IN THE YELLOWSTONE PARK.
Next morning I left Beaver Cañon, taking some luncheon along with me,
and it was well I did, for there was no place to get food, and I saw no
one all day. But the roads were excellent, level, and running through
some beautiful meadows, with hills on either side covered thick with
pines. There were many streams to ford, though, and taking off my shoes
and stockings so often was the cause of much delay. It was the first
delay of this kind during the trip. However, I reached the Half-Way
Hotel sometime before sundown, after riding fifty-five miles, and was
obliged to stop there, for the next ranch was twenty miles farther on.
This hotel is a log hut, with rows of tents on the sides, for
sleeping-rooms, and is situated close to Snake River, a splendid
trouting stream, the hills in the rear being covered with heavy
timber. About dark nearly a dozen passengers arrived in the stages
bound for the Yellowstone, and the sleeping apartments were taxed
to their utmost; so when the bar-tender offered me a bed with him,
on the ground, in his tent, or bar-room rather, I was glad to accept
it. Drinks were twenty-five cents there. The next morning one of the
horses that had been turned out the night before, was found with a
great chunk of flesh torn from his shoulder, and his haunches and other
portions of his body badly clawed up. The drivers said it was done
by a bear; and that was as near as I came to seeing one on the trip.
The second day I came to Snake River Crossing, which at this point
is about two hundred feet wide, and too deep for a forty-six inch
wheelman to ford without removing his trousers as well as his shoes
and stockings. I had started out ahead of the stages, which had several
lady passengers aboard, and supposed I had plenty of time to get across
before the stages reached the ford, and so I should have had but for
the fact that the water here was too deep for me to carry trousers,
shoes and stockings, knapsack and bicycle all at one trip. I had waded
once across, through water so cold it made my legs ache, and so deep
that it wet a certain short, thin under garment that persisted in
dropping down after being tucked up under my blouse out of the way,
and had got back into about the middle of the stream when I heard
the stage coming down through the woods. Trousers, shoes, stockings,
and knapsack had been carried across, the machine still remained to be
taken over, and the one to do it was standing waist deep in the water
of an icy river, undecided which way to turn. The temperature of the
water would not allow of much delay, even were I inclined to wait,
and so dashing and splashing through the water as fast as the soft,
sandy bottom would admit, I crawled out and laid down on the grass
behind a convenient tree, near the machine, curling up and covering
myself, though my good intentions were practically unfulfilled by
the short garments I then wore. But as good fortune would have it,
the lady passengers waited to ride in the second stage, and the men
in this one laughed well at what appeared to them uncalled-for modesty
on my part in retiring so expeditiously behind so slight a shelter.
Coming to another smaller stream soon after, I hoped to avoid further
delay by riding with a spurt down into the water and across, as I had
done many times before under similar circumstances, but the pebbly
bottom was not so firm as it looked, and the wheel slowly came to a
standstill in the middle of the stream, while I quickly dismounted
into the water, in so doing ripping both inside seams of my nether
garment down to the knees. This necessitated more fine tailoring behind
some bushes, and, before I had finished, the coarse grass and sticks
beneath me had produced in red a very good etching of that immediate
section of country; but the sketch soon faded.
The roads all the forenoon were fully as good as the day before,
and it was much pleasanter riding through dense pine forests and
along fine, cool streams of clear water. I took my luncheon that
noon by a spring that flows into the Pacific, and about half a
mile farther on took a drink from one flowing into the Atlantic. I
should not have known this but for the stage-driver, on whose heels
I followed all the forenoon. There was nothing in the appearance of
the surrounding country to indicate that I was crossing the back-bone
of the continent. During the afternoon I left the stage far behind,
and rode for twelve miles through pine forests, over a road that
twisted about and pleasantly found its way through where there were
the fewest trees to be cut away.
From Beaver Cañon to Fire Hole, the first stopping place in the park by
this route, the distance is one hundred and five miles, and of that,
ninety miles is as fine riding as any wheelman could desire. That
night, long before dark, I reached Fire Hole, after climbing one
long, hard hill, and was ready to start out on short trips to see the
wonders, but decided to wait till morning. I took a bath in Fire Hole
River in water so warm one would know it came from "Hell's Half Acre,"
or some other portion of the farm, and the stage-driver offered to
share his blankets with me, on the ground of course, in a tent. The
next morning the first point of interest visited was the Falls and the
Grand Cañon to the northeast. The ride of thirty miles was over the
same excellent gravel roads, and through the same beautiful meadows,
that abound all over this section of country, but there were six
or eight small streams to wade, and a mile of steep hill climbing
to offset this, and before I reached the hotel a hard shower wet
me through and covered the machine thick with mud. Still the sight
of Sulphur Mountain, on the way, was very interesting. It is a hill
perhaps one hundred and fifty feet high apparently all sulphur, and at
its base is a spring perhaps twelve by twenty feet in diameter that
has more business in it than all the California geysers, so called,
combined twice over. The water in this spring is constantly boiling,
rising sometimes to a height of four or five feet. The Upper and Lower
Falls of the Yellowstone River, which are respectively one hundred
and sixty and three hundred and fifty feet high, are very imposing,
but hardly more so than the Nevada and Vernal Falls in the Yosemite,
although the volume of water is a little larger. The river rises
in Yellowstone Lake, which is in the southeastern part of the park,
flows north, and going over the falls plunges down into the cañon.
But the Grand Cañon! It is useless to try to describe it. There is
nothing with which to compare it, for there is nothing like it in the
world. A photograph may give the outlines in cold gray, but no artist
can paint the colors of the rocks. The cañon is nearly two thousand
feet deep, but the sides are far from perpendicular, in some places
the angle being about forty-five degrees. But as the soft crumbling
rocks slide down to the green river at the bottom the different colors
are blended together in a most beautiful manner. Pure white, yellow,
brown, fire-red, pink, and all the different shades and tints of these
and many other colors are mixed up in striking contrasts. I walked
down to Inspiration Point and crawled out on a projecting rock, where
a fine view is had of the cañon for five or six miles. It certainly
is the most beautiful spot I ever saw. Up the cañon, three miles,
the Green River leaps over the falls and comes roaring down through
the cañon two thousand feet, almost directly beneath this point, and
turns a corner two miles below and disappears, while the bright sun
brings out the varied colors of the rocks with a most brilliant effect.
The next day a ride of twelve miles, to the Norris Geysers, and
eighteen miles back to Fire Hole, was over roads not so good, but
the coasting down through the fine woods for miles, with the roads
full of stumps, required some lively work and close steering. There
were no geysers of any account in action at Norris, but plenty of hot
springs. In fact, during a frosty morning one can hardly look in any
direction in the Park, which is fifty-five by sixty-five miles in area,
without seeing steam arising through the trees from these springs,
of which it is estimated there are three thousand in the Park.
In passing a party of campers, for the Park is full of campers, and
tourists as well, on the way to Fire Hole, I was kindly invited to
spend the night with them, and the tent was pitched near the Fountain
Geyser. This experience of camp life was just what I had been longing
for all summer, and it fully met my expectations. This party of
five young men, two of whom, Mr. John B. Patterson and Mr. Joseph
M. Thomas, were Philadelphia wheelmen, were jolly fellows; and after
supper, a meal I relished better than any I had had for months, we
all went over in the dark to the fountain. Pretty soon some young
ladies from another camping party near by came over, and a bright
fire was soon burning within six or eight feet of the geyser, which
was then a quiet pool of water twenty feet across. One of the young
ladies recited a poem, a love story, in really very fine style, the
young men sang "Pinafore," "Mikado," and other selections with very
pleasing effect, others waltzed on the coarse gravel, and altogether
the party were enjoying themselves, when suddenly the water began
to boil, and in less than half a minute it was flying up into the
air thirty or forty feet. It was certainly a queer sight, the white
spray and steam rising high up into the starry heavens, the bright
camp fire making the surroundings all the blacker, and a dozen or
fifteen persons looking on with bright eyes and red faces, and their
forms standing out so distinctly against the black background.
The machine, that night, was, of course, left outside the tent, and
a heavy thunder shower not only wet that, but came near soaking us
through. There was no ditch dug to turn the water, and it ran down
under us as we lay on the ground. But that was part of the fun of
camping out.
The next morning we started for the Upper Geysers, but before I had
ridden a mile the left handle-bar broke. The day before, while taking
dinner with another party of campers, two young fellows tried to ride
the machine while I was very busy eating some delicious ham boiled in
one of the hot springs, and I noticed the handle-bar began to get loose
during the afternoon, and now it came out of the socket. But by slow
riding I reached the Upper Geysers, ten miles distant, and during the
afternoon saw Old Faithful send a spray of water up one hundred feet
into the air once in sixty-five minutes, as regular as clock-work;
but there are indications that the time is gradually becoming longer,
the force is subsiding. There is more satisfaction to be had from
this Geyser than any other, for there is no waiting. Crowds of people
are seen going to this place just before the appointed time, and Old
Faithful never disappoints them. It plays for about five minutes,
and then subsides as quickly as it commenced spouting. This Geyser
is in the form of a small volcano or cone, perhaps ten feet high,
composed of white, flakey rock.
We climbed up on the white mound of the Giantess and waited hours for
her eruption, for there was every indication of it, one sign being
a thumping sound beneath our feet, but she failed to make a display
till two hours after I had departed next day. This Geyser is a pool of
water fifteen feet in diameter, so clear that one can see down into it
thirty or forty feet, and so hot it boiled occasionally while we were
lying around on the warm rocks waiting. When it did go off, I was told,
it looked like a boiling pyramid, sending jets of water into the air
150 feet. When it subsides, which is not for a day or two, it leaves
the crater empty to some depth; when it gradually fills up again,
and in a week or two, just as it happens, off it goes again. That
night the boys sat around the camp-fire, sung, and told stories,
but with my thin clothes on I was glad to crawl just inside the
tent, cover myself with blankets, and lie there watching the rest,
and thinking of the wonderful experience I was having.
The next morning I started back for Fire Hole, riding with the broken
machine as well as I could, and saw the Grotto in eruption. This one is
a mound six or eight feet high, filled with large holes through which
the water spurts in all directions. And the Growler was muttering,
too. This is not much more than a hole in the earth, but the deep,
guttural sound that comes forth every few minutes with a gush of hot
steam, leaves the impression that it is well named. I might go on
and describe the Castle, the Grand, the Giant, and others,--there are
seventy-one of these spouting hot springs in the park--but will mention
only one more, and that the greatest of all. It is the Excelsior at
Hell's Half Acre, an appropriate name, as you will see. It isn't a
half acre alone, but an acre and a quarter of water heated to the
verge of boiling. The immense caldron is so obscured by clouds of
steam that one only obtains momentary glimpses of its surface, but he
who has seen it may well speak of it as an outflow from the infernal
regions. There is no sight in the park more impressive. The water,
boiling sometimes, is about four feet below the banks that enclose it
on one side, on which it is continually making encroachments. These
banks jut over it from having been hollowed away beneath, and there is
danger in going too near, as it is not easy to tell when they will cave
in. The whole surface about is made by a lime deposit, and behind as
well as before the visitor are these lakes of heated water, from which
arise clouds of steam that are colored green and red by the reflection
from the water below. This geyser has been known to go off but once,
and that in 1882, when it suddenly burst forth, sending a stream of
hot water 300 feet into the air, and boiling over such a quantity
that it raised Fire Hole River two feet. It played for nearly a week,
then subsided, and has since remained comparatively quiet. I wet my
feet in the warm water, then started on toward Fire Hole. The paint
pots, springs of boiling mud of red, gray, and different colors,
are to be seen in several localities.
The roads in many places are black with small pieces of glass,
and I saw chunks of it by the road-side, from the Obsidian Cliffs,
mountains of black and different colored glass, two or three hundred
feet high; but these, as well as the Mammoth Hot Springs, I missed by
not going forty miles out of my route. Still, as it was, I saw enough,
much more than I can describe.
Reaching Fire Hole, where the only blacksmith's shop within a hundred
miles is situated, I found the blacksmith was off on a drunk, so I
had to try and fix the handle bar or walk a hundred miles to Beaver
Cañon, for my supply of money was nearly gone. But I found something
with which to run a new thread upon the handle bar, and getting out
the broken piece I screwed the shortened bar in place, and went on
my way rejoicing.
The day before I started back for Beaver Cañon a detachment of
United States troops were sent out in that direction from the park,
to intercept and drive back a party of Indians who were reported
on their way from a reservation to hunt in the park. The first day
I saw and heard nothing of them, but the next forenoon, when about
ten miles from any ranch, for the ranches are fifteen or twenty miles
apart, an Indian came galloping up from across the meadow. According
to tradition my scalp should have been the first thing he asked for,
but instead he wanted to know, in broken English, if I had seen a party
of Indians hunting, and asked where I came from, how many miles a day I
could make, and the usual string of questions that almost every white
person asks, and then he said, "You know my name?" I replied I had
no recollections of ever meeting him before. "My name is Major Jim,
Major," with considerable emphasis on the last word; and with that
we parted, and I reached Beaver Cañon without further incident.
Distance traveled with the wheel, 3,505 miles.