It was not a propitious beginning to our Yellowstone idyll, but at least the rain stopped.

We crossed Targhee Pass that day and camped on the edge of Yellowstone Park, taking Muskrat’s word for it that we were nearly in the park. There were no signs, and the road was questionable. I hear the park has been much improved in recent years by roads built by U.S. Army engineers. There are even hotels now. I will never go back, however.

For the first time on our trip, I missed my bed in Omaha, where the maids always employed warming pans before I crawled between clean sheets. Eugenie yelped when I put my cold feet on her, but we gradually warmed up enough to sleep. I think it was the first week in August.

We entered the park in the morning. Muskrat Watkins told us the elk were already in the mountain valley, but we saw moose in the distance, and beaver and bears. The bears with cubs shied away when they heard our noisy entourage approaching, but some of the slightly older bandits scampered along the dirt track laughingly called a road and begged with such appeal.

We did not disappoint them. I suppose we Everetts were among the first park tourists to beguile bears with bread and scraps and turn them into lazy loafers.

We camped first at what is now called the Lower Geyser Basin, with its variety of hot springs, and gurgling, spouting phenomena. (I’ve never been back since 1877, but my brother Phil recently sent me the new nineteenth edition of Haynes Official Guide. I looked through it and identified that area where we camped.)

I recall one geyser spewing forth steam to an amazing height. If I had ever paid attention to my art instructor, I would have been sketching for all I was worth like Phil. I just stood there with my mouth open, enjoying the spectacle and the rumbling beneath my feet.

Lt. McCormack cautioned us to tread carefully around the hot springs, as the ground was often merely a crust and liable to give way with no warning. Indeed, Muskrat Watkins walked into a streamlet near a river and scorched his toes. He did not rest until he scalded the woods with a blast of his choicest profanity.

The wagon road ended at the Lower Geyser Basin, so the following week, feeling somewhat like Lewis and Clark, we loaded our belongings onto pack mules and struck out for the interior of Yellowstone Park.

We headed south and camped near the site of the famous geyser Old Faithful, purported to erupt every fifty minutes. Although not as spectacular as that northern geyser, Old Faithful’s punctuality was an impressive display for people who lived by the clock, as we did.

On the Firehole River, Eugenie and I discovered the joys of hot-potting. Muskrat Watkins pointed us toward a hot water streamlet that fed into the river, where we stripped down to our chemises and underdrawers and cavorted in the sulfur-scented water warmer than a bath. Eugenie especially enjoyed the medicinal effect of the sulfur water, since she was prone to blemishes. At the advanced age of eighteen, I had left pimples behind. Still, any excuse to swim nearly naked suited a side of me I hadn’t discovered before. The things one learns on vacation…