Yellowstone it was. Phil and I spent the next hurried weeks outfitting ourselves in proper adventuring togs and reading guidebooks, instead of Colonel Cody and the Indian Trap. We learned that the park embraced over two million acres, some one hundred geysers, a few of which erupted periodically, and an interesting array of wild beasts.

By alternating threats and bribes, Mother coerced her dressmaker into running up some simple shirtwaists requiring a minimum of petticoats, new riding habits, and flannel underdrawers for cool nights. She sent for some cork helmets from Wannamaker’s of New York, which we all refused to wear except Eugenie, who was pliable in the extreme.

Even Father got into the spirit of things. In his usual organized fashion, he made arrangements for us to take the UP to Ogden, Utah Territory, the spur to Salt Lake City for some sightseeing, then back to Ogden, where we would meet with a caravan hired to convey us through the park. He even arranged for an army friend to provide us with a military escort. Father took everything into account, putting together an expedition that could not possibly have met with anything unplanned.

Some of my school chums gave me a going away party the night before we departed, presenting me with several gag gifts, one of which was a popgun with string and cork plug. A note attached to it admonished me to use it on road agents and Mormons. Another friend gave me a braided, red-dyed mop to wear so I wouldn’t lose my own scalp to savages. I was dubbed Omaha’s Number One Tourist as we laughed and talked until midnight.

Gadfreys. Just thinking back to that night gives me a chill. We were so casual, flippant, and sure of ourselves. It really was a going-away party. In a sense, I never returned.

No early riser then, I was not at my best when we left Omaha in the morning. Phil possessed sufficient enthusiasm for all of us, allowing me to slump down in one of the chairs in our private rail car and go back to sleep.

The train ride was non-adventurous in the extreme, if luxurious. The Union Pacific Railroad spared no expense to treat the line’s treasurer to the best somebody’s money could buy. Even Phil began to wonder if we would have had more fun at Newport or Bar Harbor. There is possibly nothing more dull than Nebraska or Wyoming. The land rolls along in monotonous fashion from horizon to horizon and the wind blows continuously.

I had one embarrassing moment in North Platte, Nebraska. When I stepped off the train, the wind whipped my skirt nearly over my head, affording some startled and gratified cowboys with a view of my striped stockings and drawers. After that, with perception born of experience, I noted at all our subsequent stops that each platform maintained its own retinue of lounging cowboys, strategically placed to catch every glimpse that came off the westbound train, even if it was only a quick view of ankle.