Camping on the Yellowstone Trail.
CLARENCE WEDGE, NURSERYMAN, ALBERT LEA, MINN.
I suppose that civilization is the correct thing for mortals to aspire to. As a boy, while I hated it with a bitter hatred, I accepted it as inevitable because my elders approved it and because it seemed indissolubly linked to the school, the church and the things of good repute. As I grow older the yoke sits easier on my shoulders, but doubts have increased as to its necessary connection with the good, the true and the beautiful. It surely kills the sweet virtue of hospitality. In my home church lately there was a call for volunteers to entertain a visiting delegation, and I was interested in observing how perfectly the number that might be accommodated in any home was in inverse ratio to the size and furnishings of the house. High heeled shoes and hobble skirts, two-story starched collars and tile hats are fashion signs of civilization, but I cannot see why a ring in the nose and a tattooed arm might not have answered just as well. I am getting harder to convince that a broad foot, shaped on the lines laid down by the Creator, is less beautiful or desirable than the one-toe pointed shoe, decreed just now by our particular brand of culture, and today I would as lief defend the cult of the simple red man as the savagery that disgraces the lands across the water.
Whatever the merits of the matter, for one month of the year we and our tent and automobile abandon ourselves to barbarism, and live as we please. This year we chose to spend our month on the Yellowstone Trail, the road that leads from the Twin Cities to the Yellowstone National Park, and which is different from other roads leading in the same direction mainly by its yellow mark, faithfully directing the traveler on his way and preventing the loss of time in getting directions at doubtful cross roads. Our party consisted of a young botanist, and his wife, my wife, myself and our small boy Alan. Our equipment consisted of a tent, 7x7 ft., weighing, stakes, poles, partition and all, 16-1/2 lbs.; a trunk on the running board made to hold bedding and grub box, and an oil cloth to use as a tent floor. Like the Indians we go light, and live the simple life while on the trail. We get off at six o'clock in the morning, eating our breakfast on the move as we get hungry; lunch at noon by the roadside, and camp early, seeking the most interesting spot, from the top of a butte to a pleasant river valley—and cooking the one square meal of the day by such a brushwood fire as we are able to gather.
"Us" and some others at a mountain cabin.
For the first few days we try to provide some straw to temper the hard earth, but as the days go by, and we get used to roughing it, we sleep soundly with nothing but a blanket and oil cloth between us and mother earth. We pin back the tent door, and with the night wind fanning our faces, close our eyes to the stars and flickering campfire. Some who have never camped are afraid of bugs, snakes and wild animals. We have spent our vacation month this way for twenty-five years, have camped in most of the counties of Minnesota, and in Iowa, the Dakotas and Montana, and have never had but one unpleasant experience of the kind. That was one night when we pitched our tent after dark on the bottoms below Fort Snelling, and did not know till we had laid ourselves down that a colony of ants had pre-empted the spot before us. We did not get much sleep, but we had the comfort of feeling that they were nice, clean, self-respecting, self-defending ants. Would that our experience in hotels had been equally fortunate!
A young Douglas fir.
Leaving the western boundary of the forests of Minnesota near Glencoe and going across the prairie and plains to the mountain forests of Montana is an interesting experience. The only trees in Western Minnesota and the Dakotas are those found along the lakes and water courses, and west of the Missouri the trees and shrubby growth, even in such places, becomes very scanty or entirely disappears, giving a weird appearance to one who has always associated water and trees together in his mind. As we draw near the Montana line, trees begin to appear on the tops of the buttes and high bluffs on the distant horizon. Traveling on the railroad I have wondered what they were. With our own private car we satisfied our curiosity by zig-zagging our way up to a camping place among them, the first night they came in sight. Of course they were our old friends, the Ponderosa pine, whose name will always be associated with our grand old man from Nebraska. They ought to be renamed the Harrison pine. How they endure the drouth and cold in a soil so poor that grass withers and dies out, and how they stand erect where every other living thing bows to the bleak winds and blizzards of the prairies, is one of the mysteries of plant life. What a splendid bonfire we made of their boughs that night, flaring as a beacon out over the ocean of prairie about us!
The day before we had passed by hundreds of clumps of a beautiful blue lupine with finely cut foliage and profusion of color that rivaled any flower of its shade I have seen in cultivation. On the way home we gathered a handful of seed from which we shall hope to grow some plants at home. We tried to dig a few to transplant, but their roots seemed to go down, down, till with my short handled shovel, I got discouraged. The herbage of the plains has learned to dig deep for water.
A camp by the Red River of the North, Mrs. Wedge sitting by a giant cottonwood. Our 16 lb. tent at the right.
Leaving the Yellowstone at Big Timber and striking across the plains to the Snowy Mountains, we found the Ponderosa pine, and soon the Flexilis pine, wherever a rocky ridge is lifted above the level of the plains, so that these trees were in sight a large share of the time, even far away from large rivers and groups of mountains. If a homestead anywhere in that state is not cozily protected by bright colored evergreens it is not because there is any difficulty in getting trees that will thrive in that soil.
A young Ponderosa pine.
The Snowy Mountains are in the center of Montana, quite unsheltered from the other ranges of the Rockies. It is the meeting place of the flora of the mountains and the plains. I think it is the eastern limit of that peerless tree of the Rockies, the Douglas fir. I gave my impressions of this tree to the society a year or two ago. I am still more in love with it from what I again saw last August in its native Snowy Mountains, and from the bright, sturdy little trees that have been growing at my home in Minnesota for two years past, giving assurance of their willingness to be transplanted to our moister air. It is the coming evergreen for the prairies, and it will be a happy day for all who plant an evergreen west of the natural timber when the Douglas fir has displaced the trees that come from the cool, moist forests of Europe and the sheltered woods of our own lake regions.
I think the Snowys are also about the eastern limit of the little broad-leaved evergreen called the Oregon grape, that I believe every one in Minnesota can grow for Christmas greens. From my first acquaintance with it I got the impression that it required shade, but this time I noted that it was growing all over the bare ridges that radiate from the mountains, wherever it was possible for a little snow to lodge. We can substitute a light sprinkling of straw when snow is lacking. It certainly does not require shade.
The Mariposa lily is a unique flower that springs up in open places and produces a white blossom about the size and shape of the wild morning glory. It grows about a foot high and produces one or two flowers on each stalk. It must have a long period of bloom for ripe seed pods, and blooming plants were common at the same time in August.
The Canadian buffalo berry and a dwarfish birch are two mountain plants of no small ornamental value for the plains. They may not endure the moister air near the Mississippi, but there we have already many useful natives, like the black haw and thorn apple, that are as yet almost unnoticed.
Group of Douglas fir on the mountainside. Thirteen trees in a space of only two square rods. None less than two feet in diameter.
One of the principal charms about the great country traversed by the Yellowstone Trail is its newness and freshness. Millions of acres just as the Indian, the buffalo and the coyote left them—broad stretches as far as eye can reach without a sign of human habitation. But this is fast passing away. Out among the sage brush in land as poor and desert-like as could well be imagined, homes are being mapped out by the thousand, and crops of grain were grown this year that rival the best yield in any of the older states. The time is close at hand when the main highways will be built up and made so hard and smooth that two hundred and fifty miles will be made as easily as our average runs of one hundred and fifty. The way will be safer and speedier, but it will lack some of the spice of adventure, and it will be harder to realize the simple life about the camp fire that now seems to harmonize so well with the wildness of the plains.