We were splashing around in our hidden hole one morning when the wrangler found us. He sat by our clothing and wouldn’t leave, even though we threatened to tell Father. Eugenie and I hollered until Phil wandered by. The wrangler swore at him, but he left. As he scrambled up the bank, the wrangler turned and stared me in the eye.

“You think you’re mighty fine, missy, don’t you? You just wait.”

I avoided the man from then on, but he gave me such looks of concentrated malice that I confess to considerable fear. I was grateful never to be alone in his company.

When I wasn’t hot-potting, I fished. This caused my mother additional distress as she watched my complexion tan. Like the dutiful daughter I occasionally was, I slathered on her oils and unguents at night and literally slid into my bedroll. Still, as soon as I was out of her sight after breakfast – she never strayed from camp – my straw hat soon went down my back, held there by the ties. I didn’t care what my suntan did to my chances at Vassar. The brisk air and sun-filled days in the park were so exhilarating that I couldn’t sit in the shade.

I flirted with Lt. McCormack as often as I dared, but he preferred to spend his time with Father, exploring the woods and hunting. At least, he did when he wasn’t sitting on his folding chair near the tent entertaining Mother, who began to take even more meticulous care of herself.

My husband likes to fish, so let me add this for any anglers who might read this account: There are several convenient hot springs near West Thumb where you can catch your cutthroat trout in the lake, skin and gut it, then boil it in a hot spring. Bring your own tartar sauce.

After a week by Yellowstone Lake, we moved camp to a spot three miles east, which became our headquarters from which we set out on daily or overnight expeditions of the park.

On one trip near Lewis Lake, we chanced upon a military party, headed by no less a personage than General William T. Sherman himself, then conducting a tour of regional garrisons. He and Father renewed a brief acquaintance from Civil War days while I was proposed to by a bachelor junior officer in the entourage. Women were scarce in the West back then, and the average enterprising man allowed no grass to grow under his feet. In the accelerated space of two days, I turned down his offer, but kindly, feeling no guilt.

Two days after the Sherman party moved on, an event occurred which should have warned us that our peaceful time as tourists was nearly at an end.

I went fishing with Father one morning, and we were angling up some nameless creek. Father waded into the middle of the creek and worked his way downstream, casting, catching, and putting trout in the creel around his waist. I sat on the bank sunning myself when I heard a noise and glanced up.