Down the Yellowstone

by Lewis R. Freeman

holds quite as good on the Running Road as in Life's Handicap.

In the journal of the first day on the river Captain Clark writes: "At the distance of a mile from camp the river passes under a high bluff for about 23 miles, when the bottom widens on both sides." This would give the impression that the river flowed continuously for many miles under an overhanging bluff. This it does not do, and could hardly have done at any previous period. What it does do is to run along the base of a long chain of broken bluffs, many of which it has undermined. I have always thought of this as by long odds the most beautiful and picturesque stretch of stream I navigated between the Rockies and the lower Mississippi.

The bluffs varied in natural colour from a grey-brown to a reddish-black, but mosses and lichens and mineral stains from the hills behind tinted their abrupt faces with streaks and patches of various shades, all blended like delicate pastelling. The main stream usually ran close up against the bluffs, but numerous chutes and back-channels sprawling over the verdant flats to the left formed score on score of small islands, all shaded with tall cottonwoods, lush with new grass and brilliant with wild flowers. There was a fresh vista of beauty at every turn. It was a shame not to be able to stop and call on the Queen of the Fairies. Titania's Bowers succeeded each other like apartments on upper Broadway. For the second time that day I regretted my speed and the fact that wind and rough water kept my attention riveted close to the boat.

At first I gave the face of the bluffs a wide berth, especially at those points where the full strength of the current went swirling beneath the painted overhang in sinuous coils of green and white. As I think of it now, it was the cavernous growls and rumbles, magnified by the sounding board of the cliff, that made me chary of venturing in where the animals were being fed. The racket was not a little terrifying until one found that it was more bark than bite.

It was not until a sudden side-swiping squall forced me under an overhang I was doing my best to avoid that I had direct and conclusive evidence that the yawning mouths had no teeth in them. Swift as it was, the surface of the water was untorn by lurking rocks, while the refluent waves from the inner depths of the cavern had a tendency to force the boat out rather than to draw it in. My courage rallied rapidly after that, so that I played hide-and-seek with the river and the cliffs for the next twenty miles. This was most opportune, as it chanced. The overhangs provided me with cover from the worst of a heavy series of rain squalls that began to sweep the river at this juncture, and continued for an hour or more. All in all, that little bluff-bluffing stunt proved one of the most novel and delightful bits of boating I have ever known.

I passed the mouth of Clark's Fork a little before six. Its channel was much divided by gravel bars, and the comparatively small streams might easily have been mistaken for returning back-chutes of the Yellowstone. Clark had at first mistaken this river for the Big Horn, and only applied his own name to it when the greater tributary was reached some hundred and fifty miles below. I scooped up a drink as I passed one of the mouths. Clark's observation that it was colder and cloudier than the waters of the Yellowstone still held good. Clark mentions a "ripple in the Yellowstone" about a mile above this tributary, "on passing which the canoes took in some water. The party therefore landed to bail the boats...." As this, considering the size of the boats, would have indicated very rough water, I kept a close watch for the place. I never located it definitely, though sharp riffles were numerous all the way. Doubtless parts of the channel have altered completely since Clark's time. As a rule, however, rapids change less with the years than the opener stretches—this because they are usually made by bedrock or boulders of great size.

I made my first landing since dropping Fahlgren at a flower-embowered farmhouse not far below the mouth of Clark's Fork. All of the family were away except a very motherly old lady who had just received word by phone from Billings that Dempsey had licked Carpentier. She had draped the Stars and Stripes over the porch railing and insisted that I stop and celebrate the great national victory with her. I demurred, but my resolution weakened when she began setting out a pan of scarcely diluted cream, a bowl of strawberries and a chocolate cake. Between mouthfuls I told her (truthfully enough) that I had met Carpentier at the Front during the war and had subsequently seen him box in London. It was a tactical error on my part. I should have known better. She didn't tell me to back away from the berries in so many words, but her manner changed, and she did say that it was too bad it was not Dempsey I had met instead of the Frenchie. That didn't spoil my appetite for the strawberries and cream, but it did make me more conservative in my relations with them. I probably stopped short by two or three helpings of my capacity. It is not fair to one's self to be bound by the rigid limitations of truthfulness when trying to impress strangers. I resolved not to make that mistake again.

Water had been unusually high all along the Yellowstone during the early summer rise, the crest of which was now over by about a fortnight. The discharge from Clark's Fork had been especially heavy, and the effects of this I began to encounter as soon as I resumed my run to Billings. Scores of new channels had been scoured out and countless thousands of big cottonwoods and willows uprooted in the process. Most of the latter were stranded on shallow bars, but every now and then some great giant had anchored itself squarely in mid-channel. It took no end of care to avoid them, and it was a distinct relief to find that the wind had now fallen very light.

My old strawberry lady had estimated the distance to Billings as about twenty miles, but such was the extreme deviousness of the endlessly divided channels that it must have been greatly in excess of that. One minute I would be in what was undoubtedly the main channel. The next I would be picking what seemed the likeliest of four or five sprawling chutes, with whichever one I took usually dividing and redividing until I found myself scraping through the shallows and all but grounded.

With no town in sight as eight o'clock began to usher in the long midsummer twilight, I landed near a large farmhouse on the left bank to make inquiries. The buildings were fine and modern and the irrigated acres of great richness, but the people turned out to be Russian tenants, and not much for the softer things of life. All of the dozen or more occupants of the big kitchen wore bib overalls, the bottoms puckered in with a zouave-trousers effect. All were barefooted. The father and mother wore shirts. For the rest, including the grown children, the only garments were the comfortable and adequate overalls. Left to himself, the simple moujik hits upon some very practical ideas.