
I was by immeasurably greater wonders, I turned again and again to
take a farewell look at this dark, slender figure, raising its hand,
as if in threatening gesture to some unseen foe.
[Illustration: A FALSE ALARM.]
Leaving the lake, we presently entered the loveliest portion of the
Park,--a level, sheltered area of some fifty square miles, to which
has been given the appropriate name of Hayden Valley, in
commemoration of the distinguished geologist, Doctor Ferdinand V.
Hayden, who did so much to explore this region and to impress upon
the Government the necessity of preserving its incomparable natural
features. Even this tranquil portion of the Park is undermined by
just such fiery forces as are elsewhere visible, but which here
manifest themselves in different ways. Thus, in the midst of this
natural beauty is a horrible object, known as the Mud Geyser. We
crawled up a steep bank, and shudderingly gazed over it into the
crater. Forty feet below us, the earth yawned open like a cavernous
mouth, from which a long black throat, some six feet in diameter,
extended to an unknown depth. This throat was filled with boiling
mud, which rose and fell in nauseating gulps, as if some monster were
strangling from a slimy paste which all its efforts could not
possibly dislodge. Occasionally the sickening mixture would sink from
view, as if the tortured wretch had swallowed it. Then we could hear,
hundreds of feet below, unearthly retching; and, in a moment, it
would all come up again, belched out with an explosive force that
hurled a boiling spray of mud so high that we rushed down the slope.
A single drop of it would have burned like molten lead. Five minutes
of this was enough; and even now, when I reflect that every moment,
day and night, the same regurgitation of black slime is going on, I
feel as I have often felt, when, on a stormy night at sea, I have
tried to sit through a course-dinner on an ocean steamer.
[Illustration: HAYDEN VALLEY.]
[Illustration: APPROACHING THE MUD GEYSER.]
[Illustration: A STRANGER IN THE YELLOWSTONE.]
Not far from this perpetually active object is one that has been
motionless for ages,--a granite boulder enclosed by trees as by the
bars of a gigantic cage. It is a proof that glaciers once plowed
through this region, and it was, no doubt, brought hither in the
glacial period on a flood of ice, which, melting in this heated
basin, left its burden, a grim reminder of how worlds are made. Think
what a combination of terrific forces must have been at work here,
when the volcanoes were in full activity, and when the mass of ice
which then encased our northern world strove to enclose this
prison-house of fire within its glacial arms! One of our party
remarked that the covering of this seething, boiling area with ice
must have been the nearest approach to "hell's freezing over" that
our earth has ever seen.
Another striking feature of our National Park is its Petrified
Forest, where, scattered over a large area, are solitary columns,
which once were trunks of trees, but now are solid shafts of agate.
The substance of the wood, however, is still apparent, the bark, the
worm-holes, and even the rings of growth being distinctly visible;
but every fibre has been petrified by the mysterious substitution of
a mineral deposit. No doubt these trees were once submerged in a
strong mineral solution, tinted with every color of the rainbow.
Still, more marvelous to relate, an excavation on the hillside proves
that there are eleven layers of such forests, one above another,
divided by as many cushions of lava. Think of the ages represented
here, during which all these different forests grew, and were
successively turned to stone! This, therefore, is another
illustration of the conflict between Life and Death. Each was in turn
a victor, and rested on his laurels for unnumbered centuries. Life is
triumphant now; but who shall say that Death may not again prove
conqueror? If not immediately, Death may well be patient. He will
rule all this planet in the end.
[Illustration: A NATURAL BRIDGE.]
[Illustration: A PETRIFIED FOREST.]
No one can travel through the Yellowstone Park without imagining how
it looks in winter. The snowfall is enormous, some drifts in the
ravines being hundreds of feet deep, and, owing to the increased
supply of water, the geysers throw higher streams. No traveling is
possible then except on snowshoes; and it is with difficulty that
some of the Park hotels are reached as late as the middle of May. Of
course, in such a frigid atmosphere, the steam arising from the
geysers is almost instantly congealed; and eye-witnesses affirm that,
in a temperature of forty degrees below zero, the clouds of vapor
sent up by Old Faithful rose fully two thousand feet, and were seen
ten miles away.
[Illustration: THE PARK IN WINTER.]
It can be well imagined that to do much exploration here, in winter,
is not alone immensely difficult, but dangerous. In 1887 an
expedition was formed, headed by Lieutenant Frederick Schwatka; but,
though he was experienced as an Arctic traveler, in three days he
advanced only twenty miles, and finally gave out completely. Most of
the exploring party turned back with him; but four kept heroically
on, one of whom was the photographer, Mr. F.J. Haynes, of St. Paul.
Undismayed by Schwatka's failure, he and his comrades bravely
persisted in their undertaking. For thirty days the mercury never
rose higher than ten degrees below zero. Once it marked fifty-two
degrees below! Yet these men were obliged to camp out every night,
and carry on their shoulders provisions, sleeping-bags, and
photographic instruments. But, finally, they triumphed over every
obstacle, having in midwinter made a tour of two hundred miles
through the Park. Nevertheless, they almost lost their lives in the
attempt. At one point, ten thousand feet above the sea, a fearful
blizzard overtook them. The cold and wind seemed unendurable, even
for an hour, but they endured them for three days. A sharp sleet cut
their faces like a rain of needles, and made it perilous to look
ahead. Almost dead from sheer exhaustion, they were unable to lie
down for fear of freezing; chilled to the bone, they could make no
fire; and, although fainting, they had not a mouthful for
seventy-two hours. What a terrific chapter for any man to add to the
mysterious volume we call life!
One might suppose by this time that all the marvels of our National
Park had been described; but, on the contrary, so far is it from
being true, that I have yet to mention the most stupendous of them
all,--the world-renowned cañon of the Yellowstone. The introduction
to this is sublime. It is a waterfall, the height of which is more
than twice as great as that of Niagara. To understand the reason for
the presence of such a cataract, we should remember that the entire
region for miles was once a geyser basin. The river was then near the
surface; and has been cutting down the walls of the cañon ever since.
The volcanic soil, decomposed by heat, could not resist the constant
action of the water. Only a granite bluff at the upper end of the
cañon has held firm; and over that the baffled stream now leaps to
wreak its vengeance on the weaker foe beneath.
[Illustration: THE EXPEDITION OF 1887.]
[Illustration: F.J. HAYNES.]
[Illustration: THE CAÑON FROM A DISTANCE.]
Through a colossal gateway of vast height, yet only seventy feet in
breadth, falls the entire volume of the Yellowstone River. It
seems enraged at being suddenly compressed into that narrow space;
for, with a roar of anger and defiance and without an instant's
hesitation, it leaps into the yawning gulf in one great flood of
dazzling foam. When looked upon from a little distance, a clasp of
emerald apparently surmounts it, from which descends a spotless robe
of ermine, nearly four hundred feet in length. The lower portion is
concealed by clouds of mist, which vainly try to climb the
surrounding cliffs, like ghosts of submerged mountains striving to
escape from their eternal prison. We ask ourselves instinctively:
What gives this river its tremendous impetus, and causes it to fill
the air with diamond-tinted spray, and send up to the cliffs a
ceaseless roar which echoes and reëchoes down the cañon? How
awe-inspiring seems the answer to this question, when we think upon
it seriously! The subtle force which draws this torrent down is the
same power that holds the planets in their courses, retains the
comets in their fearful paths, and guides the movements of the
stellar universe. What is this power? We call it gravitation; but why
does it invariably act thus with mathematical precision? Who knows?
Behind all such phenomena there is a mystery that none can solve.
This cataract has a voice. If we could understand it, perhaps we
should distinguish, after all, but one word,--_God_.
[Illustration: YELLOWSTONE RIVER ABOVE THE FALLS.]
[Illustration: THE GREAT FALLS OF THE YELLOWSTONE.]
[Illustration: UPPER FALLS OF THE YELLOWSTONE.]
[Illustration: THE CAÑON FROM BRINK OF FALLS.]
As for the gorge through which this river flows, imagine if you can
a yawning chasm ten miles long and fifteen hundred feet in depth.
Peer into it, and see if you can find the river. Yes, there it lies,
one thousand five hundred feet below, a winding path of emerald and
alabaster dividing the huge cañon walls. Seen from the summit, it
hardly seems to move; but, in reality, it rages like a captive lion
springing at its bars. Scarcely a sound of its fierce fury reaches
us; yet, could we stand beside it, a quarter of a mile below, its
voice would drown our loudest shouts to one another.
[Illustration: THE CAÑON FROM GRAND POINT.]
Attracted to this river innumerable little streams are trickling down
the colored cliffs. They are cascades of boiling water, emerging from
the awful reservoir of heat which underlies this laboratory of the
Infinite. One of them is a geyser, the liquid shaft of which is
scarcely visible, yet in reality is one hundred and fifty feet in
height. From all these hot additions to its waves the temperature of
the river, even a mile or two beyond the cañon, is twenty degrees
higher than at its entrance.
"Are there not other cañons in the world as large as this?" it may be
asked.
[Illustration: DOWN THE CAÑON FROM INSPIRATION POINT.]
Yes, but none like this. For, see, instead of sullen granite walls,
these sides are radiant with color. Age after age, and aeon after
aeon, hot water has been spreading over these miles of masonry its
variegated sediment, like pigments on an artist's palette. Here, for
example, is an expanse of yellow one thousand feet in height. Mingled
with this are areas of red, resembling jasper. Beside these is a
field of lavender, five hundred feet in length, and soft in hue as
the down upon a pigeon's breast. No shade is wanting here except the
blue, and God replaces that. It is supplied by the o'erspreading
canopy of heaven.
Yet there is no monotony in these hues. Nature, apparently, has
passed along this cañon, touching the rocks capriciously; now
staining an entire cliff as red as blood, now tingeing a light
pinnacle with green, now spreading over the whole face of a mountain
a vast Persian rug. Hence both sides of the cañon present successive
miles of Oriental tapestry. Moreover, every passing cloud works
here almost a miracle; for all the lights and shades that follow one
another down this gorge vary its tints as if by magic, and make of it
one long kaleidoscope of changing colors.
[Illustration: BELOW THE UPPER FALLS.]
[Illustration: MILES OF COLORED CLIFFS.]
Nor are these cliffs less wonderful in form than color. The substance
of their tinted rocks is delicate. The rain has, therefore, plowed
their faces with a million furrows. The wind has carved them like a
sculptor's chisel. The lightning's bolts have splintered them, until,
mile after mile, they rise in a bewildering variety of architectural
forms. Old castles frown above the maddened stream, a thousand times
more grand than any ruins on the Rhine. Their towers are five hundred
feet in height. Turrets and battlements, portcullises and
draw-bridges, rise from the deep ravine, sublime and inaccessible;
yet they are still a thousand feet below us! What would be the effect
could we survey them from the stream itself, within the gloomy
crevice of the cañon? Only their size convinces us that they are
works of Nature, not of Art. Upon their spires we see a score of
eagles' nests. The splendid birds leave these at times, and swoop
down toward the stream; not in one mighty plunge, but gracefully, in
slow, majestic curves, lower and lower, till we can follow them only
through a field-glass, as they alight on trees which look to us like
shrubs.
[Illustration: TEMPLES SCULPTURED BY THE DEITY.]
But many of these forms are grander than any castles. In one place is
an amphitheatre. Within its curving arms a hundred thousand people
could be seated. Its foreground is the emerald river; its
drop-curtain the radiant cañon wall. Cathedrals, too, are here, with
spires twice as high as those which soar above the minster of
Cologne. Fantastic gargoyles stretch out from the parapets. A hundred
flying buttresses connect them with the mountain side. From any one
of them as many shafts shoot heavenward as statues rise from the
Duomo of Milan; and each of these great cañon shrines, instead of
stained glass windows, has walls, roof, dome, and pinnacles, one mass
of variegated color. The awful grandeur of these temples, sculptured
by the Deity, is overpowering. We feel that we must worship here. It
is a place where the Finite prays, the Infinite hears, and Immensity
looks on.
[Illustration: THE CAÑON FROM ARTIST POINT.]
Two visions of this world stand out within my memory which, though
entirely different, I can place side by side in equal rank. They are
the Himalayas of India, and the Grand Cañon of the Yellowstone. On
neither of them is there any sign of human life. No voice disturbs
their solemn stillness. The only sound upon earth's loftiest
mountains is the thunder of the avalanche. The only voice within this
cañon is the roar of its magnificent cascade. It is well that man
must halt upon the borders of this awful chasm. It is no place for
man. The Infinite allows him to stand trembling on the brink, look
down, and listen spellbound to the anthem of its mighty cataract; but
beyond this he may not, cannot go. It is as if Almighty God had kept
for His own use one part of His creation, that man might merely gaze
upon it, worship, and retire.
[Illustration]